A/N: Yeah, it's just easier for me to delete the whole thing and edit it one chapter at a time. Too many little things that make me cringe, typos, misused words, niggly plot errors and the etcetera. The other two will disappear before being made sparkly and new again. Yayness for people remembering this though!

:) And I am a girl.

Previously: Eight months have come and passed since the Graduation Day of Sunnydale High's Class of 1999, and the Ascension of Richard Wilkins. Eight months since he had been fired from the Council. Eight months since he had seen the Scooby gang under friendly conditions. Eight months since he had been humiliated in battle. Eight months since he had seen her last.

Eight long months.

Chapter Three: "Knights head into Play."

"Those boys aren't sparkling normal as it is." – Rupert Giles
1630 Revello Drive was still standing. The Summers' house was still standing. All around, houses had been burned down, storefronts had cars rammed through them. Buildings were crumbling. But in the midst of the apocalyptic landscape Buffy's house still stood. Typical.

Faith had made a point of kicking over the mailbox before she had gone inside.

She had expected the interior of the house to fair as well as the structure itself, but that was not the case. The front door was nowhere to be seen, and the wood that had held the hinges had also been ripped free from the building. The house had been ransacked. In one corner there was even evidence of a fire: the wallpaper and ceiling were scorched and flaky grey ashes had been spread all over the floor. She wondered absently if it was Willow's blood that had been splashed over the wall behind where the television used to sit.

Upstairs had faired a little better. Buffy's room was how she remembered it: looking like a bomb had struck. Clothing was strewn everywhere and the bed had been tipped over. Faith knew the signs. Somebody had been packing, and fast. A fine grey mist of dust had settled over everything. Too fine to have gathered over a terribly long period of time, but it was enough to be noticeable.

Even after all this time Faith thought she could smell the vanilla and strawberry scent that was uniquely Buffy lingering in the room. It was pleasant and tickled the exhausted Slayer's nose and for a moment Faith closed her eyes and imagined that none of the bad stuff had happened, that Finch had never happened, and she had just come over to see Buffy before patrolling. But Finch had happened and Buffy had betrayed her, blamed her for it. If the older Slayer hadn't been so self-fucking-righteous…

The tired girl sighed and flopped down onto the mattress on the floor. Her head hurt. The town was infested with demons and that special sixth sense that hummed every time something of the bad was near hadn't stopped screaming since the sun had set. There were vampires and demons crawling all over the suburban locality. She needed to get out of dodge, quick, but covering the distance from Sunnydale General to Revello Drive had taken a toll on her that wouldn't have happened had she been at full strength. "Just five minutes…" she muttered as her eyelashes fluttered shut.

It was dark by the time Wesley had caught up with her. He should have known she would head here. Everything always seemed to lead back to Buffy Summers.

The Summers' residence seemed to be the only house left on the street that wasn't trashed. Willow's protection spell was still working, even now. Wesley had to admire the witch: for a fledgling she had cast powerful magicks to save those who had once hid inside. But holes had been punched in her spell by enemy sorcery, and the thin sheet of wood that was the front door had done nothing to keep them out. He stepped across the threshold of the front door and entered a place he had never been before.

The ground level of the house looked as Wesley had expected, like a war zone. Or at least the remains of a war zone. But the Slayer wouldn't be down here. She was Council trained first and foremost, like he was, and like he, she would seek the high ground. He made for the stairs.

The old house was deathly silent and black as pitch. Wesley made his way down the corridor with his fingers trailing lightly along the wall and his feet shuffling along the carpet. To him, it didn't feel right to be in the house, disturbing old ghosts. It felt like waking the dead. This place was haunted. His hand moved over a bump and then into air. There was a space. An open door. He went inside.

A girl's room. The crescent moon was poor light but Wesley could see the frilly pillows, the make-up scattered on the floor. This was Buffy's room. Pink fluff caught the ex-Watcher's eye. He picked it up out of curiosity. It was a pink pig, fat and stuffed with its fur worn in places, so it was obviously much loved.

The movement was so silent and quick he almost didn't see it. But he did feel the sharpness of the blade pressed against his throat, and the short, keyed up pants of the woman behind him.

"Drop the pig."

"Faith-"

"Drop the fucking pig, Wesley." So, it seemed her prolonged absence had not affected her memory in any way. Nor her manners. Wesley released the pig and the stuffed animal landed on the floor near his feet. The black button eyes stared up at him sadly. Behind him the girl snickered. "You're such the bitch. Always followin' everybody's orders." The sharpness cutting through his skin was gone, She kicked him in the small of his back and he flew across the length of the room and crashed into a dressing table.

Faith took a step closer, brandishing the kitchen knife dangerously. She had kept the coat for warmth's sake but now had on a pair of loose sweat pants and a t-shirt. Her eyes held a malicious glint in the darkness. "How ya gonna follow orders when I break your legs?" She asked the man who had once been charged with her protection.

"Whatever will Princess Margaret do then?"

They were stationed In Country. 1st Lieutenant Finn had snorted at the suggestion that Redwood City would have been too dangerous a locale to set up fort. The Outbreak had already spread as far as San Francisco, but Finn had wanted his people as close to the Ground Zero as possible. FORSCOM had given him as much leeway as San Mateo. They were still almost four hours beyond Sunnydale's city limits. He had pressed the issue but the Washington bigwigs had denied him, saying the loss of civilian life had already reached unacceptable levels; they didn't need to send their own people to their deaths. The enemy was like a plague, an infection, spreading from town to town and annihilating every living thing in it.

The soldier didn't like being stationed so far away. The Initiative Laboratories were still intact. After Doctor Walsh had given the order to evacuate the underground facility and seal all the entrances no one had found a way back inside. The security system was still active, so Lieutenant Finn was certain that the Laboratories were secure. If they would let him take a small group of people, maybe twelve of his best officers, into the city they could station themselves inside the abandoned government location and relay tactical information from there. But Doctor Walsh had been adamant. The Initiative labs were off-limits without her or one of the senior lab-technicians accompanying them. They didn't want things "disturbed," she had claimed.

Lieutenant Finn had accepted the response, even if he felt hindered by their final decision. When he had accepted the assignment to capture and detain STs in the coastal town of Sunnydale he had been told he would be given information on a need to know basis. It seemed that even when the enemy was turning their own soil into infected property the bureaucrats still wouldn't bend the rules. But that was why Riley Finn had joined the Army in the first place. For the discipline.

There was a ringing sound when Finn fully extended his arms because the weights had hit the top of the pulley. When he slowly released the weight the stack of metal discs would sway a little, brushing against the machine itself before hitting the floor with a clang and then he would start the cycle up again. A plus about being stationed in the red zone. The towns and cities along the stretch of California that had been deemed enemy territory had been evacuated quickly and as quietly as possible by government personal, so Redwood City was deserted. No queue for the best machines at the local gym. No locals in the gym.

The main door was pushed open –there was no power- and the room briefly went dark as someone ran past the floodlight Finn had set up. "Did you hear?" A younger, greener soldier joined him. If he recalled correctly the ginger-haired nineteen year old was Private First Class Bennet, a transfer from the research teams stationed in the Amazon. Bennet was young, but the Amazon team had taken him on as a demolitions expert. Somebody had decided that the Sunnydale Outbreak needed him more. Finn hadn't truly realized how serious the disease was until they had started pulling soldiers from other research sites all over the world.

The Private halted in front of his CO and saluted. The older soldier paused his exercise for a moment to respond in kind. "Hear what?"

"The Council's pulling the Slayer out of Orange County."

"When?"

Bennet shrugged. "Not sure," he said. "Wasn't really even supposed to know this..." He had the good grace to look embarrassed and turn away.

The weights clacked together again as Finn continued his workout. "You were eavesdropping again, huh?" The younger man had a habit of listening in on conversations that had nothing to do with him.

"Yeah, well. If I didn't we would never know anything," Bennet justified dryly. "And anyway, I thought they'd be dragging her out of the OC soon. That place has been swarming with Type 63s since the 6th Division pushed up to El Cajon. Guess they didn't want to hang around San Diego with our people so close."

"Guess not."

"Anyway, I think they're moving the Slayer to Richmond before they decide to send her back in again." Bennet picked up a light dumbbell and began standard arm curls. With approval Finn took note of his actions. Good to see the Private wasn't going to waste his time with only talking. "Maybe she'll come here for a visit." Bennet winked at his commanding officer. "I hear she's a real hottie. And I'm getting real tired of hanging around "this man's army.""

Lieutenant Finn stood, uncoiling from his seat to his full height, a good two inches taller than Bennet. "Private, I don't find those comments appropriate," the officer stated flatly. Bennet visibly swallowed and then saluted again for respect's sake.

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Finn shook the floor filth off his jacket and slipped the camouflaged coat on. The night was cool outside, and the walk to the hooch was a good ten minutes down the road. He set off at a brisk pace, with the Private quietly shadowing him. The younger boy seemed a bit put down from his scolding. Finn cleared his throat and attempted to get the lines of communication open again. He needed a good relationship with every member of his platoon to ensure the best results. It was why Captain Collins trusted him so much. "So, how did you come across this information, anyway?"

"Hmm?" Bennet responded automatically while the question processed in his brain. "Oh, I overheard the Captain talking with that Council courier that came in this morning. He said that the Council's mission was complete and that Lieutenant Bruce would be returned shortly." Both men grew sombre for a moment as they thought about the meaning of courier's words. Yes, the Council would send back Bruce, but out of the forty-man platoon he commanded how many of them would accompany him? Those damn Brits had a tendency to "loose" American soldiers along the way. The Council saw the Army's men as expendable and all of the soldier's knew it. "And then he said the Slayer was going to be up in the Richmond base with the Council's Operations teams for the time being." Bennet looked puzzled. "Why would they tell us that?"

"To ruffle our feathers," Finn answered logically. "They're flexing their muscles and warning us off their turf." His answer seemed to have sated the Private somewhat. The younger soldier accepted his commander's words as truth. The Lieutenant was fairly sure that he was right, too. They were announcing her arrival like she was the second coming. What they saw in this "Slayer" Finn had no idea, but he would have liked to find out.

The two soldiers approached the door of Redwood City's Bed and Breakfast, where their platoon was stationed. Bennet went to enter and Finn grabbed the younger man's arm. "Just out of curiosity," the Lieutenant began, making sure the tone of his voice conveyed to the Private that the question was coming out of curiosity. "You just…overheard all of that?"

Bennet grinned. "Plausible deniability, sir. If anybody ever asks you can honestly tell them you didn't know." The younger man pushed open the oak door and made his way quickly inside, to where his comrades in arms were playing Poker and away from the scowling visage of Lieutenant Finn.

Faith sat astride Wesley's waist. She pulled him up a little by the collar of his shirt and he captured that hand with both of his own. The girl pulled away but Wesley's grip was strong so the Slayer hit him in the face as hard as she could. The man's head snapped back and hit the floor with a satisfying thwap. Faith's fist shot straight down and connected, this time with Wesley's abdomen. The Slayer let out a little a little cry as she struck him, because she knew she was going to kill him too quickly. This was the man who had been the source of her problems since the day he had shown his face on the scene.

She wanted him to suffer.

She gripped his chin with her fingers and pulled him up a little before hooking him in the face and sending him to the floor again. A second time she struck him, and a third, Wesley spat out some blood and mumbled something and then finally released the Slayer's arm. She pulled him up again and smacked him back down with her other hand before his words finally dawned on her.

"What did you say?" Faith demanded, pulling the man up to face her. Her grip on his larynx was no less painful than her punches. Wesley made a choking sound and she loosened her hold, but only by a little.

Wesley stared defiantly into the young woman's dark eyes. "I said, "I know where she is."" He coughed and then brought his hands up to grab Faith's wrists as she half-strangled him. "Now," he tightened his grip just a little. "Get off me, bitch," His face was a mangled mess, with a split lip and one eye already closing over, but he still managed to glare up at his attacker in defiance.

Their standoff lasted several minutes, but to them it felt like years before the other moved. Their only witness, the plump, fat pig that sat watching silently through the entire event was the only one besides participants themselves who knew who moved first.

Before Wesley was even on his feet Faith was upon him, slamming him into the wall by his shoulders. "Where the fuck is she, Wes?" the Slayer growled out quietly. Her breath was hot and it tickled his ear. "Tell me now or I swear to God-"

"You'll do what?" he asked disparagingly, shoving at the Slayer. She moved back half an inch. His voice was hoarse and cracked and his throat had already started sporting deep blue bruises. "Kill me? Look around you, Faith. There isn't much more damage you can do," he spat out. The Slayer was stunned, faltered, and Wesley caught the sudden slip as it flickered in her eyes. He pushed at the girl again, harder, and this time she let him go. It was then they both realised that Faith had been the only reason the ex-Watcher was still upright as he immediately fell to his knees.

"What are you talkin' about?" Faith demanded, though her voice had lost a little of its ferocious edge. Something was wrong with Wesley. He wasn't acting like a poncy Brit with a stick up his ass should act. He looked different too. He had exchanged his slacks and tweed combo for the all American jeans and a sweatshirt. He wasn't wearing his glasses anymore, though she wasn't sure if she had knocked the spectacles off his face or if he wasn't even wearing them when he had come in. He looked like he hadn't shaved in a week or so. He looked almost more like a homeless person than Faith herself felt right now.

Wesley was quiet for a moment. "You really don't know, do you?" he asked quietly, his voice breaking because of his damaged throat. A grin crossed his face. "Don't you know?" On the floor before the girl he began to laugh. The sound of his voice carried down the street and chilled her to the bone. Her fingers grabbed his hair and she tugged him to the side, the way it hurt, the way her mother had taught her. That shut him up pretty quick.

"What the fuck are you babblin' like a crazy man about?"

The man shook his head and whatever thought he had found so funny was shoved back deep into his mind for him to mull over later. He avoided her question. "It doesn't matter." Faith opened her mouth, her eyes narrowed dangerously, looking ready to make a threat, or perhaps make good on one she had already made. Wesley forged ahead quickly before she could say a word. "What does matter though, is the position you find yourself in."

The Slayer snorted. "Yeah, Wussley? And what position is that?" the girl drawled, her husky voice sultry. She pushed him gently and he swayed a little. "All over you?"

He grinned. "Only if you ask really nicely, little girl. Maybe then I'll even let you call me "Daddy."" Her fist crunched his nose flush against his face and he fell back squirming and cursing.

"You wanna lose it, baby?" The Slayer asked, pulling the kitchen knife out of the elastic band of the pants. "I'm not Jewish or nothin', but I'll give it a go." Wesley instinctively pulled his knees up into his body and made the appropriate scared-puppy whimper. "Better." She had her foot on his neck. "Now what were we saying about positions?" He moved to push her off him again but the brunette forced his face further into the carpet. "The position of Buffy is…" she prompted through gritted teeth.

"Is…" Wesley gasped out. "Is…" Faith leaned in closer. "Is something you'll never know." The livid girl practically snarled at Wesley and he quickly modified his statement. "Something you'll never know, unless we co-operate."

The weight on his neck was gone and the Slayer took a step back, giving her room to laugh. "You wanna co-operate? What, Wesley? Be my Watcher again?" her sentences were half formed as she spat them out quickly. "Still trying to save me?" she assumed masochistically. His answer hurt, but she wasn't going to let him see that.

"You aren't worth that much trouble," he bit out, hauling his battered body into a sitting position. Wesley's crisp blue eye, the one that wasn't surrounded by black and swollen flesh, glittered wildly. "Nothing so drastic. Just one teensy weensy thing and then I'll drop you off on Buffy's doorstep." His smile was cold. "I want you to kill someone for me."

Faith grinned, her teeth shining like a Cheshire cat in the soft moonlight. "I can do that."

He had made up an excuse and left. It's the little things that you do that show you're lying. Like when he brought his hands together as he spoke, then dropped them to his sides, only to remove them from sight completely by shoving them deep into his pockets. Or the way his eye kept avoiding her face. Not obviously, mind you. If it had been anyone else, they would have dismissed his jitters with that of someone standing in the presence of the woman who had just forced him to enjoy the delicacies of carpet fibre. But he had stood up to her, and she had been baffled when she had seen no fear in his eyes. And his body language was giving him away, motions were too precise, and certain shifts in his stature were just too irregular. She had seen it all.

He was so full of shit.

Faith lay curled up on the mattress, hiding from the sunrise in her little cave. The base of Buffy's bed had been shoved against the slanted ceiling to cover the window, at Wesley's suggestion. To keep anyone from noticing that there was life inside the house. Because life in Sunnydale, as of late, was hard to come by. According to the poncy little British man the town was infested with demons, along with most of Southern California. This "Outbreak," as the gorvern-y type people had called it, was being combated by the US Army as well as the Council and small pockets of resistance fighters up and down the coastline. Faith didn't know whether to believe him or not, the Council co-operating with anybody seemed far-fetched as it was. But the deserted town of Sunnydale was evidence before her eyes.

Apparently the Mayor's Ascension had disrupted the demon underworld, causing what could have been easily described as a riot. Emotive speeches were made and demons had gathered, gunning down anything remotely human. Even the peaceful versions of themselves. The marauding hordes had no time for supernatural "hippies." By the time the proper officials had fully grasped the situation events had begun to spiral swiftly out of control and nearly all human life had been obliterated for a two hundred mile radius around Sunnydale, give or take. Faith couldn't bring herself to ask what had happened to the Mayor and Wesley wasn't volunteering the information.

She had asked him sarcastically how the resistance was fairing. His face was grim as he answered. "Fading. But slowly." His tone left her unable to tell whether he was worried about that fact or not. So much had changed about the Watcher in the eight months that Buffy had taken her out for.

Eight months. Wesley had said it like she should have known. He had asked her where she had been. Her answer, whatever it had been, was vague and noncommittal. "Lost," was the best he had drawn from her. The Watcher had pressed the issue but the only rise he received from the slim girl was a threat of physical violence after that. So he had told her he was off to fetch supplies, and would be back sometime after dusk. It would be easier if they moved after the daylight hours had passed. Under the cover of darkness, was the idea he had exuded. Faith had the feeling Wesley had seen a lot of darkness while she had been away.

The deceptively fragile looking girl pulled into herself more, subconsciously holding the stuffed pig she had rescued closer to her chest. Rescued, hah. Now that was a joke. Faith hadn't legitimately "rescued" anybody, not in so long a time. And never like the Wonder Bitch, Buffy. So selflessly and without prompt. And why was that? It wasn't like she owed anyone else jack. She hadn't been trained as well, being shuffled back and forth from Watcher to Watcher. She didn't have the resources, the allies the blond princess did. The money. Shit, that must have been one hell of a plus. Faith didn't really notice how much she was missing out on there until Wilkins had introduced her to the wonderful world of credit cards.

The Mayor. Just thinking about him caused a stinging at the edges of Faith's eyes. She bit down on her lip and drew in a long, shuddering breath while lying alone in the darkened room. But she wasn't going to cry. Faith had wasted enough time crying over the dead and gone. So the Mayor had vanished on her. Albeit, not by choice, but he had gone all the same, just like everybody else. There was nothing left now. Nothing but pain and hurt and burning, and a need for payback.

The Slayer wanted to kill Buffy.

Faith wanted vengeance, wanted retribution for her disgrace.

The brunette girl that lay quietly in a neglected home wasn't sure if she could actually pull it off, and she was terrified.

Two to one odds.

The birds began to sing outside. It surprised her that there were still birds in the town. That they had wanted to stay, even with the stench of evil floating in the air. But less so in her mind. As the world outside brightened in it's natural cycle the headache that had been pounding at Faith's mind all night, the feel of evil, receded to a mild, yet bearable hum. One birdsong grew louder and Faith thought that it might have perched on the tree that grew outside Buffy's window. It was a sparrow, and it sang noisily, welcoming the day. The Slayer groaned and wondered if it were an evil bird.

"Everything's wrong," the girl whispered, and rolled onto her back to stare up at the ceiling. Orange light from the dawn snuck into the room around the edges of the bed base and created rippling shadows on the white slanted plane.

Wesley, now there was a shocker. Although, if she brought herself to really think about it, maybe not. The man looked far too clean to get himself dirty with something like this, it was easier for him to just convince someone else to flop in the mud for him. Or maybe it was the way he was raised. Or both. From the way he was dressed –damn was he looking fine, the girl had thought briefly but then quickly dismissed the hormonal urges as after effects of the coma because her body was sex starved- and from the way he carried himself Princess Margaret looked about ready to blow anyway. Should just do it himself, if he had the balls. But Faith wasn't going to bring up those comments, since he was going to lead her to Buffy. Maybe she'd kill Wesley after that. What were another few pints of blood on her hands after all she had done?

She stifled a sob by pulling the plush farm animal to her face, hiding behind the stuffed pig as if he were a shield. No. No, she was not going to cry over this, dammit. None of it was worth crying over. Her gasps for air were ragged and torn, and the area were Buffy had stabbed her, where the fine silver scar ran across her flawless skin, contracted painfully as she forced her breathing into a regular pattern. She sniffed, and then coughed to clear her throat. "I'm not going to cry over her," she told the pig tonelessly, her usual passion lost for the moment. "I'm sick of doing that." She held the pig, her stuffed pig now, she decided, as possession was nine-tenths of the law, high above her head and regarded him seriously, as if he would have a solution to all of her problems. "What do you think I should do, Mister Gordo?"

The pig just stared back at her blankly with a helpless expression on his furry face.

The sun had risen only a few moments before, but Lieutenant Finn was already downstairs in the kitchen sipping at his second coffee of the morning. He had barely slept an hour last night. A rotten feeling sat in the pit of his stomach, one that had been growing more putrid as time went by. Something was wrong, somewhere. Finn just couldn't put his finger on it.

Bennet meandered into the kitchen, yawning and scratching himself. His hair had been mussed from his sleep and he hadn't showered or shaved yet. Never a morning person, but a light sleeper and stirred from slumber by the sound of the kettle, Bennet lazily saluted the sandy haired man. "Morning," he grunted, and flopped on a stool. His head rested against the cool marble table and to all pretences the Private appeared to have gone back to sleep.

"Coffee? Black?" Finn asked, intentionally putting a shine on his normal morning cheer to irritate the young Private. Best to not let him get too comfortable. Bennet let out a small groaned of affirmation and Finn moved to get the milk out of the fridge. "So, what'd you get up to, last night?" the Lieutenant asked teasingly. "For someone so sick of "this man's army" you sure look worn out."

"The little boy was probably up all night playing video games," Ellis, a member of the Specialist Mafia, joked as he sauntered into the room. The curly haired brunette man slapped his fellow soldier on the back, eliciting a small groan from Bennet. "Typical Joe. You know how children are," he said to Finn, his voice deep and powerful. Finn had heard that Ellis had been quite the ladies man back in New York City, but, like Bennet, Finn just found his dirty talk sleazy.

"Was not," Bennet mumbled indignantly, still hiding under his arm. He perked up a little when Finn placed a steaming mug in front of him. "And I wasn't partaking in the revelry of comrades in arms."

"So what were you doing, then?" 2nd Lieutenant Valentine asked as he joined the others in the kitchen. That man got a lot of grief about his name. It seemed that Finn's whole platoon was up and about now. "Playing with your gun?" Finn's XO asked the young soldier tactlessly. The man was quick witted and an excellent tactician, but he hardly had a way with words.

Bennet went scarlet. "Was not," he muttered vehemently.

"This is my rifle, this is my gun-"

"This is for fighting, and that one's for fun!" Ridge chimed in as he bounced past Valentine and made for the cold box. "Busted," he commented as he retrieved the orange juice. He had heard the whole conversation from upstairs. Without people moving about the town during the daytime even the smallest sound of human life seemed magnified to the nth degree.

There was a sudden frantic pounding at the B&B's front entrance and all pretence of a comfortable morning breakfast was lost. Finn turned to Valentine. "Who's on watch?" he asked quietly.

"Stevens and Martinez-"

The latter private he spoke of stuck his head around the corner and waved to get Lieutenant Finn's attention. Finn nodded in acknowledgement and the man made a quick series of hand gestures before returning silently to wherever it was he had come from. Two men in US uniform, three civilians, Finn thought as he made his way to the door, backed by the other four early birds. He pulled his M-1911 out and aimed it at the centre of the door. Beside him Ellis did the same. Finn nodded to Valentine and the soldier pulled the door open quickly with a quick arm jerk.

"Whoa, whoa, boys. Friends here," yelped a pale youth who looked fresh out of boot camp. He was dressed in a uniform similar to Finn's, but with the insignia of Ryan's squad emblazoned on his shoulder. The Lieutenant snapped down his safety and signalled for Ellis to do the same. He seemed reluctant to do so. Guess they were going to have to have another little chat about why "trigger-happy" was not a fun thing to be.

Skulking behind the private a dark haired man dressed in black fatigues snorted. "Typical of the Army. Quick to the trigger." The young man's hand rested on lightly on the standard AK-47 that was slung from his shoulder.

Beside him, standing between the two similarly dressed civilian men was an attractive young woman. Her deep red hair was illuminated subtly in the morning sun. She touched the dark-clothed man's arm. "Percy, please." The comment was quiet and short, but the woman seemed to have some standing because Percy did as he was told. She must be the one who was in charge.

One of the soldier's stepped forward. He handed Riley a large envelope. It felt thin and light in his fingers. The Lieutenant gave the private a questioning look. "Orders from the Colonel," the man said. Finn tore open the envelope, as eager as any of his men for an assignment. The note was brief, concise and a little alarming. Finn met the green eyes of the redheaded woman.

"Mrs Osborne?" She nodded. "Ma'am, it says here that my platoon and I are supposed to escort you and your party into Orange County to retrieve the Slayer." A few chuckles could be heard from inside the house behind him, but the woman ignored the amused soldiers.

"That's right."

"Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?"

Her lips twitched into a thin smile. "That's why I'm here asking you and your men to do this, Lieutenant Finn, instead of the soldiers down in Brawley and El Cajon. Because I heard you were the best."

"You're Council."

"We work with the Council, yes."

Lieutenant Finn saluted the two waiting men and they quickly left. "Well, Mrs Osborne, I think we should talk inside, don't you?" The redheaded woman grinned like she had won something and made her way into the hooch without further prompt. "Mr West? Mr Osborne?" he asked, reading their names off the file he held.

Mr West pushed his way past the Lieutenant, muttering something about soldiers with sticks up their something or rather and followed their leader inside. Mr Osborne, the redhead's husband, the soldier assumed, paused in front of Finn and, surprisingly, extended a hand. The Lieutenant accepted the gesture of the shorter man and received a firm handshake in return. "Name's Oz," he said quietly.

Continued in the next chapter: "Blunder is a Technical Term."