16.
Fractured Mirror

Heat permeated the dusky room, like a pool of sunlight without light or sun. The air felt thick, giving weight to the heat. It seemed to seep into Willow's bones, soothing her muscles and making her tingle.

Being so at ease was strange. Willow lay clothed, yet exposed, her shirt open, the cups of her bra pushed aside, molded around the outer curves of her breasts, her skirt bunched across her waist. Not that nudity affected her one way or the other. Being Kennedy's personal plaything had mostly cured her of that. It was the comfort that was incongruent, the fact that she was free to move, able to cover herself if she wanted. She hadn't been allowed more than the barest minimum of anything so human or humane in so long.

Out of habit, her wrists lay crossed above the crown of her head. Part of her wished she was cuffed and collared. Being free was strange. She felt that she should do something, but had no idea what, so she did nothing.

Buffy sat cross-legged on the bed, her left knee resting at the curve of Willow's right side. At any other time, her presence might've added to the urgent tug of sexual tension, but Willow felt strangely at peace with the world. Buffy's touch only added to the feelings of bliss. What she was doing was deeply sexual, only not. She studied Willow's body, gentle caresses marking her progress, a subtle smile telling her mood.

Willow expected the smile to transform at any moment. She waited to be seized by her thigh, rolled her onto one hip and struck. That's how this sort of thing was supposed to go. Kindness always turned to reproach, then to disgust. Tenderness became brutality at the drop of a hat. It wasn't hard to anticipate. She was disgusting. It was only right that someone as good as Buffy would come to see that. Part of Willow longed for it. The insane part. Her saner half knew that Buffy would never hurt her.

Willow pushed her fears aside. This was everything she'd dreamt of and more. Her deepest desire made real. She expected Buffy to pull a face when she reached the curl of foliage that titivated her naked mons veneris. Part of the illusion was that her vulva was a portion of one low hanging blossom. That hadn't been her choice. It was another violation, albeit small. There had been so many. Too many to count. This one was insignificant, but kind of gross. Willow wasn't certain whether Buffy would think that or not. It seemed minor compared with any of the many other adornments she wore there, each one spoiling the illusion. The thought of Buffy seeing them was beyond shameful.

She remained intent on the tattoo, tracing its course to where Willow's thigh met her hip, following the curve, twining around her thigh. The pain, though aged to dullness—like the sensitivity of her skin—still lingered in her memory. That part had been awful. One of the worst. Months of being unable to sit or lie down for one reason or another. The torment drawn out by Kennedy's wrath.

Willow obediently spread her legs when Buffy's attention returned to her crotch. Shameful or not, this was hers now. Willow resigned herself. Buffy could do with it as she pleased. The first thing she did was gently brush the short loop of chain that draped in the cleft. Willow held in the gasp that the tension, meager though it was, brought to her lips. That reaction led only to badness. Instead, she felt an overwhelming need to go, to follow, to do whatever Buffy asked. Just the fact that Buffy had deigned to touch her made the agreement between them complete. Willow would do anything asked of her, without question or complaint. She wondered if Buffy understood that, but held her tongue. There would be time to explain later.

The inspection was almost over. Willow felt like a kitty in the sunshine, basking on a window ledge, only better. This unflinching acceptance was the most beautiful, wonderful, perfect thing ever. Somewhere in the distance, Buffy called her name. Willow held her breath. She had to be hearing things. Buffy was with her, touching her. Muffled pounding accompanied the voice. Willow's heart sank. Confusion raveled her nerves. Only a dream could be so faint, muddied as if she was underwater. But she wasn't underwater. The whole 'still breathing' thing dispelled that. She wasn't anywhere other than where she was: in Buffy's bed. Willow struggled to hear, and as she did, reality became the dream, fading to bleary fragments, and the dream became real in a brain-spinning, heart-pounding surge.

Willow gasped as she surfaced. The bed bounced. She bounced. She was in bed—Buffy's bed. She wasn't wrong. The door was open. Nobody was knocking. That part had apparently come and gone. Buffy stood in the doorway. A strange old woman with incongruently smooth, pale skin peered over her shoulder.

The blankets were skewed, pushed down, partially covering only one of Willow's legs. Raising up, reaching down, she rushed to cover herself. Her flurry of furious movements cooled her fingertips. They were wet. She'd been—

Of course, the blankets were tangled. Of course, she was lying on them. Of course—

Wriggling, she wrestled with them. They cooperated not nearly soon enough. Willow lay down, covered, hiding. She'd been wrong. Shame was still something she could feel. All it took was diddling herself—being exposed for the pervert she was in front of this woman—this woman who wasn't old at all—this white-haired, lustrous-skinned woman Kennedy had called 'Goddess'—this woman who was herself at some other time in some other place. Buffy's Willow.

Heat intense enough to scorch built in her cheeks as the woman—her mature self—the self that didn't expect to be beaten for her faults—the self that, from her neutral expression, didn't seem to feel anything at all—entered the room. Wordlessly, Buffy closed the door, shutting Willow away with this icy woman. The woman went to the chair Willow had claimed for herself the night before and took a seat.

Willow straightened her clothes beneath the covers. Better to busy herself. It kept her from dwelling on whatever her guest wanted. True, the most offensive thing this woman had done so far was regard her with inscrutable calm. That didn't matter. Willow was set on two things: becoming sufficiently decent to leave the room, and doing exactly that. She couldn't face this—whatever it was.

"Your tattoo's beautiful," the woman said. "I've always loved them, but I never had the nerve." At first, her voice seemed a hollow impression of Willow's own, but as she spoke it grew sweeter with a lyrical quality that brought Willow to a standstill.

She gaped, awaiting more. Finally, her backside dropped to the bed. She'd been straightening her skirts, but she couldn't hold that pose forever.

The woman regarded her. There was warmth to her expression that hadn't been there before, something like fondness, something more familiar. It eased Willow's mind. As she moved to straighten her blouse, so that she could button it, the woman asked, "Do you understand what's happening?"

Willow finished fussing before offering her reply, "I know you're here for Buffy." It was a heartbreaking thing to admit. Her voice cracked with the strain. She swallowed tears she refused to shed.

"I am," the woman agreed.

Willow stubbornly lined up the collar of her blouse. Moving down four buttons, she started to work. Being prudish would be foolish after her earlier show. Showing weakness was unthinkable. Willow was manipulating the third button, which she deemed enough, when the woman spoke again, "I'm here for you as well."

The statement brought Willow to a halt. "What?" Barely aware that her gasp had contained an actual, intelligible word, she struggled to make sense of how she might figure in to her second-self's plans. Nothing came to mind. 'Nothing' wasn't a good thing to have in the face of this. In fact, coming up empty-handed was decidedly bad.

'There's always a price.'

Something inside Buffy's brain arced, spewing violent static. That's such unbelievable bullshit! I mean, I know she's right. She is right, but, but…dammit!

She sighed as she pushed the door to Willow's room in—the other Willow—the Willow who's 'Willow' here. The other Willow—her Willow had been about as personable as an ice sculpture. Buffy was at her wit's end. There was nowhere else for her to go, so she stepped into to the room and shut the door.

She totally sidestepped the issue. There's always a price? 'Price' my foot…and the cheap Giuseppe knockoff that's on it.

The static flared. Buffy let out a contemptuous hiss. Price. She stood rigid, her fists knotted, resisting the urge to rearrange the room, starting with the first thing she sort of, semi, halfway saw: a bed. She blinked her eyes, scrunching them briefly to make them focus. It was definitely a bed. It had a comforter and pillows just like any other bed. Artsy-craftsy, flowery embroidery and patchwork quilts were definitely a theme. Sort of antiquey. Decidedly Willowy. The price this time seems to be putting up with lame generalizations and flimsy half-truths.

Her attention turned to the closet, which was decidedly a closet, with its slightly narrower, white painted door and tarnished brass doorknob. It's time to start concentrating on the minutia. That's the only way I know how to deal with stuff like this. Start small. Pick one little thing that will make things better, do that thing and move on to the next tiny thing. Stay focused and don't break anything or gouge anyone's eyes out.

Or there's option B: curl up in a ball and cry. Not a horrible plan. I could use a good cry. Not horribly productive either.

I need to get clean.

I need to find clothes. I assume there are clothes.

Buffy went to the closet door and opened it. It wasn't empty. That was a start. Slacks wouldn't work, though there were bunches of them in a range of styles from jeans to chinos. Willow's still bigger than me. Not by much, but enough. A dress might do. A skirt and blouse would be better. Buffy began to seriously consider the choices, sliding hangers aside, ignoring the guilty pangs. I should ask first, but that would lead to indecision and stalling. Stalling would lead to weeping. Weeping would lead to nothing good.

I need to get clean. I'm still covered in Wolfram and Hart cooties.

The clothing had an air of disuse that worried her. She couldn't even put her finger on what made her think that. Maybe it was the faint, stale scent. What on earth would keep her from using her clothes? Does she have more clothes?

Y'know, I don't want to know. It could just be the Hyperion. Nothing in this place smells spring fresh unless you douse it with bottled spring freshness.

Buffy gave up and grabbed the first thing she saw that might come close to fitting: a simple, Empress cut, mint-green cotton sundress with flowery embroidery along its scalloped hem. It was cute enough. It might even fit. She was past the point of caring.

She turned around. There was a dresser on the other side of the room. She went to it. The first drawer she opened almost made her jaw drop. It was full of tangled leather straps and bands and strands. A handle with the braided leather grip stuck up among the jumble. I really don't want to know. She shut the drawer and set about putting some distance between herself and it. Suddenly, reusing my underwear doesn't seem nearly so gross. The bathroom was as good a place to go as any. She went there, posty-hastey. Okay, maybe not, it is gross, but there are worse things. Maybe later, after the brain trust figures things out—

The dress went onto a hook on the back of the door. Having to adjust a dozen minor movements was always annoying. Buffy didn't need any more annoying. She was sufficiently annoyed. In fact, it was a miracle that she went about the business of finding the light switch, turning on the light, figuring out how the shower worked, adjusting the temperature and all the other little crap it took to get clean somewhere unfamiliar without breaking anything important. There was one minor incident involving a shampoo bottle that seemed insistent that it belonged on the floor, not on the low, narrow sill it occupied. It fell twice and—although it squandered her whole reserve of self-control—she didn't throw it.

The mirror was still intact. That much was good. Buffy stripped and climbed into the shower. Even with the spray that should've been soothing, she felt like a spring that'd been wound too tight. Or maybe the flimsy doohickey that held the spring. Something was going to give. She hung her head. The water flowed around her face. She breathed in through her mouth. The tension had to go somewhere. She hoped it'd go here, without the 'boom.'

I don't get it. Two times. Two times we've been through this. Three times if you count Halfrek's hellacious wake over. No one slept. But that was more annoying than earth shattering. I don't get why Willow couldn't just put me back. She put her vampy self back. That wasn't that huge a deal. Wasn't putting me back the same thing? I asked her that. 'No' was all she said. No elaboration, no explanation, just 'no.'

Then there was Anya. We made a deal with D'Hoffryn to undo that. That was major. There were at least a dozen bodies and the resulting trauma.

I mentioned D'Hoffryn and Will got snitty. There was snit and all I did was say his name.

All I want to know is what she plans to do. She obviously has a plan. I mean, she wouldn't be talking to Will—the other Will—if she didn't. Something's up and no one's bothering to tell me what. All I got was 'There's always a price, Buffy,' 'I'll talk to you later, Buffy,' 'I'm sorry I can't say more, Buffy.' What am I five? Now she's talking to herself—literally with the duality—and I'm cooling my heels. I don't see why—

Oh, and I got a really weird, totally obscure, chronologically spurious, backhanded compliment buried in a goofy comment. Most people do that with insults—without the 'goofy.' Or the smarter ones do. Not my Will. She hides cute, sweet, only-mildly-insulting things that aren't meant to be insulting at all in her inane comments. I s'pose I should see that as a good sign. She still has a certain brilliantly obtuse Willowiness, even with the color changing hair and the flexible wardrobe and skin that looks like the inside of an oyster without all the goopy bits.

Also, the no-touching thing is just wrong. I think she should have to make with the full disclosure before she's allowed to go all Violet Parr on me. There should be a rule.

And if I think about this much longer, I'm going to—

Well, I don't know what I'll do. It won't be good. Not that any of this bears the slightest resemblance to something good.

Buffy picked up the obnoxiously flighty shampoo bottle. When she stood up, a great big clump of hair stuck to her face. She tossed it back. The distracting 'tossing' cost her the shampoo bottle. It hit, ringing the bottom of the cast iron tub like an atonal gong. A dozen potentially choice responses came to mind, not to mention the nagging need to throw a fit. Her jaw clenched, she stooped to retrieve the ever-elusive shampoo. One tiny thing…

Willow regarded herself in the 'look ma, no mirror' way that only someone who grew up on a Hellmouth could appreciate without turning green or going catatonic. That is what she could see of herself—her second-self—a doppelganger. Though, in truth, Willow was the interloper here. The doppelganger was in her element, buried up to her neck in rumpled heaps of bedding. The view was enough. Plenty. It was like looking into a mirror at someone she'd never been.

This is like a disturbingly tangible, all too intimate, shockingly animate demonstration of dualism. I prefer my second-self stay to part of myself, thank you very much.

Oh. Or it could just be like having a twin. That wouldn't be so bad, would it?

As if in answer to Willow's question, her alternate-self caused herself pain with alarmingly casual efficiency. The blankets scarcely even moved. The only indication of the fingernails that gouged her flesh was the relaxation of her expression, like somehow pain brought her clarity.

At least this one has a pulse.

Willow watched, recognizing the signs, sensing the changes, helpless to do anything about them. She wasn't even sure whether her counterpart understood what she was doing. Her reaction—or lack thereof—seemed to suggest that she wasn't. Worse were the memories. Willow knew exactly how broken this person was. She saw dozens and dozens, perhaps hundreds of views—all gruesome—as if through her own eyes. Assaulting herself was a new, deeply disturbing low. Her double had been beaten bloody too many times to count. So many times that she'd come to expect it, even enjoy it.

Suddenly, any of the notions Willow'd had that she might 'fix' things—or even improve them a little—seemed naïvely foolish. She shook the feeling off. It's too late to think better of any of this now. I have to go on. Get over it. I was committed before I knew anything about this. It isn't like I suddenly have bunches of choices now. All I can do is try to do some good.

Okay. I do have one choice. Would it be better to send Buffy back alone? It'd totally freak her out. I'm not sure short of actual 'making'—with the unconsciousness and the—that I could make her go. That felt so much like betrayal, Willow had to try to make good here. There was just no other choice. Either Captive Bond—not to be confused with James Bond—will snow crash or she won't. What I need is a good, solid Connery Bond, all sexy, sneaky, secret agenty. Even Brosnan Bond would be better. Depressing, but—

All I can really do is do it and hope she won't pull a Patty Hearst on me. Or worse, on Buffy somewhere down the road.

That line of thought was just too horrible to follow. Willow scrabbled for something else to occupy her mind. There just wasn't much to distract her: a vanity, its mirror reflecting herself, twice; the bed, full up with rumpled linens and the object of her angst; a pair of arm chairs; and between the two a table. Her eyes drifted over the remaining contents of the room: a desk; a window, its thick draperies leaking daylight; a tacky reproduction, renaissance painting of a swan; and lots and lots of truly tasteless, antiquated, two-tone burgundy and ochre wall.

Suddenly, finally, the cause of Willow's unrest decided it was time to get up. She shed the bedclothes, coming to rest sitting on the edge of the bed in one fluid motion. As she stooped to put on her boots, which stood neatly on the floor at the bedside, Willow began to give her exactly what she craved. Not pain, she couldn't do that, but she could offer some control. She began by tucking and buttoning the tail of her double's blouse without touching her, just manipulating the fabric from across the room.

It was hard to imagine how, but the other woman didn't appear to notice. She didn't even flinch when her vest disappeared, replaced by a satin half-corset in deep teal-blue embroidered with scrollwork trimmed with tiny wildflowers. Her posture straightened but that was all. Willow rolled down the sleeves and fastened the cuffs of the other woman's blouse, smoothing the fabric. Her double looked up when Willow added bracers to match the corset, lacing them tightly over her forearms. Her boots were on, so Willow commanded her to stand.

A pang of jealousy caused Willow pause. Caring how her double looked was just too much, too altruistic, and maybe too narcissistic in a crazy, backward, mixed-up kind of way. She had to force herself to continue. The overall effect was good, but her double's white satin bra didn't go with the teal accessories. Buttoning the shirt would've been the easiest solution, but Willow chose to change the fabric, coloring it to match the bracers and corset. Then she straightened her double's blouse, removing all of the wrinkles, leaving it crisp as if freshly starched.

It'll be better for both of them if I can package this attractively. I know how Buffy feels. She has a surprisingly black and white view of the world. It's almost naïve. She sees this as bad. I bet she labeled it so without a second thought because of how it came about. And she's right, but that reaction won't exactly do anything good for the things that just are—the things that won't change overnight. This doesn't have to be bad. It's like anything else. What matters most is your intent. Love will change it. Love changes everything.

The idea that Buffy could love this duplicate for their similarities both warmed Willow's heart and caused her deep sorrow. Like it or not, the proof was there in Kennedy's memories. Buffy resisted the temptation out of a sense of honor, but how she felt was clear as day. I guess I should be flattered that she fell for my Willowy charms once again. She missed me. It's sweet, in a really aggravating way.

Anyway, they'll need to meet somewhere in the middle for this to work. Might as well start here. I'm not even sure how the other me will be after…

Willow forced herself to focus again. Her double's skirt needed an alteration or two as well. It grew fuller and shorter to just below her knees. The fabric changed to a similar teal, a smidge darker, with a scalloped, crocheted lace trimmed hem. It was a cute look, kind of a mix, like renfest meets Old Navy.

The next thing was going to hurt to do. Not that the magic would be hard. It was the violation that troubled Willow. She suppressed a sigh. She'd always been a bit of a hedonist. Sex, food, comfort…but there had always been balance. Sex without nymphomania. Food without being one of those boring, obsessive 'foodie' types…or fat. Comfort without being lazy. This was just—

This was brokenness in a way she could plausibly be broken. It was the extreme. And that was highly disturbing. Well, I'm about to throw her life into chaos, so…the least I can do is make her feel helpless, which will translate as 'comfy' to her.

In one swift, decisive act, Willow bound the two bracers where the laces tied at the wrist behind her back while 'poofing' and adding leather cuffs that banded the outside of her double's boots. The changes brought a sharp hiss from the other woman. Willow answered with an ethereal tap to the backs of her knees, dropping her counterpart to the ground. The whole thing seemed lots harsher than it was. The simple slip knots Willow tied in the bracer's laces weren't tight or out of reach. She did the same thing with the cuffs at her double's ankles. Releasing two clips would free her legs. Being bound was an illusion—one that appeared to be necessary.

Yeah. I could do more. Maybe I should do more, but I think I've sufficiently plumbed the depths of my own perversity for one night. Drawing the line at 'minor moral turpitude' is, er, umm…yeah.

Willow rose and strode over to her quasi-helpless counterpart. "I'm sorry," she said in a tone she hoped would be soothing. "You know Buffy doesn't understand, right?" She reached down and made to lift her double's chin, but what pushed at the other woman wasn't physical. It's easier, safer and much less pervy to do what needs to be done with magic. Not that I think she's a demon or that there's anything even remotely demonic about her, but what if Buffy touches her? Discretion can be good.

The double wouldn't meet Willow's eyes. Her chin dipped ever so slightly. "I didn't know how to explain," she said, sounding abashed. "I wasn't sure I even wanted to."

"Would you mind if I tried?" Willow asked, releasing her not-so-physical hold on her counterpart's chin. Why'd I do that? "She needs to understand for both of you," she added, hoping that maybe the guilt would sway her second self. Because nothing could possibly go wrong if I meddle.

Guilt had one noticeable effect. That, and the absence of magic fingers. Red hair curtained her counterpart's face. "No," she admitted. "I guess not." She didn't sound sure at all. Which was good. The rest of the sitch slurped patootie, but—

There had to be something else. Willow waited patiently for the caveat. Moments later, a sharp intake of air had underscored her double's reticence to speak. "What?" Willow prompted.

Of course, the other woman replied, "Nothing," like that was even productive.

"Just tell me," Willow said, curbing none of her exasperation.

"It's just—" her double stammered, breaking off with a gasp. Much hemming and hawing later, she asked, "Why would it matter?"

"Because it does," Willow insisted with a laugh. It sounded so sardonic, she gave up. It wasn't worth explaining. I'll just talk with Buffy. "Look. I have something to show you. I could tell you, but we don't have much time. There are things I need you to understand." She knelt down in front of her double. No reaction came, so Willow prodded. "Is that okay?"

She wanted more assent than just a slight nod. It'd be nice if she was at least a little bit curious. This is kind of a big deal.

A nod was all she expected and that was all she got.

Well, that was a new one. Willow melted Marcus Hamilton. He looked like that Stretch Armstrong I left on the dash of Dad's car that one summer, minus the leaky puddle of syrupy goo.

Y'know, I think we should have meeting—maybe set some ground rules before Will gets her dander up and turns someone else into a Rorschachtest.

Xander folded the morning paper, tucking it under his arm. There was nothing earth shattering on the front page. Nothing involving them, at least. Though it was hard to see how the media had missed the spectacle, he supposed it was good that they had. He'd have to dig a little deeper, see if maybe there was a story buried somewhere. You'd think that half the windows getting blown out of a downtown office building without an earthquake or so much as a violent gust would rate at least a four-by-five with color art.

Not that I'm complaining. Low is exactly how we like our key here at Casa Anathema.

Turning, Xander ducked into the shade of the Hyperion, through the gates into the portico, gardeny thingy, and past the fountain. He froze when he reached the lobby, startled by what he saw, or more aptly who he saw.

Angel was back, standing in the lobby near the intake desk, looking strangely lost. The door swung shut with a thud causing him to wheel around. "Oh, Xander," he said, appearing taken aback. His manner eased, shifting to concern. "Is everything alright? Nothing's happened since last night? I was worried that the office might send someone. That's why I, uh…" He trailed off, taking in Xander's cadaverous reaction.

Xander felt frozen solid like Pitcher Lady in the fountain room behind him, unable to do anything except gape. It was twice as hard now. Impossible to see anything besides a sociopath with a taste for living corpuscles draped in gallingly dashing Italian leather. A sociopath who was closing in on Xander's position at an alarming rate.

Worse Angel's a sociopath whose only son joined the list of the 'no longer with us' Little Miss Monstery Psychosis has put so much effort into growing.

Willow being weirdly Willowy had taken the death and grown something else: a tree. Xander damned his own observance. Had he not noticed that tree, he wouldn't be one of the three people who knew about Connor's currently, all too literally, vegetative state. Somehow Xander felt it was up to him. The other two weren't talking. And he was here. Angel was here. Too close now for comfort. Xander needed to open his fool mouth. A question hung—a benign one. He couldn't even bring himself to answer that.

'Yes, everything's just ducky—coming up all rosy goodness—peachy with a side of keen…if you're dense enough to miss the portents that all seem to be saying that apocalypse season is starting early this year.'

Yeah, that won't do.

So, maybe another of others will be. Up for it, that is—the question-answering, bad new-bearing part of the program. Well, maybe not Buffy. It'd be best to avoid putting those two together in the same room. Not that I'm worried about either of them. There are cats with less lives. It's the rest of us. We'd be lucky to make it out with—

It suddenly occurred to him that Willow—not his Willow—the other Willow. Snow Willow might have something to say about the pending smack down and she— "Willow melted Marcus Hamilton," Xander mumbled. The instant he said it, regret blossomed, thick and heavy, like a wet, icy blanket. He was damned.

Angel's expression changed. Questions built behind his eyes. Xander could see the wheels spinning furiously. Answers would be expected. All degrees, especially three, would be probed, poked, prodded. Squealing would be heard.

"Did you say 'melted'?" Angel prompted. It was good that he'd settled on simply looking bemused. That had promise.

It was way past time to leave.

I did it.

Willow remembered all of the feelings that rushed through her in that moment: wonder, disbelief, excitement, joy… Awash with relief, she slumped. It was done. Kennedy swept up the scythe and ran from the room.

The path diverged from there, taking an unexpected turn: Buffy lived.

Willow expected joyous celebration, merrymaking, a madcap jamboree to beat all jamborees. There was a little of that. Not much. Not enough. The mood was pretty sober. Somber. And it stayed that way. They weren't sure what they should do. She marveled at that. Everything for her had been decided. Her people had done what needed to be done to take their minds off of the thick, pervasive sorrow that had blanketed their lives.

The memories cascaded. Data dumped. Backed up. The AirPort swarmed, bits and bytes buzzing in a holding pattern, preparing to land. Just like that. It was amazing. How—?

Willow couldn't exactly track it, but she could form an impression. The other Scoobies had regrouped and done things that were very similar to the things her people had done. Simple things. Logical things. Things that didn't twist up—turn around to bite them in the butt—or at least the biting wasn't as vicious. They actually built something. An organization formed in the wake of their victory—in the wake of their loss. They had, after all, still lost everything they'd ever known. Their home was gone and the people with it. Important people. People who were missed.

It was too painful. Her double had withdrawn, but she knew. Her friends sought the newbie slayers out. Bodies didn't pile up, or at least they didn't pile up in the same way. It wasn't all cookies and cream, but it was better.

It was also growing faster. What Willow had assumed to be a torrent had actually been a trickle. The floodgate was opened now. Dizzying, nauseating, overwhelming…

Buffy was dead.

That one piece of knowledge came. Willow caught hold of it, forcing it to float to the top. It stayed there, taunting her. A single red spot stained the front of Buffy's shirt. It seemed so harmless. Again. The spot could've been from a nosebleed or a spill—ketchup, cocktail sauce, nail polish—anything but what it was—a spot of blood that made Willow want to die.

Tara.

A thick, sluggish ache filled Willow. Intermingled with the dullness, sharp stabs echoed violent sobs. The remaining nightmare, the roar of sensations, colors and sounds flowed through her. Her muscles tensed. She sprang. Up became forward. She sprawled across the floor flat on her face. Her arms and legs were bound. She flopped, struggling to roll over.

My God. Buffy's dead.

The grief was unbearable. The grief was the same. The grief was brief. Rage supplanted it. Willow lashed out. She felt it claim her. The gun went flying. The man went flying too. They went flying in different directions. They were in a room—a tight space with white walls—a cell. Buffy had attacked the man. She lay crumpled on the floor. Her vacant stare—

Buffy was dead.

The man—a stout, older fellow with glossy, greasy, graying, Dick Tracy hair—an officer in military garb with crisp lines, drab colors, his right jacket breast festooned with medals—a 'decorated officer'—the man died. Willow crushed him. She remembered how fancy the last death she'd caused had been. She'd been particularly proud of that spell. It was intricate, elegant, beautiful in its cruelty. The monster Warren Mears had been alive. He was fully aware of every strip of flesh the peeled from his body. Normally such things were shocking. They put one into shock. General Voll had gone into shock the instant his body struck the wall. He hadn't known what I was like to be squished like a bug…and Willow was fine with that.

He was dead.

Satsu had screamed at her—was screaming at her. Willow didn't hear. She hadn't heard. She was on her knees. She held Buffy, cradled her. Things had gone horribly wrong. Again.

Buffy was dead.

Willow was on the floor, on her side, her legs drawn up to her chest. She couldn't hug them. Her arms were tied behind her back. Her ankles were tied together too. She was helpless. The memories roared inside her head. They kept coming, kept flowing, churning incomprehensible froth. A deluge where latent images reflected, cast up, caught, exposed like mist by the sun.

Buffy was alive. She's alive now. It's obvious. She lived. How did she live?

Voices cried out—hundreds, many hundreds—all speaking at once—the thoughts of everyone around her—a vast cacophony. They came from the memories. She understood. Every memory came with every thought of everyone around her. There just were so many. Too many.

'I see the moon and the moon sees me.'

The flow ebbed. Willow's mind raced. It was too much to make sense of. There were too many thoughts, too many ideas, too many sensations, too many sights, too many sounds—all of them tangled together in a glutted, roiling mass.

'The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see.'

Willow opened her eyes. A light cotton, Tapa print skirt fanned out beside her. Willow focused on the hands resting on the abstract, smoky, geometric pattern. They were all too familiar, except for one blisteringly obvious, nonetheless wigsome detail: the pigmentation was wrong. The fact that the pearlescent sheen seemed to swirl made Willow squeamish. She looked away, picking something else, something safer. A table leg. That'd do.

I thought that their lives had been so much easier. I was almost jealous. The thought shamed Willow. Her face burned hot. She wanted to run. She needed to hide. She didn't move.

'Kay, so, I was jealous.

I was wrong. She fought. I stagnated.

Her counterpart took a deep, clearly audible breath, an overture to some announcement. Worry over what it might be made Willow tense. She hunkered down to weather the storm in a purely mental, metaphorical sense. Moving would be pointless. Doing anything at all would be pointless. The other shoe would drop and there wasn't a darned thing she could do about it.

Moments later it did drop. "I nee—" It dropped, crackling and sputtering. "I-I need you to keep her safe." Not at all like a shoe dropping. A shoe dropping was supposed to be forceful. This sounded so subdued. Broken.

Willow wanted to look, but she couldn't bring herself to. Her double was either exhausted or weeping or both.