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Part Ten: The Foretold Choice

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They were lost in the winding stretch of the subways, in the forever blackness. Alone together in the underworld of a dead city.

Silence drove the sound of their footfalls out into great, lingering echoes.

And when Spike stopped suddenly, Buffy continued forward, crashing face-first into the side of the crushed subway car.

A strange peace fell over him. He could see it outlined in that springtime green, fine like the new grass had been that day, between Buffy's toes, when she'd first found him again.

The tunnel was completely collapsed, crushing the car in half where it moved on its last day. It was a wall of stone and metal. There was no escape.

Buffy. He could see her, too, a strange shadow-figure, black against the green. A fine silhouette. Her hands trailed against the side of the car, feeling for what he had already discovered. Her hair clung around the familiar profile of her face, and even where she breathed there was a little well of black, fading out into the world of green around her.

"No," she said, shaking her head. Her tone was decisive, strong. Defiant as only she could be.

The crash of her foot against the metal was jarring in the dark.

"No!" she shouted.

"Buffy…" he whispered, softly. The wounds on his arm and side stung as he stepped towards her. The broken pieces of the duster clung in the blood, pulling at the wounds.

He shrugged off the ruined leather, hanging in tatters on his arm, and it collapsed on the ground in a dull heap, never to be taken up again.

---

The painted girl cast stones on the floor. They scattered in a chaotic rattle in the shadow cast by the bureaucrat's chair. The sounds of footsteps were approaching.

The painted girl saw the signs as they fell, and they filled her with a sinking misgiving.

She looked up to the bureaucrat with a warning in her eyes.

He dropped his pen as the curtain flap swayed out of the way, and a vampire walked into the room with a purposefully casual stride.

"You the one in charge then?" Spike asked calmly, leaning on the edge of his desk.

The bureaucrat spread his arms and smiled.

"I am always glad to be of service," he answered, grinning wide.

Spike looked over the small man in front of him. The bureaucrat pulled his wire rimmed glasses from his face, leaned back in his chair. The fiber-optic fronds of his office-light turned from bright pink to blue, hollowing out the shadows of his face with a strange pallor.

Spike chuckled.

"You're not the one in charge," he said, "Could carry you off in my pocket if I had half a mind. Who's got your strings?"

"I am the one in charge—to you," said the man, "I believe it is important to always know one's place, is it not? One's… cosmic center."

"Right," Spike responded, "Cosmic center. I feel like we've bonded."

He slammed his hands down against the desk. It rattled in place, and the fiber optic tree fell on its side. The bureaucrat froze, eyes trailing to it, and then back to the vampire before him. That vampire leaned in close to his face, blue eyes clear and menacing.

"Now I have a question for you."

The man sat still another moment. And then he began to laugh in long, unflattering peels. Spike straightened, stepping back. But his eyes were piercing, and bored into the man before him.

"It is a hard thing to threaten a man in his own home. You do not have the power here."

Spike ignored him, and continued.

"Notebook. Green. Where is it?"

The bureaucrat's eyes brightened. He began to realize the worth of the thing, that so many pursued it.

The painted girl looked up from the ground, through the veil of her hair, while trying to remain unobtrusive to the vampire. The bureaucrat knew it was meant for him. A message, caught in the glance.

The bureaucrat looked up at Spike. He reached for the stake in his pocket, quietly, beneath his desk. Slayer. She said there was a Slayer here, as clear as if she'd shouted it across the whole of the building…

"I know you. Who you are," he said, "There are many here who will not appreciate your visit with us."

"Really then? I'm hurt."

The bureaucrat steadied his hand, and carefully appraised his aim.

"Here you are. But they say nowadays that slayers run in pairs. Where is the bitch?"

A darting movement burst out from behind the curtains at his back. The painted girl at his feet started in alarm. In one motion his face was against the desk, his stake on the floor, and an iron grip firmly planted on his neck.

She picked him up by the shoulders and threw him onto the floor. He sprawled there, as she walked up to him. The painted girl's eyes darted from face to face, alarmed.

"You should answer my friend's question," she said calmly, "Or I think I'm going to be annoyed."

---

The tunnels pressed close and claustrophobic as Spike watched Buffy pace beside the wreckage.

"No…" she said, the familiar resolve in her voice, "We don't give up. It can't end like this."

Spike looked down the curve of the tunnel behind him, fading out into the long distance.

"Can't go back…"

"Then we fight."

He nodded, stepped towards her. Her head turned towards the sound of his feet beside her. Soft strands of hair scattered on her cheek, in trailing lines. He knew the look on her face, even though it couldn't be seen, and it moved him in the old, familiar ways, pulling at him from deep in his chest. The haunting wide eyes, ancient and young. Strong and vulnerable.

He reached out and cupped her cheek with his hand, and he could feel it was sticky with sweat and the thin trail of her blood.

"Then we fight," he responded, firmly.

She lowered her chin slightly, into his touch, and he knew then that she saw their chances, but couldn't concede the defeat in words.

The old love for her sprang up afresh, in new, welling waves of sadness and that strange, wordless wonder of her that he could never explain. He stepped closer without being aware of it, pulled in by the soft sound of her breathing. The scent of her sweat and the pure bittersweet surety that now was the only chance he would have to touch her, to hear that breath as it fluttered in the silent air like the wings of a rising bird.

"I…" she whispered, voice so soft it was like a tremor of breath trailing over the edge of her lips. The quiet moved around her words like a living creature.

She turned her lips into the palm of his hand, suddenly pressing a kiss against it. He heard the words hitch in her throat as she spoke into the skin.

"I'm—I'm glad I found you…"

He slid his hand down against the skin of her throat, her pulse running wildly beneath his fingers, and then trailed his touch up slowly into her hair. She let out a soft, pained sigh and stepped forward against him.

"I'm glad I found you," she repeated, softly, reaching up with cold fingers against his shoulders, and the shock of pain from the open wounds made it somehow sweeter as she pulled him down into the soft, first kiss.

He paused, motionless a moment, as the tender press chased away all of the struggle and the weight of memory. And there was only her, the breath tickling over him, the warmth of damp skin against his hands. The sound of her sigh, the repeated words mouthed silently against his lips as he took them in like air.

"I found you…"

The tension between them broke into a soft flow of motion. A sad, sweet rush of beauty and pain.

---

Buffy ground the bureaucrat's shoulder into the floor, and he winced with pain.

He looked up at her a long moment, and began to speak.

"I will tell you a true thing," he said, "I came here when I was twenty-seven years old. From Minsk. I was a post-doctorate. What did I study? Was it the occult magic? Demonic languages? No. It was food microbiology."

The bureaucrat chuckled, and shook his head.

"Not six months into my work, there became very little need of it. Suddenly, I found I could never go home. I do not know if there would be a home to go to, if I found a way. I do not know if my wife is alive or dead, God bless her. But the power of humanity is in adaptation. And one needs two things to adapt to… adverse circumstances. Do you know what those two things are?"

Buffy stared at him suspiciously, in fighting stance. Spike simply watched them both, quietly taking in the tension in the scene.

"I will give you a hint," the bureaucrat continued, "Neither of them is food microbiology."

Buffy stepped forward, leaning over him, looking down.

"One of them is hope," he said, "And I offer that to the people."

"Blood sacrifice? That isn't hope," she responded flatly.

"Ahh, as well as you may say that," he said, smiling, "You will find we are far more popular a destination than the Catholic mission twenty miles west of here. Our blood has power. At least over people's intentions… And that is the second thing. In exchange for the free offer of hope, one may freely receive this other."

"I fail to see the relevance," she said dryly.

"What I mean, my dear, is that you are out of power. Your friend is bound, he may not hurt anyone as long as he is here. And you-- you are the true Slayer—the Chosen. You do not deal in blood."

She swooped down in a blur of speed, threw him hard against the floor. Pinning him with her knees, she held him down, dark bruises forming on his shoulders where she pressed.

Her eyes were shining, a strange smile moved on her face that could make a sane man cringe.

"That was before," she said, strongly and smoothly. Behind her, Spike frowned, brow furrowed, watching.

"That was before all my friends died... That was before I knew what it was like to be cold and alone and hungry. That was before I lived with vampires beside me..."

The bureaucrat turned his head to look at that tall, painted woman, whom he loved, where she sat motionless in the corner. Her eyes met his, and softened. He heard her instruction, and turned back.

"So I have to ask you," Buffy said, that smile making his skin crawl as he looked, "Can you really be sure I won't deal in blood…?

He closed his eyes a moment, sighed, and gathered his words.

"There is a struggle coming," he said slowly, "A war. The old and the new ways have not yet parted company entirely. But they will. The Saint Christopher's witches believe they can unite both together. But it is impossible. I have chosen my side. In time, you must as well."

She grabbed him, threw him down again. He winced.

"The Notebook."

"Yes, yes," he responded, "I know what you speak of, and will help you. Go away, afterwards, and do not come back. You are bad for my business. So go and take it, and do not tell anyone who sent you. You will find we are formidable enemies, even if we have no Slayer."

"The Notebook."

"There is a Rashk demon nest in the valley beyond the city limits here. They are vile creatures, yes, but they have an interesting peculiarity. They have no written speech. And as many who do not have a thing, they pursue it greedily. They believe it has power. So I sold your book to them. To shroud their fallen leader in its leaves. They keep their graves in a library, not far from here. Go, and kindly let me up from the floor."

Buffy looked to Spike, and he nodded. The bureaucrat looked to the woman, and she looked back with unreadable eyes.

"Come on," Buffy said, standing, and tossing the bureaucrat aside. She didn't look back as she slipped out from the curtains.

"The day will come—be sure of it," the bureaucrat called after the retreating pair, "Be sure to choose your sides carefully."

The woman with the painted face stepped up behind him, and placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Poshli za ostal'nymi," she whispered, "Privedi ikh syuda kak mozhno skoreye..."

"I'll bring them here now," he responded.

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