"This is a woman who has spent the past six-and-a-half years throwing herself on grenades so we don't get scratched by the shrapnel."
Clayton Jenkins, Director of LA office, Wolfram & Hart
Angel and friends debate whether Dawn's latest vision means the world won't end, Dawn will die, or both. Buffy and Spike have a bitter spat over how she feels about him. (Instead of fighting each other, Angel and Spike each end up fighting Buffy.) And Angel's latest in a long line of lawyer enemies raises doubts as to where his loyalties really lie.
If Angel and his friends can't stay, at least some of their weapons can. The Sunnydale gang looks over the arsenal. Ariella smiles when she picks up Wesley's two handguns. She carefully looks them over. "Thirty-two. Eight round magazine?," she asks.
"Yes," Wesley responds. "But do be careful." He gasps when she casually tosses the loaded weapon through the air to Fadila. Ella laughs as Wesley's terror.
"Don't worry. Safety's on." The other pistol's clearly her favorite. "Glock .45. Ten round mag. Excellent stopping power."
"Certain demons I've encountered over the past year would tend to think otherwise." Fadila hands the .32 to Madari, picks up Wesley's shotgun, aims and cocks it, alarming Giles.
"Fadila! How can you be so reckless?"
"It's okay, Mister Giles. I was aiming at Spike." He thinks about this, realizing Fadila makes a good point.
"Even so, after the pellets travel through Spike, they could ricochet off the wall and hurt someone else." Spike, of course, is insulted, though not surprised, given who's speaking.
"You're right. I'm sorry." She puts the gun down. "These won't do any good tomorrow, anyway."
"But this will," Spike says as he rotates his right wrist to spin Gunn's giant ax around and around. "I could chop up a lot of baddies with this slab of cold steel."
"Or, one of the baddies could take it from you and chop up the good guys," Gunn comments, not wanting to let his prize weapon fall into the wrong hands.
"Not if I'm holding the ax. Anyway, Nina likes to use her hands. Tell you what, Charlie: I'm borrowing your tool. You can have it back when Nina's dead, or when I'm dead."
Angel smiles. "A contract with an incentives clause. Gunn, I think you should take the deal. It's just a piece of metal. You can't become too attached to inanimate objects." Angel looks across the room. "Connor! What are you doing with that?" He races over.
"Helping out."
"That's my weapon. I did not pack that."
"So?," Connor responds dismissively. Dawn pulls the three foot-long samauri sword out of its ornately painted wooden case.
"Son, that is a four hundred year-old tachi forged in Osafune by Haru-Mitsu himself. It's more than a sword. It's a work of art." Dawn takes hold of the weapon as if about to wield it in a fight. Connor smiles.
"Looks good on her, doesn't it?" Angel shakes his head and gives up. Buffy comes over to him.
"Angel. What happened before - "
"Don't worry about it."
"I'm sorry. I flew off the handle, and I'm deeply sorry."
"It's okay, Buffy. I sort of brought it on myself."
Once outside, Fred gets Angel alone for a moment. "An uber-vamp attacked me'? Is that Champion for I slipped and fell down some stairs'?"
"What are you talking about?"
"You made her choose. You put her in a position where she had to make a decision, one way or the other."
"Did Buffy - ? Oh, I don't believe this. She barely even knows you."
"She didn't say a word. Didn't have to." Fred puts her left arm around Angel's shoulders, like a coach instructing a player. "I know you've been around a long time, but there's still a lot about women ya don't understand."
"Fred. What are you doing?" She takes her arm away.
"Jus' tryin' to help. Ya looked like you could use some."
Angel laughs. "Right now, I'm the last person here who needs help."
"Suppose you're right. Right now, our problems really don't amount to a hill of beans." Angel gets in the driver's seat. Gunn calls and takes shotgun. Fred sits behind Angel and Wes sits behind Gunn.
"Do we have everything we came with? Other than what they chose to keep?"
"We're missing Connor," Fred points out.
"Isn't he one of the things they chose to keep?," Wesley jokes. Angel honks the horn. Connor keeps exploring Dawn's tonsils. He honks again. Dawn backs away.
"I think you should go with them," she suggests. Connor looks disappointed. "I'm sorry Connor. Time to go home." He stands there, forelorn, as Dawn walks towards the entrance. She turns, looks at him for a few seconds and disappears underground. Angel, who's losing patience, backs up towards Connor. The door slides open and he gets in, looking mopey. Connor slumps onto the bench behind Fred and Wes, and Angel drives off. There's silence for a few minutes, until they get passed the police cordon and onto highway 101.
"The Potentials seemed quite friendly," Wesley offers.
"Really seem to be taking this whole fighting for your life thing in stride," Gunn adds.
"Big deal," Connor scoffs. "Who doesn't?" Everyone chalks it up to Connor's distorted sense of norms and chooses not to reply. He leans forwards and rests forearms and chin on the top of the bench in front of him. Connor smiles and looks to Fred and Wes on either side. "So. What did you think of her? She's great, huh?"
"The two of you seemed very happy together," Wes diplomatically responds. All of them are a little creeped-out by the two young lovers. Except for Angel, who's a lot creeped-out.
"You guys like her, right?"
"How could we not?," Fred answers, afraid like everyone else of expressing their misgivings.
"She's definitely one-of-a-kind," Gunn comments, topping the others in pleasant but meaningless platitudes. Connor's head is too far in the clouds to notice the intentional evasiveness.
"So you see what I see in her?" That was loaded question. Especially for the men. An affirmative answer could have uncomfortable connotations. But a negative response was equally out of the question. Fred conscientiously elects to bail the boys out.
"She's very pretty, Connor. And very smart. You're a lucky guy." Connor couldn't be more pleased. Angel thinks Fred went a little overboard, and turns around to glare at her. "Sorry," she mouths to him.
"What did you think, dad?" Angel mulls this over, but doesn't respond. "That's okay," Connor tells him. Angel feels relieved. "You'll have plenty of time to get to know her over the summer." The van skids, but Angel quickly regains control.
"I miss my old car," he comments, trying unconvincingly to make it seem that Connor's remark hadn't caused the problem. "Can't wait 'till it's out of the shop."
"I don't believe this," Connor fumes. "You're not happy for me. You're just mad 'cause seeing us together freaked you out. Well that's not my problem. You're the one who chose to date her older sister. You know how weird that makes things?" Gunn, Fred and Wes gasp, astounded by Connor's chutzpah. Angel decides that it's time to confront his son's ridiculous self-centeredness head-on.
"I'm sorry, Connor. I'm sorry that when I met Buffy, I had no idea that one day I would father the first child ever born to a vampire, and that this child would develop an interest in Buffy's then-ten year-old sister, who back then didn't actually exist, and therefore I could not have known about. I'm sorry that I could not foresee these events."
"You made your point," Connor concedes. "It's not just that. You could have done better that Buffy. Cordy's prettier. Fred's prettier. I know I'm not the only guy here who thinks that," Connor adds, putting Gunn and Wes on the spot.
"That's really not necessary," Fred tells Connor, trying to end his little attempt to embarrass Angel.
"What makes Buffy prettier than Fred, Angel?"
"Connor, stop it!," Fred commands. He relents.
"Ewww!" Dawn closes her eyes, puts her hands to her head and cringes.
"Dawn, are you in pain?," a concerned Buffy asks. "Is it a vision? Are they giving you headaches?"
"Not painful. Just disgusting. I need to make a call."
Angel's cell phone rings. "Hello. Dawn?" Just when they had finally shut down Connor's discussion of her. "You had a vision." He's pleasantly surprised that this is a business call. "No. You can tell me. That's how it always used to work." Of course, she wanted to tell Connor. As if the visions were meant for him.
"Some sort of sea monster eating a man whole under the Santa Monica Pier. I think it's a man getting eaten. And by eating whole, I don't mean in one bite. There were four or five. And it happens Friday night."
"How do you know that? Did the vision tell you the time and location?"
"They can do that?," Dawn whines. "It's a pier, and I could hear the merry-go-round, so I'm pretty sure it's Santa Monica. And they were playing that annoying Bang On A Drum' song."
"Todd Rundgren. I'm a fan of some of his early ballads."
"It's one of those end-of-the-work-week songs they play on Friday nights. Plus, I could here tons of noise from above, so I think it was pretty crowded and festive. Maybe a bit too festive for a weeknight."
"I can check it out tomorrow just to be sure. What about the Venice Pier?"
"Angel, who's the one who gets the visions?," a slightly annoyed Dawn asks.
"They're all connected by one long boardwalk. It's hard to tell where Venice stops and Santa Monica begins," he offers, splitting the difference. "What did the monster look like?"
"Big. Bigger than the person. Maybe eight feet long. It's like, I dunno, like a giant, hairless weasel. With four stubby feet and very long claws. Plus lots of teeth. It did chomp the guy down pretty fast. But he was already dead."
"The monster could have drowned him first."
"I don't see why, with the claws and all. If this thing killed him, they would have showed it. With lots of screaming. The Vision Gods like to make you feel the victim's pain. Which is just really gratuitous and, oh, never mind. But this time they didn't. That's what those of us in the detective business call a clue," Dawn says, relishing the opportunity to turn the tables and condescend to Angel. Perhaps some of Connor's truculence is rubbing off on Dawn.
"Yeah, okay, thanks Dawn. I'll get right on it." He hangs up.
"Who's she helping us save now?," Connor asks with smile, knowing how much Angel hates having to rely on Dawn as a de facto part of the team.
"No one. The John Doe's already a corpse."
"What evil demon is she helping us kill?," Connor follows up.
"Some sort of large, amphibious sea monster who's feeding under a pier. She thinks it's Santa Monica on Friday night. But it won't do us any harm to check this out before then."
"That's so weird," Connor declares.
"You're right. We haven't fought too many sea monsters," Wesley comments.
"I don't remember any," Gunn adds.
"That's not what I meant," Connor follows up. "Right before I left, we were talking about going to that beach this weekend. Dawn said she was gonna teach me how to swim. Was that like a prophecy?"
"Coincidence," Wes quickly corrects him. Anything involving both Connor and prophecies instantly frightens him. "Mere coincidence."
"You don't know how to swim?," Angel asks with surprise.
"The lakes and swamps in Quor Toth were all filled with demons. And the rivers weren't deep enough. Or they were, but moved too fast."
"Why didn't you tell me you wanted to learn? I could have taught you."
"At night?"
"There are also indoor pools."
"Why would someone be under a pier at night?," Wes wonders, bringing them back on topic.
"He's already dead in the vision." This gives Wes an idea.
"Perhaps someone is feeding the monster. We could be dealing with a form of ritual propitiation."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Angel cautions.
"How bout we ask the regulars if they've noticed any suspicious activity along those beaches?," Fred suggests. "Venders, beach bums, surfers."
"Hold on people," Gunn jumps in. "Am I the only one who's not missing the biggest news in this vision? The world ain't gonna end tomorrow." Everyone takes a few seconds to let this sink in.
"It could be tonight," Angel proposes. "People play Todd Rundgren on weeknights."
"Say it is tonight," Gunn offers. "Why would the Powers bother? Why help us change the future if there ain't gonna be any future?"
"They do have a rather vicious sense of humor," Angel notes ruefully. He still hasn't forgiven them for what happened to Cordy. Connor gets a look of dread on his face, which none of the others can see since he's in back.
"Say the world survives. How many of the people in Sunnydale don't survive? We don't know. And we've never gotten a vision from Dawn this early. It's always on the same day. Why would they do it extra early unless, unless they know she's not gonna be here on Friday?"
"I'm going to die," Anya declares.
"Part of being human," Xander replies. They're in the bedroom they share, sitting on their respective beds.
"I mean tomorrow."
"Why now? We've been through worse." She looks at him for a few seconds. "No point in trying to do a ranking. Things have seemed hopeless before, and we've pulled through."
"Those were different. The bad guys intended to end the world while we were still alive. Or at least while I was alive. The First wants to kill all of us before that can happen."
"I don't see the difference."
"This time, when the world's about to end, no one will be around to save it. Before now, the thing trying to kill and the thing trying to end the world were one and the same. Now, there's a division of labor. Nina doesn't care about an apocalypse. She just wants to satiate her blood lust. What makes the First so dangerous is that it's the only Big Bad to discover the virtues of specialization. The best fighter and the brains of the operation are two different entities, and we can't even get at the brain."
"She's killable. That's all I need to know. There's a way. Which means Buffy has the will to find it."
"You can't just keep reflexively relying on Buffy to save the day. To be honest, I'm not even sure Buffy's relying on Buffy right now."
"Well we can't give up."
"I'm not giving up. I'm preparing to die nobly and heroically, in a manner which will be recounted for generations to come. Of course, the recounting's up to you."
"That's not a job I want."
"Well fine then. I'll die alone and forgotten."
"No Anya. We'll die together."
Her eyes open wide and she smiles. "You mean that? You'd really throw yourself on my funeral pyre?"
"Or we'll walk out together."
"You better not be backing away now from your pledge to become the first man to commit suttee."
"We'd both die in battle. Heroically, of course."
"Oh. I suppose some could see that as romantic."
"Shouldn't We'll share the same fate' motivate you to want to live?"
"Nobody celebrates lovers who live to a ripe old age. Especially if they're no longer lovers. Death would paper over that inconvenient fact."
"There are other ways."
"You're right!," Anya announces as she stands up and walks from her bed over to his.
"For instance, deeper, more profound aspects of love than can be expressed through . . . physical means."
"Or, we could nullify the inconvenient fact," Anya suggests before taking off her shirt. Xander looks up and gets frazzled.
"Th-th-that would be a rather, umm, petty way of altering circumstances."
"It would also help us get to sleep." For Xander, this wrecks whatever mood Anya was trying to build. He stands up and walks to his right and Anya's left, so that he ends up at the foot of the bed.
"So much for flattery."
"I meant after. The after part where you and, hopefully I, are relaxed. I don't think it's a good idea to fight the strongest enemies you've ever faced without any sleep. And, if you're as nervous as I am, sleep's not a possibility."
"Performance-enhancing sex."
"It serves multiple purposes."
"What is it about you and me and underground spaces?," he asks, referring to their first time in his basement.
"You always do seem to be hiding from something. I suppose it could be some sort of profound metaphor. Can you help me undo this bra strap?" She's standing in front of him. Xander looks at Anya and smiles.
"I always did like your direct manner," he concedes. She leaps at him, and they both fall on top of the bed.
In Willow's and Kennedy's room, the mood is equally nervous, though more subdued. Willow sits on the edge of the bed. Kennedy puts her arm's around Willow's waist from behind. "This is too much pressure."
"You've handled pressure before," Kennedy assures Willow.
"Not like this."
"Just like this. And you're more powerful than you've ever been."
"It's not about power. Yes, of course it is. But I have to pretend it isn't. Otherwise Nina wins because she can counter brute strength and, to make matters worse, she can't be hurt by spells invoking any and all of my favorite goddesses. And gods. It's not a sexist thing. Just a bizarrely monotheist thing. Or so Giles told me. Which sucks, because they all look down on magic. "
"Giles thinks this is about religion?," Kennedy asks, rather startled.
"Not really. It's about good and evil. Since people have free will, power can be used for either purpose. That's why the Zoroastrians buried the stone twenty five centuries ago. Zarathustra's teachings convinced them it wasn't inherently good, as the Chorasmians had always believed. It all depended on who was using it."
"And you'll be the one using it, sweetie."
"Only if I transcend myself, or my motives are pure, or, you know, something, I don't know. That's the worst part. If the moment comes, I won't even know what I'll have to do to pull it off."
"Go with your instincts."
"You mean the ones that have kinda completely failed me since Nina dropped into town?"
"But this time Willow, you won't be fighting her. You'll competing with her. The magic ball's gotta pick someone, and I know who I'd go with everytime."
"It's me, right?" Kennedy laughs and kisses Willow's neck.
"You're the one she's interested in, anyway. In fact, I got the sense she's jealous of me. Can't say I blame her."
"Well, it's nice to know you don't take me for granted," Willow jokes. She lies on her back. Kennedy gazes down at her.
"Not even an insanely powerful Titan can get everything she wants. Tomorrow, if the moments comes, all you need to do is remind her of that." Over one hundred feet to the west, Buffy enters Spike's private shelter/crypt. He doesn't look happy to see her. Playing on his stereo is The Doors' "The End:"
"This is the end,
beautiful friend.
This is the end,
my only friend, the end.
Of our elaborate plans, the end.
Of everything that stands, the end.
No safety or surprise, the end.
I'll never look into your eyes . . . again."
"Can I help you?," he coldly asks.
"Lookin' for a place to crash."
"What happened to your room?"
"Nothing. You don't want me here, I can always go back." She turns around.
"But it's lonely over there. And you'd like a change. Some variety. That seems to be your theme for the night." Buffy turns around with a snarl on her face. Now she's even more upset than Spike.
"So now I need your permission to talk — alone — with another man?"
"Don't pretend my reaction's taking you by surprise. You're not that thick."
Buffy rolls her eyes and groans. "Do you two always turn into pig-headed, possessive jerks the moment you're put in the same town?"
"So you've realized that Angel's a jerk?"
"I forgot something: CHILDISH, pig-head, possessive jerks." She holds her arms out to the side. "Go ahead. Call Angel. Tell him to come back here. So that you two can split me down the middle. From top to bottom. Then you'd each have a one-half of Buffy that could always be yours. Maybe that would solve things. No. You'd probably fight over who gets the left and who gets the right."
"You know wut your problem is?"
"Men who try me what my problem is?"
"You're afraid to be happy. Cuz if you're happy, then what? Something's always gotta be missing. That's why you've kept me at arm's length since I got my soul back. God forbid I could make you happy. God forbid you could have satisfaction without guilt." Buffy hits him in the nose with a right jab.
"Oww! Hey, I'm bleeding."
"I thought you liked to lick it up." She hits his right cheek with a left hook, and he goes down.
"Can't answer me with words, so you resort to fists," he says as he gets up.
"No, I'm just tired of men deciding what's best for me. You don't I'm capable of doing it myself?"
"So this is wut happened to Angel. How come you hit him more?"
"This is unreal. Even by your standards!"
"The better the argument, the harder you have to work to rebut it, the more blows you land. Fine. Go off with him. See you in the morning." She pounds his chin with a right uppercut, sending Spike flying into the wall behind him. (It's not much of a flight, since the room's only ten feet wide, but the impacts with the concrete wall, then with the concrete floor, are pretty jarring.)
"Listen to yourself! The more she hits me, the more she loves me.' You have completely lost it."
"Oh really. So I just imagined that when he was here, I wus invisible to you."
"I have spent the better part of the last seven months - "
"Six months." She groans angrily yet again.
"With you."
"I think you're overstating how much time we spent together during those months."
"Not according to Giles. Or Willow. Or Xander. Or Dawn."
"So now I'm keeping you from your friends and family."
"Sometimes I think vampire years are like dog years in reverse. One hundred twenty four in vampire years is only eighteen in human years. So I'm actually the mature one in this relationship."
"Where does that leave Angel?," Spike asks defensively, since he's about twice Spike's age.
"Angel's fifteen. Angelus would be like in his early twenties. Don't gloat," she says to preempt any bragging about being "older" than Angel. "You're both equally immature. You know what? I should just let you two fight over me."
"No complaints here."
"I'll go live somewhere else for a year, get on with my life, then return to find you both horribly disfigured — and still fighting. As I was trying to say, we've spent a lot of time together. On the other hand, I haven't seen Angel in over a year-and-a-half."
"And he's spent every minute of that time alone, thinking about you." Buffy slaps his face with her right hand.
"That's gonna leave a palm mark. But I think I hurt you more than you hurt me." She goes to slap him with her left hand, but he grabs her left wrist with his right hand.
"You both need help." Buffy starts chuckling. "Couples counseling. The two of you make the same, selfish mistake. All this time, while you're thinking over what would make me happy, you never even consider how I actually feel. Otherwise you wouldn't be doing this."
"I'm doing this because there's a lot I've held in, and I figure I might as well get it out, seeing how I'm going to die tomorrow." Spike turns his head to the right and quickly wipes his right eye, trying to keep Buffy from noticing.
"Oh my god. You're crying."
"Am not."
"Yes you were."
"Okay. But only cuz of the pain. Nothing at all to do with my feelings." Seems a teensy bit more manly that way, at least to Spike.
"Now I've figured it out. I should never talk to you guys about yourselves. When I want insight into you, I'll go to Angel. When I want to learn what's in Angel's head, I'll chat you up. Because you know each other as well as you know yourselves. And that way, I won't have to deal with either of your bullshit. And then, when I want to understand myself, I'll, I don't know, I'll talk to Xander. Because you two have too much at stake to be objective."
"You think the boy knows you better than I do?"
"No. But at least what he says isn't self-serving. I need you to satisfy me?," she asks as she laughs. "To make my life bliss?"
"I never said that. Here's what I will say: You couldn't love me cuz you couldn't trust me. Done. You couldn't love me cuz I didn't have a soul. Done."
"I told you I loved you a while back."
"So love's a turn-off?" She balls her right fist, but keeps it at her side, as a warning. "It's gotta be that. Or, you're too scared to put the pieces together."
"Scared of what? Oh, I forgot. Your bliss-inducing, life-altering penis," she says with sarcastic understatement.
"I wusn't talking about sex."
"That would be a first for you."
"I'm talking about getting close."
"I'm not fifteen. You don't have to use euphemisms."
"Already plowed those fields for a season. Thought I'd lead them fallow for the next one." She throws a right hook, which Spike anticipates and backs away from. "You were the one making it vulgar. This isn't about bloody shagging. There's been a barrier between us, and don't try to deny it."
"Because once we get close, I won't be able to stop, and next thing you know we'll be playing Subterranean House again."
"Buffy, you're not listening." She grabs his shirt, pulls him close and plants one on his lips. After taking five seconds to get past his shock, Spike starts eagerly kissing back. After twenty seconds Buffy pushes him away. His back slams into the wall. He's clearly knock-kneed. Buffy wipes her lips as if it were nothing special.
"See. I stopped. You're wrong. Now shut up and let me get in bed with you." Eighty percent of Spike thinks she's taunting him. Twenty percent holds onto the forelorn hope that she's serious. Buffy laughs. "Why does everything have to be about sex?," she asks, mocking Spike's previous argument by using it against him. "I'm sick of men trying to win me. I have bigger things on my mind. What I want is a man to be there for me, without feeling the need to stake a claim or mark his territory. That's why I came here. To be close." Spike walks past Buffy to her right, towards the wall at the head of the beds that are on either side. After taking a little while to think this over, he turns around.
"You just made that up on the spot to make me look bad."
"No Spike. It's why I came here. You made yourself look bad." He considers the idea that his entire argument was a waste of time. No point continuing down that road. Time to show Buffy he's not so pig-headed after all.
"Buffy, you know how much I care for you. I wus confused, and angry, and didn't give you a chance to - "
"Spike stop. Stop," she orders, smiling and shaking her head. "Don't try and be sweet and insincere. You're much cuter when you're pig-headed and honest."
"I'm never sweet and honest?," he asks with his pursed lips, sunken cheeks, roguish half-smile and raise eyebrows.
"Sure. But then you're boring," she half-jokes back.
1983. Christ Hospital in Cincinnati. A ten year-old Clayton Jenkins lies in bed, hooked up to the usual battery of life-sustaining machines. His head is bald. His skin is deathly pale. As one would expect it to be, since he is suffering through the advanced stages of Leukemia. His parents stand on either side of his bed. The doctor solemnly updates them on Clay's condition. Every time they visit him in the big city, his parents wear their Sunday Church clothes. It occurs to Clay that this is also what they'll wear to his burial. His mother sits by his side and gently holds his right hand. He looks up at her. "Don't worry, ma," he says in his thick Kentucky backwoods accent, still obvious even when his voice is barely above a whisper. "Ain't it always darkest right before the dawn? Reckon I'm due for my second wind." His feigned bravery makes her weep.
His father, who stands on the other side of the bed, takes is left hand. "You keep fightin' son. We'll keep prayin'." Late that night, when he's all alone, little Clayton feels his body slipping further and further away from him. Clay himself had scorned prayer out of a belief that his tragic predicament proved God was either non-existent or exceedingly cruel. But if this was it, best to take one final chance with Jesus. He closes his eyes, uses all his remaining strength to pull his arms together and intertwine his fingers, then whispers the Third Psalm:
"Lord, you are a shield to cover me:
you are my glory, you raise my head high.
As often as I cry aloud to the Lord,
he answers from his holy mountain.
I lie down and sleep,
and I wake again, for the Lord upholds me.
I shall not fear their myriad forces
ranged against me on every side."
Before long, he senses that the room is brightening, and opens his pale blue eyes. Floating before him is a blonde woman dressed in shimmering white. An angel.
Back to the present. Clayton's dozed off in a chair in the master bedroom of his hilltop Racho Palos Verdes home overlooking the ocean four miles south of Redondo Beach. Mona puts her hand on his chest to wake him up. As usual, their conversations appear to be monologues, since she can communicate to him without wasting her breath. He takes her right hand in his left. "Hey honey. You didn't need to tell me. I knew you were worried from the look on your face. The First Evil?" He stands up and laughs. "Remember, first is never best. Yeah, their closer is one of the best in the game," he concedes, referring to Nina. "Doesn't matter. She is one. They are many, united by love and comradery. It's the same old story that's been told down through the ages. The real battles are long over. These so-called apocalypses are the enemy's death spasms. The demons decided humans were too much for them back when humans were nothing. Today the planet's ours. If anyone's going to destroy the world, it's us. No, not us as in Wolfram & Hart. Us as in the species. We are our only dangerous predator.
"Maybe the demons had a shot as late as a thousand years ago. But now, they got as much chance making this world theirs as Canada does of conquering America. Maybe even less. "Here's how it works: bunch of demons spearhead the armies of Hell. They encounter a measly ten humans. The humans are killed, but not before inflicting a few more casualties than the demons had planned on. They look at each other and say We got six billion more of these fuckers to go? Screw you guys, I'm going home.'" Mona laughs at the Eric Cartman impersonation. "Sure, these death spasms appear dire enough to the brave men and women on the scene. And that's why they're healthy. Long as the good guys are fixated on saving the world, they can't stop people like us from running it." He considers Mona's further objections. "Of course the enemy always comes close. Yes, I am referring to the demons as the enemy, and Buffy et. al. as our friends. This is a woman who has spent the past six-and-a-half years throwing herself on grenades so we don't get scratched by the shrapnel. And that leads me to my point. A hero always rises in the nick of time. Someone ordinary does something extraordinary. We're the most adaptable creatures ever to exist in any world. We always — always — rise to the occasion." She loves it when he waxes idealistic, especially because he sounds so heretical from the point-of-view of the Wolf, Ram and Hart. If only the Senior Partners knew (or cared) about their rising star's beliefs. Girls always dig a rebel. "Of course, if you want to pretend this is our last night on earth, I'll be more than happy to play along."