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Approaching a State of Readiness
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The afternoon was a blur.

There were cement hallways not designed for the public eye.

There were tickets for a catered lunch of assorted deli meats.

There were laminated tour passes, hanging from black lanyards.

There were new people. Lots of new people.

Dressing rooms, with apples in them.

Polo shirts standing watch at the corners of the hallways, walky-talkies on hips.

There was sound check. One. Two. One. Two. Three. One Two. Sam. Sam. One Two Three. Three Two One.

Playing snippets for the empty auditorium.

...The empty auditorium.

As she sang and counted into the mic, Buffy stared out into the thousands of empty seats in the way the Celts stared out at the crest of the hill, waiting for the first heads and spears to appear.

When it was over, she was congratulated by those who hadn't heard her sing previously, and wished good luck by those who had. Spike gave her a hearty slap on the back.

Dawn gave her a calculating look.

Warren, the stage manager, gave her a thumbs up from the booth where he stood beside the young man that had been positively identified as Andrew.

She smiled back as brightly as possible and turned away under the guise of stretching her shoulders.

Somehow, three hours passed. There may have been another trip to catering. Maybe a nominal yoga session on the dressing room floor. Everything Buffy did was clouded by the terror that was slowly overtaking her.

In second grade, she had been assigned a project on volcanoes. Everyone does a project on volcanoes at some point. When she had gotten up in front of the class to do hers, she'd been phenomenal. They'd laughed at her jokes, clapped at her paper mache St. Helens, and the teacher had given her both an A and an entry into the county science fair.

The science fair had gone a little differently.

She was placed on the stage of a high school auditorium, bright hot lights blazing into her eyes. She had looked at her notecards, read the first few words, and looked up to make the obligatory 'public-speaker-to-listener eye-contact'...

She couldn't see her audience.

It had been like stumbling around in a white-out, with no indication whether or not you were going in the right direction. She couldn't feed off reactions she couldn't see. Couldn't take her timing cues from faces hidden in the depths of the darkness. After a few minutes, she had trailed off into silence.

The faux wood and gold-sprayed trophy had gone to some boy from another elementary school. He'd made a model of a plant cell out of styrophome and jelly beans.

Buffy had decided that she had a fear of public speaking. So she didn't speak in public. In eigth grade, with the trauma far behind her, she had run for student body vice-president. Thanks to her loyal friends in the Abercrombie crowd, she had won.

Sophomore year, she discovered punk. She learned how to sort of play guitar. She joined her friend's boyfriend's garage band. They gradually stopped sucking. She started singing some of the covers.

Junior year, they played at the winter formal. People didn't hiss. Up there on the slightly raised stage at the end of the gym, screaming her lungs out as much as her fitted pink dress would let her, Buffy had had a transcendental experience. This was what she had to do. From that moment on, she needed a spotlight to feel completely whole. She not only enjoyed public performance, she required regular doses in the form of club shows and weekend gigs.

She'd reversed her stage-fright. She'd beaten it.

Except, apparently not.

She glanced at her watch. 8:02. She had half an hour until Andrew came in with her little alien-parasite-shaped earphones and hip pack. She intended to be fully clothed when he did.

Which meant she needed to put some clothes on.

But first she needed to pick some clothes to put on.

Which meant she needed to make a decision.

Which meant she needed to accept that she was going to go out on that stage, knowing full well she would choke like the dying chicken she truly felt herself to be at the moment.

Oh, God.

*Whamwhamwham*

"Buffy! You're taking way too much time! I've gotta change, too!"

"Just a sec, Dawn!" She grabbed something at random from the black guts of her suitcase, determined to build her outfit around that.

It was a single stocking.

"Uh...hang on..." She tried again. Black halter. Terrific. Now....

Fashionably battered black jeans. Why not.

Insert legs.
Button.
Zip.
Shimmy.
Tie.
Uh...

Army boots.

Insert feet.
Tie....

*BANG BANG BANG*

"Dawn, I'm sorry! You can come in now!"

The irate, (barely) teenager strode in, a bundle of clothing under her arm. "I don't see why you have to plan and coordinate your outfit now. Now we're gonna have toMove your whole bag back onto the bus before the show.

"You know I can't dress in advance," Buffy muttered tensely, tugging at her hair.

Dawn offered a noncomital noise as she quickly changed. "Are you excited?" she asked, pushing her sister away from the mirror and spritzing her hair with spray.

"Uh, yeah," Buffy answered. "Of course I am. It' s our first big show. Yay!"

"Big? How 'bout giant? Kakistos is playing now, and the place is packed. By the time we get on, it's gonna be beyond capacity in a fire-hazard-y way. I'm so excited!" Her free hand drummed a peppy little rhythm on the edge of the countertop.

Buffy bit her lip.

*Knock knock*

"Come in!"

Xander poked his head in. "I heard there might be need of a big strong male, after certain decisions had been made?"

"Yeah," Dawn said, twisting and scrunching. "It's right there."

Xander looked down at the half-exploded suitcase at Buffy's feet.

"Woah. That's no moon."

"Yeah, yeah," The blonde grumbled. "You grab that end."

"I see we're past the fawning employee phase," Dawn muttered into the mirror. "Come back when you're finished, Buff! We need to do your eyes."

They widened. "My eyes?"

"Buffy!" Xander grunted urgently. Buffy quickly picked up the end she had let drop and motioned him backward. Together, they wrestled it out the door.

After they left, Dawn closed her mascara tube and blinked a few times. All ready to go.

***

"Yeah, babe. Love you too." C4 to D3 "No, no. They're doing fine. ...Just a little, I think. Her sister more, though." Ooh... Hmph. "Nah, just doesn't want to screw up her first show. They'll be fine." Take tha--oh. Oz straightened. "Willow? I'm gonna have to call you back. I'm getting my ass kicked by Spike's rook."

Spike watched over his folded hands as Oz listened to his fiancee, then hung up with a grin.

The green-haired bassist grabbed his knight and hopped it over a pawn.

Spike stared at the board.

"Damn."

*knocknock*

"C'min!" he called, still glaring at the board.

Andrew entered, laden with five small black boxes.

"That time already?"

He set the stack carefullly on the table. "Yeah, it's that time." He laughed nervously and checked the name on the side of the first couple boxes. "'Kay... Spike?" He popped the catch and pulled out a pair of fleshtoned, custom-fitted earphones.

Spike stood up and untucked his shirt. Andrew dropped the jack-end of the cord down his neck and pulled it out the other side.

"New rule, Mr. Jolly Green Giant man: No 'phone a friend' during the chess match.

Oz shrugged.

*knocknock*

"Yeah?"

A venue techie stuck his head in the dressing room door. "Yeah, I've got a package here for a William Rayne? Is that any of you guys?"

"Yeah," Spike said, "Who's it from?"

The man moved further inside, revealing a microwave-sized box in his arms. "Uh... 1643 Hea--"

"Dad." Spike glanced down at his waistband, where Andrew was securing and tuning the soundbox. "Just set it down there by the door, would you, mate?"

"What's your dad up to nowadays, anyway?" Oz asked, standing up and clearing the unfinished game.

"Toothpaste. He's gotton a shipping deal with Crest, or something like that."

"Toothpaste," Oz repeated. "Huh."

"Last time he crossed the pond, said that was the best thing about America. Absolutely obsessed with dental hygiene.

This time there was no knock. Anya just strode in, laminant swinging and toothbrush in hand.

"Is the sink free?" She noticed the sound engineer. "And make sure the signals are set right this time. Last year you nearly blew Xander's brain out his nose. Everybody else, twenty minutes to showtime."

She went into the bathroom and shut the door behind her.

"Case in point," Oz said, standing up.

"Yeah." Spike nodded to Andrew as he finished up and moved on to the other musician.

He grabbed his package up from the floor and settled on the couch with it. "Box cutter..." he muttered.

The door opened. "Yo! Are we ready to rock, or what?"

"We're ready to rock," came the distracted response. Xander deflated a little.

"C'mon. First show of the tour. What's it gonna be like three months from now?"

"Over," Spike replied, finally ripping open the box. He reached inside. "Oh, this is just rich..."

All heads turned as he pulled out a green polo shirt and held it up for the others to see. On the left breast, embroidered in white, was the ThruRayne Shipping logo, and below that 'William J. Rayne.'

"So, the old man strikes again," Xander asserted, pulling his collar out to recieve his plug.

"He still thinks you're going to join the family business?"

"'When all this rock and roll shite blows over,'" the Brit quoted.

Andrew picked up the remaining two boxes. "Are Dawn and Buffy next door?"

"Should be," Xander replied, reaching over to take the shirt from Spike.

At that moment, Dawn poked her heavily-made-up head through the doorway.

"Andrew, you're five minutes late."

"I'm not Santa. I can't be twenty different places at the strike of midnight. It's not like--"

"Andrew."

"Sorry." He set the boxes back down and unsnapped the top one.

"Where's Buffy?" Oz asked.

Dawn looked at Xander. "I thought she was still with you."

"She said she had something she needed. She'll be back in a few minutes.


***
15 minutes later...
***


Spike found her in the back room of the bus.

"Hey. Time to go, luv."

She nodded. "...kay..."

He stepped closer. "What're you reading?"

She held up a three by three square pamphlet. The cover showed a detail of Salvador Dali's Landscape With Girl Jumping Rope, and bore the words, 'Death To The Young Ones.'

Spike recognised it immediately. "Our first album? Haven't you memorized all the songs yet?"

Buffy blushed. "I was, uh, reading the thanku's."

Spike furrowed. "The tha..." He took the leaflet and flipped it to the back.

"The band wishes to thank everyone who made this album possible, our families, the sound engineers, road crew, producers, managers, Darla Joha--"

"Uh, past that. The, um..."

Spike scanned to the bottom. "...Nicholson....Most importantly, we wish to thank the fans. Thanks to all you people we don't see and have never met, for buying this album and for being there in the crowds each night..." That's it? Doesn't seem that profound.

"What's so great about that?"

Buffy stood up. "Nothing. Let's go do this thing."

Spike followed her out of the room, tossing the inset onto the couch as he left. It fluttered as it landed, opening to the back page.

...to all you people we don't see and have never met, for buying this album and for being there in the crowds each night.

Everything we do is for you guys.

Rock on.

Xander, Devon, Spike, Oz, and Parker.
XCOD.

****

To Be Continued.