Author: Rabid Squirrel

Title: "Murphy's Law"

Summary: Alternate version of season 7. The real story behind Buffy's resurrection, and the conspiracy that threatens to destroy her, along with the entire human race.

Disclaimer: If I owned BTVS, I'd be sitting on my ass, raking in the syndication fees and royalties.

Spoilers: (BTVS) Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out, rewrite, or outright ignore certain unsavory aspects. Assume Angel more or less true to canon thru season 3.

Rating: R, for violence and strong language.

Feedback: I have low self-esteem. Throw me a bone.

Notes: What can I say? I may eventually finish this story. I may also win the Nobel Peace Prize. Call it equal odds.

Dedication: Not so much a dedication as an apology. To my fellow countrymen, I ask your forgiveness. I recently spent some time in Europe, and rest assured, I've set back international relations at least 200 years. But hey…the French had it coming.

Words of Wisdom "Maturity means wanting to go back in time for the express purpose of kicking your own ass."-- Unknown

Chapter 23: "Things to do in Sunnydale When You're Dead"

The small convoy motored swiftly through the nearly deserted streets of Sunnydale, ignoring the posted speed limits, as well as any other inconvenient traffic signs they happened to encounter. That the streets were empty came as little surprise. The rumors had spread like wildfire, one more outrageous than the last, but with one common thread among them: Trouble was coming, and coming fast. For that reason, coupled with the last remaining vestiges of common sense among the populace, the vast majority of Sunnydale denizens had either already fled, or waited beyond locked doors, glued to their television sets as the drama unfolded around them. Already there was talk that terrorist attacks had spilled over into Sunnydale, a theory seemingly borne out by the flaming wreck in the faculty parking lot at SHS, as well as the massive influx of State and Federal law enforcement personnel. For their part, Giles and co. had a leg up on the rest of Sunnydale. They knew more or less what was happening, even if they didn't yet have the complete picture. To a man, they weren't sure if that was better, or worse.

The call that precipitated this little excursion had come directly to Detective Martinez. None of the Scooby gang knew with whom it originated, or even where they were going for that matter. They knew only what Martinez had told them, and that was precious little.

The good detective led off in his unmarked sedan, with Giles riding shotgun. Wesley and Willow followed close behind in his Explorer, their bodies separated by only a matter of inches, their thoughts a world apart. Willow, for the most part, was preoccupied with concern for Dawn, the girl who'd become her surrogate little sister, and whether or not she had any real chance of surviving the day. Wes, the more mercenary – pragmatic was the word he preferred- of the two, found his thoughts tending a little closer to the here and now, namely to the young woman in the passenger seat, and her present state of mind. He couldn't tell what was going on inside her head, and wasn't sure he wanted to in any case. But he could see the external changes, and in all fairness, it was hard not stare.

It wasn't as though he hadn't heard the stories. Wesley was just about as familiar with the misadventures of "Bad" Willow as were any of the other Scoobies – and he did consider himself an honorary member of the Scoobies, popular opinion be damned – even if he hadn't actually witnessed them firsthand. But then, the stories hadn't really done the girl justice. Not by a long shot.

Willow's trademark red hair had undergone a radical transformation, her otherwise tame locks morphing into a wild mane of jet-black tresses, woven intermittently with inexplicable streaks of the purest white. Her inquisitive eyes, normally distinguishable by an ever-present sparkle, were lost in a sea of sheer blackness. And the changes did not stop there. The girl's normally pasty skin appeared to have achieved near translucence, though that may just have been a function of the contrast with the darker tones of her hair. It was hard to tell. But as striking as they were, the physical changes paled in comparison to the changes that lay beneath. Gone was the timid redhead that Wesley had come to, if not adore, then at least admire. What remained was something entirely different, yet completely Willow-esque.

The girl had always harbored an innate degree of power –all natural practitioners of the so-called black arts did – though in her case it had remained largely suppressed. In that regard the rules of witchcraft were little removed from those of physics. In both, the application of an outside force was required to set events in motion, in this instance the introduction of a combination of grief and rage. As it had been with Tara's death, today's events had triggered a reaction between the rawest of human emotions and the unbridled power of elemental magicks. In both cases, the results had been similarly spectacular, if not nearly identical in their end. And yet, there was one striking difference; one that Wesley, with his own self-imputed power of observation, had not yet managed to discern with any degree of confidence, even if he rightly suspected it.

"You know, in polite circles people don't stare," Willow reminded the one-time Watcher, jarring him from his reverie without moving her gaze from the passenger side window. "Especially in the circle where the one you're staring at just saved your tweed but."

Wesley turned his attention back to the road ahead, hands tensing on the steering wheel, embarrassed that he'd allowed himself to forget with whom he was dealing. So much for the keen powers of observation. "Sorry," he offered instinctively. "I didn't mean to appear ungrateful. It's just that…. well… I mean…the new look…. it takes some getting used to."

Her head turned at the comment, grasping the underlying insinuation. "I'm not evil," she declared matter-of-factly, eyeing the man dubiously.

Wesley was taken aback by her intuitiveness. "I wasn't suggesting…."

"Bullshit," Willow countered, surprising even herself with the uncharacteristic vulgarity. "You have that, 'Oh gee: Willow's gone all black hair and veiny and she's killing people so she must be evil' look. I know that look." And I would know if I was evil…wouldn't I?

"I do not think you're evil," Wesley insisted, making a hard left to follow Martinez. "Your 'black hair and veiny' appearance notwithstanding. As for the killing part, well, I'm not likely to lose any sleep over the death of a few ethically challenged mercenaries, and neither should you."

"Damn skippy," Willow concurred, gripping the armrest for support as the truck momentarily lost traction, skidding to the right.

"Besides," Wesley added cautiously, calmly regaining control of the truck and accelerating to close the gap with the lead car, "black seems to work for you."

"I hear it's the new brown," Willow replied glibly. "And besides, it's not like I can really control this thing…just kinda happens, you know?"

"But you still feel guilty." It wasn't a question.

Willow bristled at that. "Is this the part where you tell me you know it feels? 'Cuz you can save your breath if that's where you're going with this. "

"I don't hope to presume anything," Wesley qualified, hoping she could appreciate his attempt at empathy. "It's just that if our roles were reversed, I know I would probably feel a little conflicted. It's a natural reaction, bad guys or no."

Willow almost laughed, but not at Wesley. "Yeah. That's the funny thing about guilt: No matter what you do, no matter how you rationalize your actions, it never really helps. I don't know, maybe it's a Jewish thing," she surmised. "You know, the whole spiritual guilt trip."

Wesley ignored the self-deprecating attempt at humor. "For what it's worth, I understand."

Willow was caught off guard by that, surprised both at his admission, and the apparent audacity in his claim. "Is this your way of telling me you were a Jewish Wicca in a previously life?"

"You think you're the only who's ever killed a person?"

"You mean you….", she started briefly, before catching herself. "Right. I almost forgot."

"I've known that man for since before I became a Watcher," Wesley confessed. "We trained together at the Academy. I was the best man at his wedding, saw his first child baptized. And I didn't hesitate to pull the trigger when I had to. And neither did you, so to speak. That doesn't make you evil; it doesn't make you one of the bad guys. You did what you had to do, regardless of the personal cost. That makes you a hero in my book."

"Some hero," Willow countered. "I couldn't even protect Dawn from a washed-up vampire."

"You're not alone in that regard," Wesley allowed. "Rest assured we'll have the opportunity to redeem ourselves. That much I promise you."

Willow looked at him suspiciously. "What do you know that I don't?"

The convoy pulled up to a traffic light, Martinez and Giles pulling up a few feet behind a large white cargo van, the first vehicle they'd seen in over five minutes. Wesley followed suit, coming to a stop just inches from the Crown Victoria. "Let's just say I have it on good authority that whatever they're planning for Dawn isn't going down just yet."

"In other words," Willow sagely interpreted, "you know a guy who knows a guy."

Wesley shrugged. "More like I know an empath who knows a guy who sometimes talks to a demon who just happens to be the close personal friend of a.certain clairvoyant."

For the first in hours, Willow smiled. "And Giles said you didn't have any friends."

The lead elements of another, slightly larger convoy entered the Sunnydale City limits from the opposite direction, slowing as they did so. The intel briefing had predicted that they would face little, if any, initial opposition from any of the population, human or otherwise. There had been a few unconfirmed reports filtering in, including a suspected car bombing, but nothing to merit significant changes to their operational orders. Still, they were taking few chances. Rounds had been chambered, machineguns trained out in all directions in search of potential targets, and several hundred sets of eyes on full alert, scanning, what for many, was familiar terrain.

They rumbled toward the business district, smaller recon and MP elements breaking off from the main body in a graceful mechanized ballet. The lack of traffic here was a godsend they had not anticipated. While none were especially keen to be deployed into a civilian population center, at least interference from the civilian populace would be kept to a minimum. And that was best for all concerned.

The lead recon element had entered the town ahead of the main body of the convoy, heading past the high school on their way to City Hall. A Lieutenant in the lead HUMVEE observed what appeared to be the burned-out frame of a sport utility vehicle in the main parking lot, surrounded by two SPD squad cars and a lot of yellow tape. This was radioed to HQ in due course, and an MP detachment dispatched to investigate and secure the area from the civilian authorities. The three vehicles accelerated, within a mile of their objective, and a full minute ahead of schedule. Up ahead, the first civilian vehicles came into view.

Great," Buffy bemoaned, surveying the recognizable, yet altogether eerie surroundings, "high school. That settles it…. I'm officially in hell." She had not been anticipating a response.

"I should hope not," enjoined a familiar voice, floating down from somewhere in the stacks above. The recently departed Slayer spun her seat around, eyes automatically locking on a most unbelievable sight. Overcome with emotion, Buffy opened her mouth to speak, but managed to choke out only a monosyllabic response.

"Mom?"

Buffy stared in shock as her mother's form fully emerged from the library stacks, looking remarkably well preserved for one who'd been in the grave going on two years now. She moved swiftly, gracefully, moving in silence as she traversed the book-laden shelves. Coming to a halt just short of the safety railing, she gazed down on her daughter, smiling warmly, as though nothing had ever happened to preclude her doing so.

"You look like you've just seen a ghost, sweetheart."

"Mom?" the stunned Slayer repeated, trying desperately to come to grips with whatever the hell was going on, and failing miserably. "You…I mean you're…I saw you…you're dead," she finally managed.

"We prefer 'living impaired'," her mother corrected her, with a lopsided grin. "Dead just seems so…final."

Buffy instinctually tried to stand, but found her legs unwilling to accommodate her. Gripping both arms of the chair, she pushed herself into what passed for a standing position. She again opened her mouth to speak, trying to find the right words as a million different emotions swirled through her mind. She had so many questions, so many things she wanted – needed – to say. But the sheer emotional magnitude of the moment overwhelmed her, making any attempt at communicating her feelings impossible. No matter, for her mother took care of that for her.

In an instant, Joyce Summers had descended the staircase, sweeping her eldest daughter into her embrace, clutching the now sobbing girl tight to her chest, the young woman's tears spilling onto her face, evidence of a love that spanned even the gulf between life and death. She kissed Buffy gently on the cheek, wishing for all the world that she had more time; that this moment could last for all eternity, but knowing all the while what was to be, and what never could. She allowed herself a few more seconds, time for one hug, a chance to smooth the girl's ruffled hair one last time, to perform one last motherly duty, wiping the tears from her beloved daughter's eyes, all the while reassuring her that it would all be ok, though she herself entertained her own doubts. Finally, with more strength than she'd known she possessed, Joyce Summers broke the embrace, reluctantly disengaging from the girl who she'd come to love more than life itself.

Startled, Buffy tried to protest, only to be silenced as Joyce gently placed a finger to her lips.

"You don't need to say anything, Buffy," Joyce reassured her. I know. I've always known. And I want you to know that I'm okay. There's no pain, no loneliness, and no regrets. There's only peace, peace and a sense of completeness."

"But I don't…I don't understand. Am I… If you're here, then I must be…."

Joyce smiled at her, shaking her head in the most motherly of fashions. "It doesn't matter right now, Buffy. Just know that I love you, and I love Dawn, and I always will. And I am so proud of both of you. Even death can't change that. I know there are things that you want to say, questions you need answered. And in time, they will be. But for now I need you to be strong. I have to leave you again, Buffy. I don't want to, and I know you won't understand, but there's no other way."

Buffy didn't understand. Fresh tears welled up in her eyes, and for a brief moment she was again that five-year-old girl, pleading with her mother to take her along to work. God, please don't let her leave me again. I can't bear it. "I want to go with you..."

Joyce almost reached out for her daughter, but knew that if she did so, she would never be able to let go again. "Do you remember the promise you made to me in the hospital?" As if she could forget.

Buffy nodded. "I remember," she recalled somberly.

"Dawn needs you now more than ever, Buffy," Joyce implored. "She's in danger. You must go to her, you must do what is necessary to protect her, to protect the world."

"How can I do that? How can I fight what's meant to happen? I'm not that strong." I'm not like you.

Joyce bowed her head for a brief moment, unable to look her daughter in the eye, terrified of what her daughter would think. She'd always known this day would come, had practiced countless times telling her daughter the truth, but could never actually bring herself to do so. "There is something you must know, Buffy." She looked up into her daughter's plaintive eyes, determined to do this right. "I've always known that you were special, that you were destined for great things. I know every mother probably feels this way, but with you it's different, and it has nothing to do with you being the Slayer, or even being my daughter, for that matter." Unable to resist the temptation, she reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her daughter's face. "I wasn't a perfect person, Buffy. I had my own doubts, my own shortcomings. And when my marriage to Hank fell apart, it wasn't just because of his unfaithfulness. My own guilt played a part in it."

"What are you saying?" Buffy asked hesitantly, unwilling to see what her mother was alluding to.

"It only happened once," Joyce hedged, as much to assuage her own guilt as to make the truth more palatable to her daughter. "Please understand. Even before you were born, I knew about Hank's infidelity. I could never admit it to myself, but deep down, I knew what was going on. I was angry, resentful at him for betraying me. And I was lonely."

Buffy fell silent, tying to digest what her mother was telling her, and to make sense of what was happening. "Who was he?" she implored in a whisper, unable to see where this was ultimately leading. "Do I…. do I know him?"

Joyce answered the question with a shake of the head. "No sweetheart. You don't know him. And neither did I. Not really."

"You mean you just…. with some man you hardly knew?"

If Joyce were capable of crying, she would have done so. The tone of Buffy's voice, the accusation in her eyes, were enough to break anyone's heart. God knew she didn't want to cause her daughter any more grief. Buffy's life was difficult enough without any maternally inspired angst, especially inflicted from beyond the grave. But she'd waited too long as it was, and time, after all, was of the essence. "Please, Buffy. I know this must be difficult for you, but there is more to it. There's something you must accept, something you must come to terms with, or else all of this will have been for nothing."

Buffy pulled away, shocked and angered at her mother's admission. "Don't," she hissed. "Don't you dare do this to me!"

"Buffy, please," Joyce pleaded, "I wish there was another way, but there isn't. You have to know. You have to know the truth."

"No!" Buffy insisted, "I won't let you do this. Not now. Not like this."

"Please, honey. I know this is hard…"

"Do you?" Buffy asked acidly. "Do you have any idea how this feels? I adored you. I worshipped the ground you walked on. God, I felt sorry for you. When I wasn't blaming myself for the divorce, I was blaming dad. And all this time…"

The raw truth cut deeper than any blade could have. "He's not your father."

Buffy stopped cold at that revelation, the rage and indignation she'd felt only moments before replaced by an incredulous shock, her entire being shaken to the core by a few simple words. She shook her head, trying to deny what now seemed so clear, desperately needing to hold on to one of the few remaining illusions of a normal life. The coldness in her own voice shocked her. "You're lying."

Had it not already done so, Joyce's heart would have stopped beating then and there. In that regard, death was an odd blessing. She shook her head somberly. "I wish to God I were Buffy. I wish to God that Hank were your father, that you weren't the Slayer, that you were just a normal girl with selfish concerns. But that wasn't meant to be. When I told you that I knew you were special, that you were destined for great things, it wasn't just maternal pride on my part. I knew because of what you were; because of where you came from."

The emotional roller coaster continued for Buffy, coming full circle. Doubt had given way to joy, joy had yielded to confusion, confusion to anger, and finally back to confusion. "I'm not special; I'm just a person. I'm not the slayer, not a warrior, not anything. I don't even know who I am…who I was."

Joyce tried to smile, a difficult endeavor given the circumstances. "You were never 'just' anything, Buffy. Even before you were the Slayer, before you saved the world for the first time, you were so much more. You were a gift, not just to me, but to the entire world."

Buffy wouldn't, or couldn't, accept that. "You're wrong," she shot back. "My gift was death. That's what they told me. That's what I was here for. I was supposed to die to save the world. And I did. But they wouldn't let it go at that. They weren't finished with me. I died, and they brought me back, again and again. It never stops. It never ends. So tell me now about my destiny. Tell me who I am, tell me what I am, 'cause I really want to know!"

Buffy's mother shook her head again, wishing she'd been more up-front with her daughter, even as she felt her purchase on this realm begin to slip. She addressed her daughter one last time, her physical form quickly fading from the ethereal plane, along with the consciousness that was Joyce Summers. "I'm afraid that it doesn't work that way, sweetheart. I don't have all the answers, and even if I did, I'm not sure I would understand it myself. I can only tell you this: Whatever your doubts, whatever your misgivings, you must accept that you were brought into the world for a reason, that whatever that reason is, you have not yet fulfilled your destiny. You have more to give to this world. You must trust in that. You must trust in me. For all of our sakes."

No sooner had the words left Joyce's lips than she too had gone. One moment she was there, both in body and spirit; the next she had vanished, leaving behind only a spectral echo, a phantasmagoric image that too, soon wavered and faded to nothingness. Buffy stood mute, her mouth agape, eyes wide, staring at the space that until a few seconds ago had been occupied by her mother. She was still angry, still hurt, but those emotions were tempered by the guilt she felt toward her behavior, and the lingering uncertainty regarding her true nature. She knew, of course, that her mother loved her, and would understand her daughter's reaction, even if Joyce were initially hurt by her words. Of that much she was certain. What she wasn't sure of – indeed, what she knew next to nothing about, other than a few tidbits she'd gleaned from skimming Giles' Watcher journals – were her true origins. Ever since she'd come to terms with being the Slayer, Buffy had found comfort in the knowledge that while special, she was still human. When things had gone bad, that basic tenet of faith had been her true north, her rock of Gibraltar. She'd always had that truth to cling to, to connect her to the world when she felt her herself slipping away. But now even that veneer of normality had been stripped away, confirming the fears she'd confessed so openly to Xander earlier that day. It all boiled down to one basic question: If I'm not human, what am I?

She hadn't realized she'd been thinking aloud.

"That's the $64,000 question, now isn't it kid?" The voice was vaguely familiar, the sensation of her skin crawling in response to it even more so. She uttered his name even before turning to face him.

"Whistler."

"Been a while, kiddo. It's good to see you again."

Buffy didn't share the sentiment. "Wish I could say the same."

Some things just never changed. "You figure it out yet?" the Balance demon asked, catching the ex-Slayer off guard.

"Figure what out?"

"You think you know what you are…what's to come?"

"I haven't even begun," Buffy finished, growling to her herself. "I know the game, Whistler. I've heard the company slogan. And, in case you've forgotten, I don't do prophetic, so cut to the goddamn chase already. Why are you here?"

"You're asking the wrong question, Summers. Why I'm here is irrelevant to your present situation. The question you need to be asking yourself is, why are you here?"

"Why don't you just tell me and save us both the trouble?"

Whistler shook his head. "Not how the game's played, kid. You of all people should have learned that by now."

"Guess I'm just stubborn that way," Buffy lamented. "But then, if I recall, I never asked for any of this in the first place."

"You could always walk away," Whistler suggested. "Wouldn't be the first time."

"And they'd leave me alone? Just like that? They'd find someone else to save the world?"

Whistler shrugged. "Maybe; maybe not. Either way, what's it to you? Like you just said, you never asked for this."

"You're right, Whistler. I never asked for it. I never asked to be the Slayer. But I didn't really have any choice in the matter. It was my birthright, remember? My destiny?"

"Not anymore. Not ever really; at least, not just." He looked around the library for a moment, as if to confirm they were alone. "Let me ask you something. Do you know why the Slayer exists?"

She'd thought that much was obvious. "To fight evil. To protect those who can't protect themselves," Buffy answered, self assuredly.

"Do you ever win?" Whistler posited.

"Always." Well, most of the time.

"But there's still evil. You may win the battle, but you don't win the war. Right?"

Buffy looked confused. "I don't think it's just about winning….". She stopped in mid thought, on the verge of comprehending something she implicitly knew was important. "It was never about winning…was it?

Whistler shook his head "The Slayer was never anything more than a tool of a higher power. A powerful and useful tool to be sure, but a tool nonetheless. We could have sent someone else, another warrior – hell, even a certain brooding vampire might have been able to fight the battles. And who knows, maybe he could even have done as well as you."

Buffy didn't get it all. "Then why? Why go through the motions? Why fight a war that can't ever be won, why the charade?"

"It wasn't a charade, kid. When you get down to it, evil is an elemental force. It's not like some disease that you can eradicate. Without darkness, there can be no light. Without evil, there is no good. Good needs evil to remind it what is right and wrong, to remind the heroes why they fight. "

"So why bother? Why mess with the balance at all? Why not just let the two forces have it out and be done with it? Why do you need Slayer?"

"The world's not as simple as we'd like it to be. The world…it doesn't just exist. It came from something. It means something. You think it's all some cosmic accident that we're all here? It was all part of the plan, Summers. Everything and everyone. Good and evil; human and demon. It's all part of the big picture."

"You didn't answer the question," Buffy pointed out, and reasonably so.

Whistler was getting to that. "You know the difference between destiny and fate?"

Buffy thought she did. "There's no such thing as fate."

"That's where you're wrong, kid. Fate does exist, just not the way most people think of it. It's not some kind of manifest destiny; it's something we all choose for ourselves, something we arrive at through our own actions."

"And destiny?"

"Destiny's the path that leads you there. That is, if you choose to accept it."

"Not that I don't appreciate the philosophy lesson, but you still haven't answered my original question, " she pointed out.

"No, but you did," Whistler remarked. At her perplexed look he explained. "We know it ends, the fate of the world, that is. Book of Revelations…. trumpets sounding…. the bowl judgments…. the four horsemen…. badness ensues. That was all determined a long time ago, by someone with a lot more juice than either you or I. But each and every one of us has our own potential destiny, our own part to play. That's where free will comes in. The end of the earth isn't the end. Not by a long shot. And the battle that's fought everyday on earth? It's just a small part of the war being waged out on a much larger scale, on many different levels. The Slayer fights the evil on earth, fights for the humans, to give them the chance to determine their own fate. She doesn't fight to save them; she can never save them all. She gives them hope, shows them the way. Whether they follow that path is their choice."

"And exactly who am I supposed to have given hope to? Nobody knew who I was, what I did. The Slayer works in secrecy, remember."

"You didn't. Not completely. You shared your life with the people you cared about."

Buffy grunted. "A whole lotta good that did them."

"You underestimate yourself. You underestimate them."

"All I did was cause them grief. They would have better off if they never met me."

"That's where you're wrong, kid. You think that by bringing them into your life, you did them a disservice. You think you made their lives worse? Nothing could be further from the truth. Think about it: You don't honestly believe that people are better off living their lives in blissful ignorance of the world around them, do you? No, you were put on the earth to make a difference, and you did that. You weren't like the others before you; you opened yourself up. You let down your guard, and let others in. You showed them a new way to live, a new way to fight. You didn't show them their destiny, you were their destiny."

And just like that, it became perfectly clear. "It was a test," Buffy whispered. "It was all a test."

Whistler smiled, feeling something akin to pride. "Life is a test, kiddo. Some pass, some fail. Fortunately for us, you passed with flying colors."

"And now that I'm no longer the Slayer? What am I? Who do I fight for now?"

Finally, the kid asks the right question. "Now you make a choice. You decide to take it to the next level – to fully accept you birthright and continue the fight – or you lay down your sword, and accept your reward."

"That's it then? That's all there is to it? I go back and fight, or I stay dead."

"It's never that simple, kid. Choices have consequences. You can hang it up, call it quits, and the Big Guy won't hold it against you. But you have to decide if it's worth the price."

"And If I decide I've had enough, will I…."

Whistler nodded. "You've already been there once. Call it a free pass."

"And my mother?"

"She'll be there waiting," Whistler confirmed. "Great lady, by the way. A real class act."

Buffy smiled at that. "The greatest mom ever. Someday I'll get to tell her that again."

The meaning behind her words didn't escape Whistler. "So you've made up your mind?"

She nodded in the affirmative. "Looks like."

Good for you kid. "Kinda figured you would."

"You're not gonna get all mushy on me, are you Whistler? I'd really hate to have to change my opinion of you."

"I'll try to hold back the tears, Summers. You do the same."

"It's a deal," she agreed. "So, how do we do this? Do I just click my heels together three times, or…"

"It's already taken care of," Whistler assured her. "All you have to do is open your eyes, and we'll take care of the rest." He fell uncharacteristically silent for a moment. "You know, there's one thing you haven't asked me yet."

"Actually," Buffy corrected him, "I did ask you. You never gave me an answer."

Whistler grinned conspiratorially. "Still wanna know?"

"Thanks, but I think I've got it covered."

The balance demon raised an eyebrow at that, enjoying a chuckle. "Do you now? You figured it out? You know what you are?"

Buffy closed her eyes, the corners of her lips curved upward in the beginnings of a smile. "Yeah, Whistler. I know what I am."

I'm Buffy.

Sunnydale Industrial Park

It wasn't that Dawn was ungrateful for the temporary reprieve she received in the person of Lilah Morgan; it was just that her initial impression of the woman – combined with her better instincts -- left her wondering whether she would have been better off left to the mercy of Spike's devices. Through bloodied, bruised eyes the Slayer appraised the lawyer, seeing right through the thousand-dollar business suit and perfectly coiffed hair to the ugliness that lie beneath. It didn't take a genius to see the truth. The woman was in league with Spike. That made her one of the bad guys. Simple enough.

It was also fairly easy to discern why the woman had intervened to save her in the first place. They needed Dawn alive to open the Hellmouth. After all, it wouldn't do any good to destroy the key before you'd opened the lock. However, that left unanswered the question as to what exactly the required ritual entailed, and exactly how much Dawn would suffer as a result. For some reason, that little detail seemed extremely important right about now. The thought almost elicited a laugh from the battered Slayer, until she took into consideration the present condition of her ribs, and thought better of it. God, Dawn couldn't help but lament. Some Slayer I am. William the Bloody and Wolfram and Hart's chief lawyer goon in the same room, and I'm on my knees, bleeding like a stuck pig, whatever the hell that means. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Dawn felt her mind wandering back to something Xander had once told her, a few words that seemed all too appropriate to her present condition. "I laugh in the face of danger, then hide 'til it goes away."

If only I had that option.

Dawn wanted to make a smartass comment, but wasn't in any hurry to incur Spike's wrath again, at least not while she was bound to the wall, and so she waited for Lilah to speak first.

"Hello, Dawn," the lawyer greeted her breezily, a broad, fake smile on her face, as if addressing a potential client or job recruit. "I'm Lilah Morgan. You might have heard of me."

Oh hell, thought Dawn. They're gonna kill me anyway. Might as well get in a few verbal jabs, since I can't do the physical kind. Dawn did her best to return the favor, though the effect might have been lost beneath all the bruising. "You'll forgive me if I don't stand up and shake your hand, Lilah. Spike here was in the mood for bondage fun. And for the record, I have heard of you."

"Good things, I presume?" Lilah asked, ever the narcissist.

Dawn shrugged as much as her constraints would allow, doing her best to ignore the resulting pain in her arms and shoulders. "I think Angel's exact words were 'stupid cunt'. Oh, and he also said you were a label whore and a bitch, though not necessarily in that order." Putting aside the possibility that Spike would resume her beating at any moment, Dawn flashed a brilliant smile at the offended lawyer, whose mouth stood agape, fuming in indignation. "Of course, that's just one opinion. I actually like your suit."