In the tastefully furnished house in California, dawn is breaking. The old soldier is making preparations for a journey. She travels light and unarmed because these days people seemed to pay more attention to broadswords on city streets. Besides there would be metal detectors at the airport. Twenty five years ago this would have been so much easier, they would have had allies in their multitudes. Slayers by the dozens, a tight knit gang who would walk into hell for one another if it came to that. But now her sister is dead, so are all of the new slayers. Faith is missing presumed. Just her and the witch and a man who doesn't know what day it is. A small bag packed she slips back into her bedroom and gently shakes her husband awake.
"Lesley"
"Hmm" the man is nowhere near waking yet
"Lesley I have to go to England. Right now"
"Whaa..." the dawn of realization hits like a glass of cold water in the face "To England? Now?"
"I've got to see..."
"I know who you've got to see. Why can't she come here?"
"She can't leave Giles"
"But you can leave me?"
"You don't need..."
"What? What don't I need? I don't need to be taken into account at all?"
"I never... look its too early for all this."
"You're the one who woke me up."
"I'm going. I have to. You know that."
"I know. Just go. Cancel the milk if you have the time. When will you be back?"[1]
"I..."
"You don't know. I know. Go. Save the world. I'll be waiting. Like always."
"I know"
And with that the old soldier takes her bag, writes a short note about milk, and walks out into the dawn.
The woman who has never spoken as long as any can recall has left London and arrived sooner than any have the right to arrive in a city to the absolute west. In the City of Angels she walks amongst the downtrodden and forgotten until she finds the one she seeks. He is slumped in a doorway unwashed and unshaven, his eyes such as they were are naught but a mass of scar tissue. He turns his face towards the lady as she approaches.
"Already?"
She nods.
"You have brought the others?"
Shakes her head. Inclines it slightly, and smiles.
"I'm flattered." With some effort the eyeless man clambers to his feet. "Who's next?"
The woman puts two fingers to her lips, brings her hands together and then apart in a flowing, undulating motion. She smiles again.
"Her? Already? Well if you're sure"
In the house in England the witch-woman busies herself with trivialities. There is still much to be done after all. She cleans up after her old mentor, and makes the necessary preparations to withdraw a large amount of money quickly. She sends email, although she is not entirely comfortable with the more modern machines, she writes letters to those who she feels need a more personal touch, and so the day passes.
The old soldier is over the Atlantic in an aircraft. Beside her an empty seat is taken up by the apparition, the Last. He has taken the form of a weasel-faced, slightly mad eyed man with spiked hair, and the soldier is beginning to wonder if in his twisted way he is trying to set her at her ease by taking the shape of a man she was not saddened to be reminded was dead.
"I used to have a recurring nightmare. Back in the day."
"I know."
"Oh yeah you do the whole 'darkness at the heart of all' thing."
"Still... go on it breaks up the journey"
"It was like... Giles would come in and say 'Buffy' - because Buffy was always there in my dream - 'something terrible is going to rise up and destroy the world', and we'd say - she'd say - 'oh my god when, where?' and then he'd say 'tonight, in Kuala Lumpur'. And we'd all realise that there was nothing we could do to get there in time"
"You know if I wasn't omniscient I'd say you were making that up."
"Why did they always come to Sunnydale anyway?"
"Hellmouth. Confluence of mystic energies. Plus my predecessor was there - or at least focused his attention there. You know people are looking at you like you're nuts." A shift, and the apparition is a well groomed man wearing a hat and coat, and carrying another over his arm "Well you see Doctor Chumley I'd like to introduce you to somebody..."
"I hadn't thought about that before. You can be any dead person you want. You could look like Monroe or Valentino or... you know I don't know if I can take that seriously."
The Last shifts back to its earlier form. "I am the embodiment of all evil you know. You could treat me with a little respect"
"What are you doing on this 'plane anyway? I mean don't you have somewhere else to be?"
"I'm there too. Omnipresent remember. So, yeah the party line is that I'm tormenting you with images from your past"
"And the non-party line?"
"I like the company. And don't try to think about how that works with my previous remark about being everywhere because it kinda doesn't okay"
"You know, we're very much alike, you and I."
"Say what now?"
"Both beings of world girdling power trapped in human form, or in your case in the shadow of human form. Both still living in the shadows of our elder siblings. Both..."
"Couldn't make it to three could you?"
"It was just a thing. And I still think I'm onto something or you wouldn't be here"
"You think I've got a thing about you?"
"You're evil, I'm married. Only natural. Supernatural."
"You're one weird lady"
"Look at my childhood and tell me I should be normal"
"You didn't have..."
"Exactly"
And so the flight continues, speeding towards the sunrise. Some hours later it will arrive in England. The 'plane is met by the old witch-woman, and the meeting between the witch and the soldier is as between two who have said all that needs to be said long, long ago. They proceed in silence to the home of the witch, and it is not until they are inside, sat down and staring at unwanted cups of tea that the silence is broken.
"Do you trust it" asks the soldier, although she knows the answer well enough.
"Not an inch. But I believe it. I don't think it can lie."
"Then you think we should work with it?"
"I never said that. But yes, I do. I spent my life trying to keep this sorry world alive, so did he" she gestures upstairs "so did your sister and so have you. We've been beyond good and evil since I don't know when and if we have to work alongside the..."
"Source of all that is dark and corrupt and... well... evil in the world?"
"Then we have to." as she finishes, the old witch-woman raises a cup of rapidly cooling tea to her lips more from habit than thirst.
"So who do we have on our side?"
"Us."
"Just us?"
"You and me both nearly destroyed the world. Us is a lot."
"And there's no others?"
"The whole Slayer line has ended thanks to... well you know"
"We did what we had to"
"We still should have thought about it"
"We were kids." A pause. More staring into cups of tea. "You know you've got really British." another pause. "What about Xan... I mean Alex?"
"Still won't return my letters. Can't say as I blame him."
"It was years ago."
"Some things you don't just forgive and forget."
"Okay, any others we might be able to get on our side?"
"Faith's still MIA, she's probably dead by now. I wrote to the Coven today."
"The one in Cornwall?"
"They're the ones. They still don't entirely trust me, but then I still don't entirely trust myself. I don't know how they'll react if I just show up and say 'hey, I'm throwing in my lot with the ultimate evil, wanna join me?'. But they're still some of the strongest women... the strongest people that I've ever seen, and we could use them onside."
"And that's it?"
"I'm chasing a couple of leads I don't hold much hope for but... yeah barring any of the convenient resurrections which we seem to get every few years that's all we have"
"So what now?"
"Tonight, we rest. Tomorrow we start the ol' Scoobyin' "
In a high and desolate place, the woman who does not speak, and the man whose eyes are scars stand with their faces to the wind. She places one finger to her lips and waits. The wind rises, she smiles, bring her hands together, and nods. He speaks.
"It Is Time."
There is a movement in the air, and a sound like the beating of wings.
[1] It has been brought to my attention that milk is no longer delivered in most of America. Being English I was unaware of this and am likely to make similar mistakes again. I beg your indulgence and ask that you assume any such out of place Englishisms are the result of nearly thirty years of cultural cross-pollination. If you don't buy that, think of it as revenge for Quentin Travers' suit and Molly's accent.