Buffy was panicking. She was being constantly assaulted from all sides by horrifying creatures speaking such undecipherable phrases like, "Free Jell-O shots for freshmen women!" and "We're doing this by folder colour!" and "They gotta hear us! We're not gonna take it!" and so on. A full nest would have been easier to handle.

The UC Sunnydale campus was teeming with activity on the first day of the academic year. Freshmen looking just as lost as she did were crowding the area with older students walking authoritatively in their midst with clear destinations in their mind... except for those who were homing in on hapless newcomers with their stacks of leaflets.

"Do you guys... uh, sorry... know where... oh, excuse me... where Wei... I really meant to but then I got busy... where Weisman Hall is?"

She wandered around aimlessly for several more minutes until she heard the call of her own personal saviour.

"Buffy! Hey!"

Almost collapsing in relief, Buffy rushed to meet her best friend.

"Oh boy, am I glad to see you, Willow!" she breathed as they hugged briefly.

Willow was almost bouncing up and down in excitement. "Isn't this cool? There's so much going on."

"Yeah," Buffy nodded. "Almost too much."

"Have you met your roommate yet?"

"No."

"Me neither. I hope she's cool."

"Are we by any chance anywhere near Weisman Hall? I still need to get my ID card."

"I got mine this morning. The lines are really long now. You should've gone early."

"You've been here since this morning?"

Willow stumbled a little but managed to make it look like she was avoiding something on the ground. "You know I like to be prepared. Yessir, I'm the real preparedness-girl. Me, I'm the poster girl for all things preparatory." She started babbling in slight panic. She had arrived early to refill her stash. "I'm being annoying, aren't I?" she finished sheepishly.

"No, it's nice that you're excited," Buffy smiled. "It's all just... I dunno, a little overwhelming. I mean... don't you feel at all disoriented? All these strangers."

"Hey, Willow!"

"Hey, Paul!"

"You're just the girl I wanted to see. Do you know where they distribute the work-study applications?"

"Back of Richmond Hall, next to the auditorium."

"Thanks. See ya."

"Go get 'em. Oh, sorry Buffy. What did you say? Yes, it's still all new. I don't know what's going on most of the time. Hey, Doug!"

"Forget it," Buffy sighed in resignation.

Faith looked at the title on top of the otherwise blank page with a slack-jawed expression. Pauline, who had just handed her the paper, was watching her with an expression of polite interest on her face.

"'Group Dynamics in the Scooby Gang'?" Faith read aloud slowly, still unsure if she had gotten it right.

"Yes," Pauline nodded. "As your final Science exam for this term you are to write an essay examining the forces and dynamics shaping the group of friends you belong to. You have six hours. You're also free to use any external sources available to help you in your work. No phone calls, though. Questions?"

Faith shook her head with a resigned sigh. She could already visualize herself sitting in front of this piece of paper for six hours without managing to commit even a single thought to it.

Pauline laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I know it seems hard; you might even be thinking it's an impossible task. But, off the record, start small. Think of one concrete example and expand from there. I have full faith in you. You may begin."

For the first 30 minutes Faith sat almost unmoving and with unblinking eyes and her mind totally empty. Then, almost at its own volition, her hand wrote a single word on the draft paper. "Buffy."

That evening Pauline lay in bed reading Faith's essay in fascination. Single impressions stood out of the carefully constructed text, making her shake her head and smile on occasion.

"Buffy has a clear need for attention and to be constantly in control of both herself and the situation around her...

"Willow needs others to re-affirm her worth. She suffers from a severe lack of self-esteem...

"Xander will follow a strong leader without hesitation. He tends to get personally attached...

"Giles is the stabilising element in the group. Without him things would decay quickly...

"Objectively speaking, Rowan really is a loose cannon, first described as such by Gwen...

"I understand how my presence initially shook the established group dynamics of the original Scoobies. I pressed all the wrong buttons on everyone... Rowan did it instinctively right, pulling all the correct strings (re: all of the above) ...

"Gwen (like myself) had the impossible task of penetrating a closely-knit group at a time there were already heightened tensions affecting it. Both of us faced an older and more experienced colleague in an established position. Both of us had lingering feelings of inadequacy and being outsiders. On a side note, Rowan made a similar analysis to Buffy after the death of Allan Finch...

"Oz became a Scooby through her girlfriend, not by his own merits. I predict it will be very hard to become a full Scooby though the boy/girlfriend route in the future. Only an extraordinary person could possibly pull that off..."

"Oh, Faith," Pauline sighed as she laid the essay on her nightstand. "Whatever happened to you on your Spirit Walk, it was both a miracle and a blessing."

Before switching off the lights, she marked the paper with a large, red "A+".

The "war room" in the basement of Ballikinrain Castle was heavily warded against all scrying, magical and non-magical. Sir Quentin Travers was sitting patiently at the head of the conference table with a large tome open in front of him. He checked his watch. There was still one minute to go.

Almost exactly one minute later the door to the large room opened and the Lehaïr stepped in – naturally without knocking or anything. Travers rose respectfully to his feet and after a courteous exchange of "Consul" and "Framadar", both sat down – with Travers feeling the familiar excitement and the Lehaïr looking perfectly relaxed as he lounged in one of the luxurious leather seats.

"So, Consul, fire away," Rowan prompted him, skipping all unnecessary pleasantries.

Travers had already checked his earlier notes against the massive Remnants of Lost Empires on the table in front of him, so he didn't have to waste any precious time in preparation.

"When we last spoke, you mentioned the Demon Lords who established their rule around the newly activated hotspots. I assume these demons were not actual Old Ones?"

"No," Rowan shook his head. "A Soft Place can be visualised as an optical iris or aperture. They were slowly getting bigger but 'big' here does not entirely correspond to physical size but that of the astral body as well. By the time of the Sealing, it was calculated that in less than a century the Soft Places would have expanded enough to allow unlimited access to this Realm from the Lower one.

"The demons who ruled the lands around the Soft Places outside Selenia were a few steps below our ancestors in pure power. I never encountered any of them directly, but our allies told us of at least Bokeh, Khamkhar, Lyot, Tamgha and Khosrow demons being in charge. They used to be vassals and war leaders under the Old Ones in the Primordium Age."

"Absolutely fascinating," Travers nodded. "And when the concerted assault by the Lower Realm host caused the Seals to release the Pulse, all of them were wiped out but only on this side of the portal. What was the actual mechanism for that?"

Rowan barked a mirthless laugh. "The arithmancy required to describe the interactions fully is far too complex to delve into here. Besides, I'm not sure if anyone except Aryane could have understood it fully. Pas'Ahnik might have come close, but he died before the actual completion of the Seals. But the Pulse, as you called it, involved all the Seals in a way that they were never intended to be used." Suddenly, a new thought occurred to him. "Now that you mentioned this, Consul, it might be actually so that everyone in Selenia was killed by the energy release before the actual eruption of the Volcano. The Seals work against my kind as you already know. I'm actually somewhat relieved. It would have been instantaneous. Also, a valid reason why I didn't have this as part of the information bestowed upon me."

It took Travers several minutes to write it all down. When he continued, it was more hesitantly. "Do you feel comfortable describing your colleagues and your work methods in more detail, as far as the Seals are concerned?"

"You already know the names of the key people and what became of them. That's as much as I'm willing to discuss that topic, Consul. About our work methods... that's a bit trickier as it involves branches of magic, elementalism and arithmancy lost since. I haven't really delved into that since my release, but I know for certain that it would not be possible to reconstruct the process with what's available in this time and age. Perhaps with... but no, no more of that."

"My apologies if I've overstepped my boundaries, Framadar. Perhaps I'm overly obsessed about that piece of history but, as you well know, I've been fascinated by it ever since my father first let me view the Remnants."

"No offence taken, Consul," Rowan waved Travers' concern off airily. The Head of the Council turned a new page in his notebook, letting out the breath he hadn't noticed he was holding.

The full interview lasted for nearly an hour until Travers had exhausted all his topics for this session. Once they were finished, Rowan stood up without any further ceremony and headed for the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he turned around and fixed Travers with a serious gaze.

"I know where your real fascination lies, Consul. Best let it lie, lest you become consumed by it. The reality is quite different from a dream."

"I don't...," Travers started as his heart skipped a few beats.

"Yes, you do. It's Aryane. Good day, Consul."

Tara Maclay hurried her steps, grimacing, as she passed Stevenson Hall and the sound of Cher's "Believe" echoed out of one of the windows. She found it hard to... believe there were two Cher fans sharing a room, so she sent a silent blessing of perseverance to the unfortunate roommate of the one playing the song loud enough to be heard outside, open window or not.

It was already getting dark which made her "other" sense sharper. Ever since arriving in Sunnydale that morning, she had felt a slight unease – something nameless and all-encompassing. At the front entrance of her residence hall, she sat down on the steps and closed her eyes. Reaching out to feel the Ley lines, she gasped involuntarily and froze. The lines were out of alignment, twisted – not enough to immediately corrupt any magic, but over a long time, certainly.

For Ley lines to get out of alignment, they would have had to be subtly affected by something dark over a very long period of time. A sudden shock would have just snapped them. But here they had adapted, tried to work around the corruption, even occasionally healed a little.

Doing magic here in Sunnydale would be like smoking cigarettes, she realised. For a long time, nothing would happen, maybe never, but there was always the possibility of the cancer creeping in with every spell – more and faster in case of really powerful magic. As a hereditary Witch, most of her power came from within, so she would be more shielded than someone relying solely on outside sources.

She absentmindedly fingered the "Daughters of Gaea" leaflet she had picked up earlier. She didn't know if any other true Witches attended the University, but an advertising Wicca group might be a good place to start looking.

With a sigh she stood up and entered the building. She had one of the very few single rooms in the hall – something she counted as a blessing. After having finished her evening ablutions in the communal shower, mercifully empty at this hour, she meditated briefly in front of her hastily-assembled altar, trying to push aside the almost imperceptible background hum that the misaligned Ley lines were causing.

"Oh, Goddess. What have I gotten myself into?" she sighed before sliding under the covers and closing her eyes.