Author's Note: This is changing lists from X-Men: The Movie to Buffy the Vampire Slayer Crossovers with each update. Which is why you may have missed things.

Also, the big plot changes start here.

And, finally, just to re-iterate: the bit about the Slayer was written over a year ago, before the clusterfuck that is Season Seven, with its nonsensical plot and horrific retcons, was even heard of. Wherever this goes, the Slayer in my world is the mystical avatar of an ancient power, not the result of demon rape organised by ancient shamans. She's a natural force for good, whatever that may mean, not an ambiguous weapon. It just happens that humanity can ruin the most careful of equations.

Chapter Five

Wesley was deep in thought when he left the FBI agents' room, an hour later.

'Got any good ideas swirling around up there?' Cordelia asked him casually. She stopped as the Englishman, ignoring her, turned away down the corridor. 'Hello! Our rooms are this way.'

'Short of you having a vision, no. I'm going out.' He replied distantly. Cordelia hurried to join him as he pressed the lift call button.

'You think you might be able to find the reason you limp in wet weather by yourself, Wes? Then what?'

'I don't think I can find her.'

'So what are you going to do?'

'Find someone who can.' The lift doors slid open, and he stepped inside.

'Hold it. Hold it. Time out.' She stopped them from closing. 'I thought we were working with the well-armed agents of the system to which she should be returned?' He grabbed her arm and pulled her in with him.

'Yes. We were. I did some thinking this morning. They think Faith's a mutant. Now, I don't know if you've been keeping up with current affairs lately, but very few mutants even make it in to federal custody, and those that do are usually given anything but a fair trial.'

'Like she deserves a fair trial.'

'Everyone deserves a fair trial, Cordelia. It's why we have war crimes tribunals instead of death squads. We are going to find her, and I am going to talk to her, and after that... we will decide when the time comes.'

'We? What's with 'we'? I don't want to go near her unless I have to.'

'Agent Sawyer said that there have been no reported incidents of violence involving young women with superhuman strength.' Wesley was ignoring her. 'So let's assume her actions haven't been reported.'

'Great. So you're going to find her victims in a city of ten million people? How long do you think that's going to take?'

'We're not going to be asking people.' He told her, and Cordelia suddenly felt that she should never have left Los Angeles.

Back in the room, Veronica was pacing.

'Sawyer?' Lucas asked. 'Are you going to tell me what's wrong?' She turned to face him.

'Bishop, we're partners, right?'

'Yes.'

'Do you trust me?'

'As much as I trust anyone.' He replied. 'You're the brains and I'm the brawn.'

'The sage and the soldier?' She asked. 'You never told me your sister was a mutant.' His head snapped up.

'How did you find out?'

'I'm a cop, remember? Detective work. Last night I looked over superhuman-related incidents for the last twenty-five years. A teenage mutant girl gets beaten to death in New York City, and her brother just happens to be a police officer. How did the Bureau miss that?' Bishop suddenly turned, and Veronica suddenly remembered that he outweighed her by at least one hundred pounds of solid muscle, and was a highly trained killer.

'How do you think?' He seemed to loom over her.

'You tell me.' She replied. 'You're the telepath.'

His reaction left her somewhat astonished.

It had been a long time.

Faith dressed silently in the little room with its bare walls and plain furniture. Gambit slept in the hollow made by their bodies, his shoulders still shining with sweat. After the first time, on the hood of Mr Summers' jeep, they'd come back here and fucked 'till he passed out, her first sex in over a year, first in her own body in more than two.

It had been a long time, but Faith could still remember what it used to be like.

Sex with Remy had been... interesting. Faith was fast and brutal in bed, as in much of her life, but on this occasion her partner had, for the first time in what felt like forever, been her equal. He'd calmed her, turned fucking into sex and moved sex towards… something more. He had countered her snarled obscenities with whispered endearments, turned frenzied lust into slow-burning desire.

It had been fun.

Now, it was the morning after, and for the first time that she could remember Faith had actually slept with the guy. That, too had been nice, which was one reason she was leaving before he woke up. It was her room; she should really just throw him out and forget him. But last night had been fun, and, besides, she was trying to be a better person. She could be kind.

She walked into the kitchen, and found Rogue and the Professor drinking tea.

'Good morning, Faith.' Xavier said. 'How was your night?' Rogue seemed almost to snarl at that.

'Great.' Faith replied, moving over to the fridge. As a Slayer she had been accustomed to sleeping until well after noon, but a year in prison had got her used to early mornings. With the three-hour time difference, she had woken up just before ten. 'Nice beds.' Cold meat, cheese, orange juice, Dr Pepper – didn't they have any breakfast food?

'Try the cupboard to your left.' Xavier suggested. She did so, and found a half-empty box of doughnuts. 'Hardly the most nutritious of breakfasts, but with a house full of teenagers I've long since given up trying to enforce healthy dietary practices.'

'Right.' She replied, with her mouth full. She swallowed. 'Hey, Rogue. You're looking wicked vicious this morning.' Rogue glared at her, then glanced at the Professor.

'Faith, there are several things I need to talk to you about.' The Professor told her. 'If you have no objections, Logan and Scott will be assessing your abilities this afternoon. I would like to talk to you in my office first. Say, eleven?'

'Hey, you're the headmaster.'

'What's so funny?' Veronica had seen Bishop smile before. She'd never seen him laugh out loud.

'A telepath?' He asked, cutting off his laughter abruptly. 'You think I can read people's minds?'

'You're a mutant.' She accused.

'True.' He replied. There was suddenly no sign of humour in his face. 'I'm not a telepath, though.'

'So what are you?'

'Fireproof.' He replied. 'And immune to electrocution and radiation. I don't get heatstroke, either.' He glanced up at her. 'Nothing that could threaten you. But right now, you can threaten me.'

'So your employer is a telepath.' She said. 'Either that, or something else that let you slip through the background checks.'

'My employer?'

'Cut the crap, Bishop. You're a good cop, and I've suddenly realised just why we keep almost tracking down mutants who've just left town. Who are you working for? What do they do with them?'

'We don't hurt anybody.' Bishop replied.

'Who are we?' She was angry in a way he had never seen before.

'I can't tell you.' He said. Veronica abruptly drew her sidearm, levelling the massive weapon at his face.

'Bishop, my first boyfriend blew himself in half with dynamite, that's true. But he wouldn't have done so if I hadn't already put two bullets through his lungs. You know my secret, you can tell me yours. Answer me.'

'I can't.' He repeated. He looked down the barrel of her gun. It didn't waver at all. Looking past the weapon, he could read the determination in her eyes. 'But if you let me get out my phone, I can maybe introduce you to someone who can.'

Faith sauntered into Xavier's office and perched on the edge of his desk, before remembering herself and backing away towards one of the armchairs.

'So, what's this about?'

'Tell me, Faith.' The Professor had decided to get straight to the point. 'What do you know about vampires?'

'Dead people walking around and eating people. Stab 'em with a pointed stick and they go poof.' She looked up at him. 'You did some research, found out I'm really not a mutant?'

'You are the Slayer.' He replied.

'A... Yeah, The Slayer.' She agreed. 'So... what are you gonna do with me?'

'Well, there's no reason why you shouldn't stay here for the moment. However, there are certain things that will need to be dealt with differently.' The 'phone had started ringing as he spoke, and now he held up a hand. 'If you could excuse me for a moment?'

He lifted the receiver. As he talked, Faith got up to prowl around his office, touching ornaments and looking at pictures. She listened to his conversation with half an ear, but one-sided as it was it made little sense. There seemed to be a problem, and someone called Worthington was part of the solution.

She stopped in front of a picture hanging directly opposite the Professor's desk, where he could see it whenever he looked up. It showed six people. There was Scott Summers, looking about nineteen. There was Xavier, looking exactly the same, right down to the wheelchair. And there were four others. The first was a big, bulky young man with massively broad shoulders and extremely large hands. He looked vaguely familiar, although Faith wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the glasses. Then there was a boy of about thirteen, with sandy hair and a mischievous smile, who seemed to be holding a snowball in one hand. Standing at the back was a tall, very beautiful youth about the same age as Summers. He had a square jaw and an arrogant smirk. He also had big, white, feathery wings spreading from his back. The final member of the group was sat beside Summers, and had her arm around his waist. She looked to be several years older than him, but the way she leaned in to him suggested a high degree of intimacy. Faith had never sat with anyone like that. The woman had dark red hair and a look of cool intelligence. Faith decided instantly that whoever she was, she didn't like her.

The small group looked relaxed and happy. Scott was smiling, with no trace of the bitterness that now haunted his face. Whatever the circumstances under which the picture had been taken, it had clearly been a good time.

The date '1996' was written on the lower edge of the frame.

Behind her Xavier hung up the phone.

'Where were we?' He began.

Rogue enjoyed mornings in the X-Mansion. The summer was, day to day, rather like a massively extended weekend, which meant Remy and Jubilee would stay in bed until noon, while Scott and Logan would head off to do broody things, which normally involved either beating the hell out of one another in the Danger Room or playing with motorbikes – both in the garage and along the old highway that ran to the East end of the school grounds (and she was almost certain that the Professor didn't know about this; he certainly wouldn't approve if he knew of Scott's borderline-suicidal style of riding). All this meant she could generally talk to the Professor in peace and quiet. This morning had been slower than most, due to the activities of the previous night, and she hadn't remembered the fine details until Faith sauntered into the kitchen looking like the cat that not only got the cream but also managed a hostile takeover of the entire dairy.

Slightly mollified by the fact that the elder girl was clearly going to have a seriously hard day – she'd heard rumours about what happened when Wolverine and Cyclops tested a student together, and they weren't pretty – she'd had her improving mood demolished when Remy stumbled downstairs dressed in the previous night's trousers and muttered,

'Y' seen Fait', chere?'

'She's in with the Professor. Why? Didn't ya see enough of her last night?'

'Non, it's just . . . le Professeur, you say? He got her up?'

'She got herself up. Walked out on ya in your sleep, did she?'

'Oui. This thief, he wonder why she abandon him like that.'

What does it mean to be the Slayer?

You might be a normal girl, with all that entails. You might be born to loving parents who bring you up with care, affection and a little discipline. You're an only child, but a happy family. You go to school, you make friends. You're lucky enough to have a fairly high metabolism, and are naturally fairly athletic. Maybe you become a cheerleader or a gymnast.

You might have known your potential destiny from early childhood, had it drilled in to you along with fighting skills since you could walk. You don't remember your parents; you were raised by a Watcher. You're alone. Your education is in mysticism and monsters, killing techniques and weapons training. You have a certain natural talent for such things – nothing exceptional, just slightly above-average coordination and reflexes. You almost certainly develop several major communication disorders, but that's okay, you're being raised against the possibility of becoming a weapon.

You might be a slum kid, born in a tenement, raised on the streets. Your mother never wanted you; your father was never even aware of your existence. You drop out of the education system before high school and learn your lessons in the backstreets and alleyways. You learn to fight to defend yourself. You see the effects of poverty, the violence and drugs and simple brutality of the gangers, and learn to accept them even as you hate them. If you're lucky, a Watcher finds you before you take up drugs or prostitution.

It all changes when you're chosen, of course. You're maybe fifteen years old – maybe a little older or younger, but never more than seventeen or less than fourteen. The Powers that Be arranged this system countless millennia past – a girl, because in the old tribal systems girls were worth far less than boys, young, so that she would not have a family and because in that time a thirty-year-old was an old man. You wake up from terrible dreams one morning, and there's blood on the sheets. You find that you're strong – you start off stronger than all but the most muscular of humans, and it gradually increases as time passes. You find that your reflexes are faster, that you can run further, jump higher. Your flesh is tougher; you bleed less, almost never bruise. When a weapon is placed in your hand you automatically feel the weight and balance, know how to use it almost instinctively so that only minimal training is necessary. Your senses are sharper; you can hear heartbeats and see in the dark. You dream regularly of monsters and violence and blood, blood, blood. And, suddenly, you can sense the vampires.

Your Watcher reacts swiftly. You are sent into the field as soon as they realise that you've been called, and if you're lucky they give you enough help and training to survive the first month. If you're really lucky, you might last six months, by which time you might have picked up enough skills to last a full year. If you manage a year, of course, you've got enough experience to start believing yourself invincible, and once again survival becomes a matter of luck.

Faith got lucky. She'd been going five months when she met Buffy Summers. For a short while, they kept each other alive. Then Faith killed a man by accident, and the violence that had been part of her life longer than she had ever wanted to remember returned full force. She spiralled downwards; every time it seemed she'd hit bottom, another opportunity opened up for her to go lower, and she seized it with both hands and open eyes. It had become clear to her that she was only good for killing, for violence, and she welcomed the knowledge.

Then, finally, she stopped. There was a man named Angel, who talked to her, and told her the truth, and let her see a little more clearly. She gave it all up because of him.

'Gave it up?' Xavier asked, his first interruption.

'The power.' Faith told him.

It can't be explained, only experienced. Because when you're the Slayer you know that the world is full of monstrous things, that there are demons more terrible than anyone's nightmares walking the night, and that in all the world they're afraid of only one thing, and you're it. Yeah, you die young, but you're alive every second along the way.

You don't live in prison, you just exist.

'You came here to live?'

'I came here because Angel and . . . Because Angel taught me that it's not the monsters you kill, it's the lives you save. Remy and Scott said I might be able to do a little of that from here.'

Charles Gunn, street kid, former gang leader, and demon hunter, carried a mobile phone. He wasn't exactly proud of this fact, nor was he ashamed; while it was severely out of phase with his image, it was occasionally necessary. He'd given the number to a small group of people who might conceivably need it. One such was the young woman known as Anne Steel.

'You in trouble?' He asked her. He was spending a lot of time at the Hyperion these days, keeping an eye on the crazy woman hiding upstairs, but Anne's call had woken him up at home.

'No. Gunn, this is personal.'

'Yeah?'

'Some of your old crew have moved in here to help with security.'

'Yeah, I got that.'

'One of them brought this box of stuff that he says belonged to your sister. He says the vampires killed her a couple of years back. Do you want to come and pick it up?'

Gunn paused, remembering.

'Gunn?'

'Yeah. I'll be round in an hour or so. Anne?'

'Yes?'

'They never just kill you.' He ended the call.