No, it wasn't the guy from Aliens. That would have just been surreal.

(Right, like my life to this point has been entirely sane and rational. That, though? Would've been less Joss Whedon writing the plot, and more Drusilla. And I've had entirely enough of Drusilla, thank you.)

I turned around. The Adversary was standing behind me, between me and the infamous-in-two-universes Echolls poolhouse.

"Last out?" I asked.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps you came from behind to win."

"Well? How'd I do, Mr. Umpire?" Brazen to the end, that was me. My mouthiness has been called one of my less endearing qualities. It's also the one that's most likely to get me killed. Well, that and my tendency to walk into places crawling with bad guys armed only with said mouthiness and a taser. For further details, please contact the Fitzpatricks.

At least I managed to keep that mostly under wraps, here in the Buffyverse. Couldn't keep it completely under control without hiding under the covers for three months – which would have ticked off Snyder, Dad, and the Adversary, in increasing order of importance, and lost me the bet, besides.

"So quickly?"

"I'm from the rip off the bandage school. 'twere done, 'twere best done quickly."

He smiled. "Yes. But this is my school."

"I assume that translates to pulling the bandage off slowly."

"I have no intention of tormenting you, Miss Mars; but, to use your school metaphor, I believe we could use a refresher course."

"You're omniscient, or close enough that it makes no difference. So I'm guessing this? For my benefit."

"You are correct."

"And if I protested that I didn't need to be refreshed?"

Another smile. "I would ignore you."

"Of course. Now, come with me."

"To zee Casbah?" Look at the mouth on that one.

"I am neither Charles Boyer nor Pepe le Pew. Our destination is the poolhouse."

I followed him. "You have the whole thing on video."

"Simply a convenient method of display," he said. "Nothing more. I could show it to you on Blu-Ray or on kinetoscope – or holodeck, for that matter."

We walked inside. "Could you remove the bed, at least?" I asked.

The Adversary didn't bother with dramatic gestures; I blinked, and the bed was now a sofa. "Good enough?"

"Got anything in leather?"

"Sit down, Miss Mars." Sensing a modicum of exasperation in the tone, I sat.

From somewhere he produced a remote, and clicked on the television.

I saw me, Mac, and Wallace watching "Villains" and having an argument.

"I'm not going to have to watch this in real time, am I?" I asked.

"You have nothing but time, Miss Mars."

So, how did this all start?

Trust me. I remember it well.

Earlier, in another universe . . .

"Willow wasn't an addict," I said.

"That's what Buffy thought. That's what she thought. That's what the entire creative staff thought," Mac said. "What makes you smarter than them?"

Cindy MacKenzie in a heated argument that had nothing to do with computers? Yup. Cindy and I had a shared love of Buffy and Angel – one that we were trying to get young Mr. Wallace Fennel interested in as well. Wallace was amused and entertained, but fanatic? Not so much.

Ah well. At least it gave Mac and I someone to bounce our ideas off of who'd be willing to tell us we'd gone berserk. Well, semi-willing. I'd promised him repeatedly not to take any revenge, but for some reason, he didn't seem to believe me.

Smart man. I'd taught him well.

It was early summer post-graduation, two-three weeks past – past, well, everything. Past me giving up any chance at the Kane scholarship by going to watch Aaron Echolls be convicted – only to be blindsided when he wasn't; past figuring out that Cassidy "Beaver" Casablancas had been both my rapist and the one who'd blown up the bust back in the fall; past his murder of "Mayor" Woody Goodman, his attempted murder of me and my father, and his suicide by jumping off the roof of the Neptune Grand; past someone, and if you give me their name I'll give them a fucking medal, killing Aaron during his post-trial celebration; past Dad leaving me at the airport for a reason he still wasn't saying.

Past Mac finding out her boyfriend, the aforementioned Cassidy Casablancas, was that murderer. Neither she nor I was completely over the events of that day; how could we be?

But life, unfortunately, kept on going. Sheriff Lamb had "questioned" me about the circumstances of Aaron Echolls' death, and Cassidy Casablancas', for that matter; he'd also questioned Mac, but a lot more gently. Dad had more cases; the town had to elect a new "Mayor," though the revelation that Woody Goodman was a child molester killed off the use of that inaccurate title for good.

The good part, or at least, the not so bad part, was that the summer between high school and college was the freest possible time of our lives. Dad was willing to give me time to recuperate – this was the second early summer in a row I'd had like this. Buffy and her friends weren't the only ones whose "apocalypses" tended to occur in May. Working for one's father has its benefits. As for Mac's family, she and they might be leagues apart in worldview and philosophy but they loved one another fiercely, so she wasn't getting any pressure either.

As for Wallace, he had problems of his own – it was also a couple of weeks past Jackie breaking up with him, so he was kind of depressed. Dude had game; he'd find himself another woman when he wanted to, but now, he wasn't really up to "want to." So while binge-watching every episode of Buffy might not have been at the absolute top of his to-do list, spending time with a couple of friends who weren't going to ask him every five seconds how he was doing. (I was perfectly capable of deducing it, and Mac – well, Mac generally figured that if you wanted her to know, she'd tell you, and if you didn't want her to know, she'd hack your computer and figure it out anyway.)

So. A week and a half of Mac and me doing pretty much nothing more than watching seasons two through six of Buffy, bouncing back and forth between stately Mars Apartment and casa Mackenzie, with Wallace joining in a little over half the time, and she and I were arguing more or less nonstop – friendly arguing, because we both still loved the show, but arguing nonetheless.

Mac essentially was one of those who thinks the show severely jumped the shark when Oz and Willow broke up – disliked Tara, loathed Kennedy. I didn't particularly like Kennedy either, but I loved the Willow/Tara relationship. (Not enough to write fanfiction about it, as Mac does for Oz/Willow.)

So by the time we got to the later seasons Mac was gleefully pointing out how far things had fallen – particularly with season 6 and the "Willow, addict" storyline.

From there we got into the entire series. "Hell," I said, "You probably still think Jenny Calendar should have been called Nikki."

"At least I don't write off the comics."

"Fray is not canonical," I said. "Wallace? What do you think?"

Wallace held up his hands in an "I'm-not-getting-into-this" gesture."I'm thinking I want to get out of here without being killed. Besides, I don't know what Fray is anyway."

Right. Good point.

"Hey, Joss Whedon created them, that's good enough for me," Mac said.

"Not me," I said. "Don't get me wrong – it's one of my all-time favorites – but even Joss didn't know everything."

"The guy who created the show doesn't everything?" Mac said.

"Not everything," I said.

"You think you could've run it better?"

"Knowing what I know now? Damn right I could," I said. "I bet I could. Stick me in at any point and I'd have things better like that." I snapped my fingers.

Suddenly I felt – something – off to my right. Backup came running out of the bedroom, barking furiously, then stopped. Wallace stopped at the same time. Scared? No, frozen. When I turned to look at Mac, she wasn't moving either.

What the hell was going on?

"I will take that bet," a voice said. I spun to look at it, then stood up.

Someone – and apart from appearing male I really can't get more descriptive – was standing in the kitchen. "What -" I began, then stopped.

This couldn't be happening. Things like this only happened on TV, not in the real world. I lived in the real world, therefore I was either dreaming, or someone had laced tonight's pizza with a strong hallucinogen.

"You're not dreaming, and you're not drugged."

Okay, that was spooky. "Prove it," I said.

"How?" he asked. "Any evidence I would give, you would take as proof that you were dreaming. Because things I am able to do, are not possible here in 'the real world,' only in the real of fiction. I suppose you could try pinching yourself. I have heard that that works."

Point to the spook. I pinched myself, hard, on both arms, and all I got was a couple of red marks. "Well, crap" I said. "I guess you're real. Which leads me to my next question."

"Always a detective, Miss Mars. Ask."

"Who are you?" No point in panicking. If this was real, he was clearly capable of doing whatever the hell he wanted, and if this actually was a dream, I'd wake up eventually.

"I am the Adversary."

"Whose adversary?" If he was mine, I was dead.

"Everyone's. It is – my function. It is who I am. It is what I have been doing as long as there have been sentient beings in this, or any other, universe. The Adversary is my oldest title on this world. I am the tester."

Wait. I'd read something once – "Job?"

"Job was fiction. I am real." After a second, he added, "But that does refer to me. I prefer not to use that name, because it has entirely different implications. I am not the manifestation of all that is evil in the world."

That name, then, would be Satan.

"Job would have probably begged to differ."

"In the end, in that story, Job was rewarded for his hardships. Even though he did not live up to his end of the deal. That is how you know it was fiction."

"Okay, then . . ." I said. "You're obviously here to test me. How and why?"

"In reverse order," the Adversary said, "Why? You're worthy, and you made an interesting wager. Most are not, and most do not. It is a signal honor."

"And not one I can decline, I'm guessing."

"Certainly you can decline. But the penalties for backing out are severe."

I didn't think he meant severe tire damage. "Backing out of what? Backing out applies agreement?"

He smiled. "But you did agree, Miss Mars. You agreed the moment you made the bet."

I blinked. "Hold on. You're saying that any time anyone ever uses the words 'I bet,' they're making an agreement with you to – what? Put their lives on the line?"

"Not necessarily their lives, but yes." When I opened my mouth to protest, he said, "Come, Miss Mars. You watch Buffy. You know the danger in a single misspoken word."

The word in question was "wish," of course.

"In any event, you asked me two questions. I have explained why. Now I will explain how. Your wager was, and I quote, 'I bet I could. Stick me in at any point and I'd have things better like that.' Those will be the conditions. You will be put in the universe of Buffy the Vampire Slayer – the television series, not the movie – and you will be given a limited amount of time to improve things."

Okay. This may seem like an odd place to reach the limits of one's credulity, but this was it. "The Buffyverse is fictional." This seemed to me like an insurmountable argument.

And hoo boy, was I wrong. "So are you, Miss Mars. So am I. So are we all. In the infinity of the multiverse, the Buffyverse, and several variants thereof, do exist."

"So every universe possible -"

The Adversary sighed. "I said infinite, not exhaustive."

Huh. And here I thought "infinite" was the greatest possible. Guess I was incorrect there as well. That seemed to be happening a lot recently.

"Okay, how limited?"

"Oh, you will have months, at least, if not years," he said. "I am endeavoring to be fair."

Odd definition of fair he had.

"Now," he continued, "Here are the terms. You will placed in a nearly random time period in the show's continuity. By nearly random, I mean that placing you in the last half of season seven would be pointless. You will be treated by everyone as though you belonged there, and will be of the appropriate age. To that end, a number of people you are familiar with will be placed there, as well."

"My father?"

"Among others. From the moment you arrive, you must attempt to change the timeline for the better, using only your knowledge of that future. You may not tell anyone how this came about, or about their futures, nor that you and your 'supporting cast' were inserted to the universe."

"Wait," I said. "How am I supposed to fix things if I'm not allowed to tell anyone?"

Another smile. "That is your concern," he said. "I would not, however, make the wager were it impossible to win. I always play fair."

"Can I curse God?"

"As often as you like."

"Good." Because I suspected I'd be doing a lot of that. Not that I was particularly inclined to believe in Him, anyway. "And what happens here when I'm gone? Mac and Wallace are going to get a bit suspicious when you unfreeze them and I've suddenly vanished."

"You need not worry about that. They will never notice your absence."

Okay. Might as well get one other thing out of the way. "What are the stakes?"

"Should you win? I will grant you one request. Any request you like, provided it is within my ability to grant." Which left out damned little, of course. I knew what request I'd make.

"And now for the stick. What happens if I lose?"

"Should the judgment go against you, you will be returned to your home universe, except that the attack on the elder Mr. Echolls that recently cost him his life will have failed. They will track down the person responsible, who is someone you care about, and he will go to jail and permanently lose custody of his child. This will galvanize public opinion in Mr. Echolls' favor, and for the remainder of your life you will be believed to be a woman who maliciously tried to prosecute an actor for the fame and fortune it would bring. This will stunt your future prospects of employment in any law enforcement related field, and affect your father's future as well. Further, the universe you have altered will remain changed for the worse."

At the look of horror on my face, the Adversary said, "Come, Miss Mars. It would not be a true wager if lives other than your own were not at stake."

And we couldn't have that, could we? "I have no way of getting out of this?"

"Win. Lose. Or die. But upon your death, judging will begin immediately. But if you die specifically to begin judgment, you will be violating the terms of the wager."

In other words, no improving one thing and throwing myself in front of a bus.

"Okay. Let me get a good night's sleep -"

"No, Miss Mars. The wager begins now."

And, between blinks, I found myself lying in bed, in a room that was familiar but unfamiliar. My "new" bedroom.

I spent the entire weekend considerably off my game and off my feed, trying to process two sets of memories that conflicted much more than they agreed, and finally figured out where the Adversary had dropped me in on Monday, when I saw Ms. Calendar, and then went to investigate that knocked-down Welcome to Sunnydale sign, proving that I'd entered the Buffyverse right around the time of School Hard.

And, that, of course, is where you came in.

X X X X X

The screen went dark.

"Okay," I said. "Now that I'm well and truly refreshed, what happens next?"

"Judgment, of course."

I blew out a breath between pursed lips. "I'm ready." I was more than ready. I'd done the best I could. I'd made mistakes, but on balance? I think the scale would come down in my favor.

Of course, it wasn't up to me. Who knows what standards the Adversary would have?

What would Satan do?

"Then let us begin," he said.

Apparently I was about to find out.

X X X XX

Okay, folks, a favor: Give me your reasoning as to who should win the bet. Be as long or as short as you want. I have my own arguments, but I'd like to know if there are any I might have missed.

Thank you in advance.