(All flashbacks are written in italics to avoid confusion.)

The Looking Glass

Chapter 4

"And what is he going to say when you show up on his doorstep, assuming you can even find it?"

"Duh, he's going to tell me he's been worried about me, waiting to hear from me."

"He's going to blame you. This is all your fault."

"We did everything we could!"

"It wasn't enough! Obviously it wasn't. Look around, slayer; this is the world you've created. I fucked up. I really fucked up."

"Look, stop, this isn't getting me anywhere. Turn on the radio."

White noise streamed over the airwaves, filling the Geo as it grunted alongside the highway, spitting petroleum fumes into the heavy afternoon atmosphere. The city rose up out of the haze, trapped in the center of a labyrinth of freeway off ramps choked with congestion. You'd never know it wasn't a typical day in Los Angeles but for the eerie silence hanging over the metropolis like a curtain. The Geo wheezed as Buffy rumbled within the limits of downtown, gasping alongside the darkened windows of a Chinese takeaway. The engine coughed loudly, expelling fumes from every orifice. Thick smoke spilled from the air vents, filling the car. Buffy gagged, slamming on the breaks. More fumes, sooty and sickening, slid out from the undercarriage, consuming the vehicle. The door fell open after three forceful kicks to the rusted door, and the slayer fell out onto the street. Free of its passenger, the car garbled a final groan, lurched upon its shocks, and died where it sat.

"Great," Buffy sighed, dusting pebbles of asphalt from her elbows as she jabbed the front wheel with her shoe. "Where's AAA when I need them?"

Overhead, between the tops of skyscrapers, the midday sun scattered rays of light between choking clouds of haze. Buffy sighed and left the automobile in peace, her boots scraping the cracked street as she walked through the bad part of town. Los Angeles looked the same as every other town she'd walked or rode through in the past forty-four days. The roads were busted and bumpy, some with cracks driven through to make driving nearly impossible. Stubborn grasses had retaken the sidewalks, pushing away blocks of cement to reach for the sky that couldn't be seen. Some of the overpasses had managed to survive, but others had crumbled like a broken cracker, leaving the warped remains of cars and trucks thrown in heaps several feet beneath. Many of the buildings and shops were gutted. Smoke still rose in lazy drafts from the shells of gas stations. The city, the largest city on the coast, was in shambles.

Playground equipment sat rusting in a small park among the rotting townhouses of a housing project. A couple of swings moved slightly in a dusty breeze. A brown station wagon lurched along the sidewalk, parked illegally alongside a yellow fire hydrant. A parking ticket curled and browned on the windshield. Buffy allowed a small smile to crackle over her chapped lips. She crunched across the dunes of gravel and sand, and fell into the rubber seat of a swing. The chains squeaked as they adjusted to her weight upon the frame. In the sand beneath her feet, glinting in the grey daylight, a necklace had been half-buried. The slayer bent down over her knees, lifting the edge of her sweater up around her back. The bones of her ribs and the vertebrae of her spine poked unattractively from her scraped, raw, pale skin.

Gold plated chain hung loosely around her knuckles as Buffy lifted the charm toward her face. The metal was scratched and slightly warped. The chain had been scuffed, and the stainless steel links clashed strangely against the gold.

"You know, you stole Mr. Gordo from my room when I was a baby," Dawn smirked, picking up the pink stuffed pink. She held it delicately against her chest, rubbing the worn fur of his ears. "Dad brought him home from the hospital with me. There are pictures. I totally have proof."She paused, looking down at the carpeted floor, the tops of her shoes. "Isn't it funny that there are pictures; that we remember? I mean, it didn't even happen."

Buffy lifted her eyes from the duffel bag she'd been packing on the bed. Weapons sat out in piles. Shirts and pants had been stacked up, to take or not to take. Her eyes fell first on Mr. Gordo, tucked protectively into Dawn's hands. Her eyes glittered, filled with fear.

"I'm coming back. How many times have we saved the world? How many times have we dealt with this kind of thing and bounced right back, no big? Heck, I've died twice. I think I can take it."

"Well, if you die, I get your room."

"You have a room! You share it with your boyfriend, and don't think I don't know."

"Your room is way bigger. I could give him, like, a piece of closet space, instead of just a drawer!"

"Doesn't matter anyway because I'm not going to die. There are three hundred slayers in this battle, and nothing's been able to beat us yet."

"Well, I'm holding Mr. Gordo as collateral."

The necklace curled up gently in her pocket as Buffy slid back out of the swing and onto the sand. Overhead, a dark brown cloud drifted over the straining sun, pushing a wave of dirty darkness over the city. The latch of the station wagon broke away easily, and the keys had been stowed between the visor and the ceiling. A plastic blue dolphin charm hung from the mirror, dancing back and forth as Buffy put the car into gear. The day had begun to fade and she still had no idea how far she had to go.

A watery crimson reflection began to smudge out the brownish hue as dusk came upon Los Angeles. For hours, Buffy had twisted and turned down empty streets, her fingers smudging soot and dirt along the printed pages of a five year old Thomas Guide. The soft undertones of yowling had already begun, a chorus of demons that would rise up like Handel's Messiah in less than an hour. Buffy steered down another street, past the brutally beaten homes that made up the far south end of Los Angeles. Her fingers clenched the wheel, whitening the knuckles, stretching the tight skin around large, rough scabs. A gas station lurched into view, surprisingly intact on every side. The slayer drove past six blocks and scrambled out of the car. The noise of nighttime rose as the sun dipped farther toward the sea.

Curling her arm against her chest, her stake at the ready, Buffy scrambled loudly inside the snack shop. Piles of potato chips and dusty cookies sat untouched in the aisles. Heavy aluminum doors had been rolled down over the front windows. A paint can sat on the floor, the ivory white paint dried out and sticking to the sides of the can. The slayer tiptoed past a ladder put up for painting a crack in the ceiling, and applied force to the doorknob leading to the room behind the fridge. Palates of water and fruit juice sat in piles near the door. A solitaire game had been left out, half-finished, on a card table with one lonely chair. The store was empty.

Outside, beyond the concrete walls of the gas station, the nightlife had gone into full swing. The sun settled at last, sinking past the horizon to burden the other half of the demonic world. Yowls and cries, the voices of monsters, filled the warm California night. Secure inside the building, Buffy ran at the aisles upon aisles of foodstuffs. Grabbing a bag of beef jerky, two bags of cheese doodles, and a cookie from the shelves, she gorged herself on processed food that never went rancid. Her stomach filled after two bites of jerky, but still she ate. Her cheeks bulged, covered with orange 'cheese' crumbs. Her fingers were covered in the sticky goo of orange 'cheese' product. Chocolate chunks fell onto the floor around her crossed legs.

Buffy's stomach lurched as she swallowed the remainder of the cookie, the warm chocolate swirling down her esophagus. Her insides quivered, and gooseflesh rose on the backs of her arms and legs. Buffy moaned, clutching her belly as she wobbled to her feet. Clutching at a bottle of water behind the fridge, the slayer dropped to her knees and heaved. Her throat burned with stomach acid as the meal splattered onto the cement floor in one partially digested mess. Tears tickled the corners of her eyes. After a moment, she gagged again, forcing another wad of vomit up her esophagus, over her tongue, and onto the floor. Tugging at her stomach with both hands, Buffy leaned her forehead against the cold cement ground, and tried to breathe.

"But we don't even know what's out there!" Satsu retorted, slamming her fist into the plastic tabletop. The seven slayers that made up the leadership team had been sitting for hours in a dark little room, listening to the plan. Buffy sat at their head, squeezing the bridge of her nose to block the pounding pressure of a headache. "How can we stop what we don't understand?"

"We're slayers!" Renee replied, getting to her feet, the wheeled chair slamming into the wall. "It's what we do, isn't it? We fight! We slay! We save the world."

"You're both right," Faith frowned at the other end of the table, leaning her elbows on the arms of her chair. "We've never faced anything like this before. Some of us may die. But that's how it goes when you're a slayer. One girl dies and another rises."

"But we're also slayers," Buffy finished for her. "This is what we do. This is who we are. We stand up against evil, and we fight it with everything we have."

"But Buffy," Kylie frowned, "we've seen what happens. When we die, no one else rises to take our places. What do we do if the line ends here?"

Orange-tinged saliva sprayed the floor as Buffy staggered to her feet, wiping her mouth with the back of her arm. Walking around the pool of choked-up supper, the slayer leaned into the back door behind the palates. Outside, a demon wailed, its voice echoing in the night. The slayer pushed open the door and slid out into the night. Keeping her bony shoulders to the wall, Buffy edged out toward the intersection, listening to the cacophony of predatory screeches. Beyond the empty pumps, demons traveled slowly down the streets. Some carried weapons slung over their shoulders or dragging in their hands. Others wore duffel bags or wheeled suitcases. The corpse of a young woman dangled from a fraying rope, pulled by a moderately sized Polgara demon.

Her chest rose and fell as Buffy drew in a hurried breath. Clutching the stake tightly in her hand, Buffy ran swiftly across the gas station parking lot and out into the street. She slammed forcefully into the demon, shoving her knees against its chest. Razor sharp, knife-like horns slid out from pockets in its arms, responding to the sudden attack. The slayer moved quickly, thrusting the stake violently into the demon's neck. Overhead, the sky rumbled uneasily, the precursor to a storm. Beneath her hands, blood sprayed from the wound she'd created, staining her clothes and skin. Retrieving her weapon, Buffy bent down over the human corpse and lifted it into her arms. The shoulders and legs fell limply over her forearms. Around her, pairs of eyes stared, stunned, at the mess of arterial blood seeping along the asphalt.

"What do you even care!" A demon yelled out after her as Buffy continued across the street, disappearing into an alley.

"Doesn't even taste good, already dead," another shrugged, turning away from the Polgara corpse.

"Humans, they just don't get it," added a third demon in a deep baritone.