Author's Note: I hate my job.

I hate, hate, hate, hate, HATE my job.

I worked almost 60 hours last week, preparing for July 4. Gave out a free bottle of wine to our guests and bought beach passes and slaved away at the rooms for ages! And what do I have to show for it? A few people who were vaguely happy but upset about things I can't actually do anything about (I mean, seriously, you're complaining that there are housekeeping items out when the housekeepers are cleaning rooms?! Are you INSANE?!), but not very specific, and one person who just slammed us into the ground because we bent over backwards for them and fixed everything they said even when it was unreasonable, and they just didn't care. One star, saying we were horrible and not worth the price - which, by the way, we ARE! I mean, FREE BOTTLE OF FINE IMPORTED FRENCH WINE OVER HERE! But they made us sound like a total dump, as if we HADN'T fixed anything. I mean, geeze! Some people!

Plus, I get no overtime pay. I don't get minimum wage. And as I get more professional training in things like accounting, my uncle's started to realize that I can always do everything cheaper than everyone else - therefore, he should just fire everyone else and make it all be MY job.

And my room's full of bugs and smells like cigarette smoke, because the hotel guests have decided the designated smoking area should be right outside my room. And it's small and terrible and has no kitchen, so I've got lousy food.

And I don't make enough to qualify for health benefits, so California's stuck me on this plan that doesn't pay for anything.

To conclude... I HATE MY JOB!

In a kind of funny note, I was ranting to someone earlier about how much I hate my job, and how no one listens to me, and realized that I was inadvertently quoting a line of dialogue I'd actually written for Seo. Haha! I think my frustrations and insecurities and under-appreciation at my job is getting funneled into my writing.

Anyways.

Enough of that rant. Good to see all that bad stuff is going into something that people actually ENJOY.

(I mean, really! We gave them complimentary beach passes and corkscrews and everything! Even rose petals on their beds! What do you have to do to make people happy, here?! If I could tear down the hotel and build a five million dollar mansion with AC for every single guest, and still charge them a hundred a night for it, then that'd be great. But it's NOT GOING TO HAPPEN, PEOPLE!)

Enjoy!

When Gardell returned to Summers for another interrogation, he found she was different, yet again. Much more coherent, her eyes focused and her stance determined.

"Okay, I thought about it," said Summers, folding her hands on the table in front of her, looking self-confident and poised. "And I've decided… this whole yelling-at-each-other thing is going nowhere. We're both trying to save the kids. So let's put our heads together and figure out how to do that."

This version of Summers… seemed to match the accounts that people were giving on TV.

The self-confident, face-down-anything, open and willing to share information version of the belligerent person he'd been interrogating the other day.

Gardell was beginning to see what Hiskaloph meant.

"You do know," Gardell reminded her, "that you're being interrogated because you're under suspicion of terrorism."

Summers waved the notion away. "So shine a bright light in my eyes or whatever!" she said. Brushed back her hair. "Okay. So. Here's what I know. Kids everywhere went all with the mega-zombie-trance, and started speaking in unison."

Gardell sat back.

Decided to let her continue.

"So then I'm thinking — magic spell?" Summers offered. "Or alien freaky-tech thing that I don't know about? Like… oh, that Christmas when that spaceship hovered over London, and everyone went up to the roof! You remember that?"

Yes.

He did.

"It's pretty similar," Summers decided. "So, yeah. Definitely scare-tactics. That means whatever monsters are controlling the kids, they're not as strong as they want us to think. If they were Mayor-Style Invulnerable, they wouldn't have to scare us. They'd just come here, tear up the Earth, and take what they wanted."

Gardell nodded.

Didn't answer.

"Which leads us to the start of massive weirdness," Summers concluded. Punching the table for emphasis. "Because that means… this shouldn't have been a real threat. I mean, we should be able to defeat them. But… then… someone took out Torchwood."

"Who do you think did that?" Gardell asked.

Time to confirm or disprove Hiskaloph's story.

"Well, that's where the weirdness comes in," said Summers. "Because it's not just Torchwood out of commission, right? All my UNIT buds are out in the middle of nowhere, uncontactable by any means — which means UNIT's massively short-handed and brain-drained. Giles has disappeared. Ria's imprisoned. And… well, basically everyone else who deals with aliens has been handicapped in some way or other." She shook her head. "I mean, it's just like that Harold Saxon thing! Like someone's trying to get us all out of the way."

Harold Saxon.

Hiskaloph had mentioned the similarity with that, too.

"Except…" Summers faltered. Her face growing increasingly somber. "Except that time, the Doctor didn't know it was coming. And this time… he did. He warned me. He said…" She shuddered. "He said we were going to lose."

"Doctor?" Gardell asked.

"The time traveler I told you about," Summers put in, with a helpful smile. "Remember? I'm pretty sure I mentioned him."

Gardell had heard something about a 'Doctor'. Whispered rumors that circulated around the highest echelons of the government. Not a lot of it had made much sense to him.

Summers' face turned into a deep frown. As she thought, hard. "If only I could remember exactly what he said," she muttered. "It was back when I was facing down Glory. I remember that. He seemed really antsy about the Key. Like… you could tell he'd been interrogated about it and stuff. Guantanamo-style interrogated, not… whatever this is." She waved her hand at the room. "Lights and confusion and way too many questions. Are you guys ever gonna tell me what day it is?"

"What else did he tell you?" Gardell pressed her. "About what was happening here?"

Summers threaded her hands through her hair. "Oh, God, I don't remember," she admitted. "It was years ago. I wrote it all down in this little red notebook, just in case it was important… but that notebook got craterized when the Hellmouth collapsed."

Gardell nodded.

Slowly.

"But I do remember… he said someone wanted the Key," said Summers. "Because it's this super-powerful mystical artifact that can alter the universe and stuff. He wouldn't give it up, and they knew he loved this planet, so…" she shrugged. "You know. Kids. Evilness. Lots of people dying."

Gardell didn't know how much of this to believe.

Aliens he understood. There was no use denying them, at this point.

But… mystical artifacts? Time travel? Hellmouths?!

"The Doctor seemed really upset about it," said Summers. Her voice lowering, her body drooping, as she remembered. "Totally guilty. And he said…" Her voice faltered. "He said I didn't stop it."

Which wasn't the story he'd gotten from Hiskaloph.

She'd led Gardell to believe Summers was the only one who could stop this.

"You… can't help the children," Gardell verified.

"I'm getting to that!" Summers insisted. Held up a hand. "Don't rush me, here. I mean, give some extra-planning-time to the dying woman."

Gardell raised his eyebrows. "Dying?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm… um… dying," Summers admitted. She fidgeted. "I think. Or… something. I don't know, anymore." She frowned. "Every time the children speak… this… I mean, I dug up…"

She drifted off.

A wave of confusion suddenly running across her face.

And in a single moment, her body language, her manner, everything about her… changed. Again.

"Children," Summers said, and her voice was softer, a little more gentle. Her movements all a little more fluid, as she fidgeted with the sleeve of her shirt. "It all comes back to children. I… I can't remember… if I have any…"

She drifted off.

Her face bent deep in concentration.

"I mean, Tom and I always talked about it," Summers went on. "But… I think…" She tapped her nose, in thought. "No, wait. We have two girls. Or… is it two boys? And… why don't I know this?"

"And Tom," Gardell said, "is…?"

Summers blinked. Then her stance changed, again, as if she were shaking off an old skin. And her voice went back to normal. "An ex," she said. "Sorry, I… don't know where I got that from. Tom's been dead for… years, now."

"Just like… 'Michael'," Gardell noted. "And 'Harris'. And 'Benjy'."

Summers frowned. "Yeah. I… uh…" She shook her head. "Wait, how do you know all my ex…?"

"You keep bringing them up," said Gardell. "Every time you get confused." He took a long pause. Then gave her a kind smile. "Ms. Summers. Tell me about your family."

Summers immediately went tense. Like she was a cat, waiting to spring. Her eyes narrowing. "Why?"

"I'm interested," Gardell replied. Then, trying to work it in as nonchalantly as possible, "Do you have children?"

"I'm not married," Summers snapped.

"That's not what I asked."

Summers was quiet for a very long time.

"This… it's… Look, what does this have to do with anything?" Summers said, at last. "This isn't about my kids… whether real or deleted or whatever. It's about everyone else's! I mean, what?" She gave a nervous laugh. "You think this is me conjuring up some space alien kid-snatchers from my subconscious, because I'm bitter about super-dimensional beings screwing up my life? Because that's just… that's just nuts!"

But Summers was nervous, uneasy, and Gardell could tell.

Interesting.

"Who needs kids!" Summers said. Throwing up her hands. "I never had any. And I'm fine! Just because my boyfriends keep dying and I…"

She hesitated.

"Wait, or… I mean, I think I don't have…" A wave of confusion flooded Summers' face, again. "But… I remember someone. She's important. A…"

Her face went pale.

Her whole body stock-still, in an instant.

"Alison," Summers whispered. "Alison was her best friend. And Alison… she couldn't have… she shouldn't have…"

She went quiet.

Then squeezed her eyes shut.

A shudder running through her. "Wrong," Summers said. She ran hands through her hair, and then doubled over. Whether from pain or from nearly breaking down into hysterics, it was hard to tell. "Wrong! Wrong! It's all wrong! Alison's dead! She shouldn't be dead! I… I can't…"

"Summers," said Gardell. Very slowly. Very firmly. "Do you know what's making you sick?"

Summers didn't answer.

But he could see, from the way her whole body was suddenly trembling… that she did.

Or… rather… a part of her did.

The part of her that seemed to alter by the second. Whose body-language was completely different, who seemed to have a different life and a different family.

Who had children.

Summers then looked up at Gardell. Her entire manner had changed, once again. Suddenly aggressive. Cold. Cruel. "And what if I don't tell you?" she said. A little grin on her face. Her voice dropping. "What if you never find out? What if I'm your only hope — your only salvation — and I've decided not to help you?"

Gardell remained unshakeable. "I'm the one trying to help you," he reminded her.

She leaned forwards. "Everyone always says that," she replied. "But you don't. You just want me to spill the beans. Tell you everything you need to know, and how to save the day." Her voice lowered, and her expression grew almost predatory. "I found it. What's making me sick. And what's making the kids speak in unison." Her eyes gleamed. "I found the Quantum Crystallizer."

Now this was very interesting.

"What is a Quantum Crystallizer?" Gardell asked.

Summers laughed in his face. "Oh, you'd like to know, wouldn't you?" she said. Waggled a finger at him. "But I'm the only one can answer. And I'm not telling."

Then Summers doubled up again.

Crying out, in pain, her hands against her head.

"It's too much!" Summers shouted, every bit of cruelty and coldness dropping away in an instant. "It's… it's all inside my head! All these people and all these voices, and they're all me! I can't… I can't… I don't know who I am, anymore! I don't…!"

Then she stopped.

Froze.

"And do you know who you are, now, Ms. Summers?" Gardell asked.

"In every generation, there is a chosen one," Summers said, in a monotone. Her eyes fixed into the distance. "One girl, in all the world, who… fights…" Her face fell. "Alison said they were coming back. Over and over again. Returning, returning, always returning… returning through the darkness and the void. They are returning because it is returning and… and…"

She blinked.

Then her eyes focused back on Gardell.

And everything clicked back into place. Her first personality, the self-confident hero.

"Sorry. Sorry," Summers said. Sitting up, tall, trying to resume her previous officiousness. "I… um… I've been having these dizzy-spells. Headaches." Gritted her teeth. "Must have had another one. Total funness."

Gardell analyzed her.

Then, in a low voice, "Do you remember what you just told me, Ms. Summers?"

Summers shot him a weird look. "About what? The Key? Or is this going to be something about you not believing in aliens and magic and whatever? Because…"

Summers winced, hand to her head.

"God, these headaches are killing me," she muttered. Then, sucking in a sharp breath, "Possibly literally. I'll get back to you on that one."

Gardell nodded.

Then pressed a small button, on the bottom of the desk. One that responded to his thumbprint.

The door opened, and one of Gardell's coworkers came in with a pitcher of water and a glass. Set it down, then left.

"So you don't remember anything," Gardell said, pouring her a glass, "about a… Crystallizer? About something returning, over and over again?"

"Oh, that!" said Summers. She planted a smile on her face, but it was clear that she was wracking her brains, trying to find a cover. "Yeah, I remember… that… stuff. Absolutely!"

Gardell wondered just how many times she'd played this game with herself.

And how many times she'd lost.

"Stuff," Gardell repeated.

Summers slumped in her seat. "Okay. You got me."

Gardell nodded. "So you don't remember anything?"

"I dunno," said Summers. "The things you said all sound familiar. Like… I know what they are. Or… I know I knew. But… the thoughts, the memories… they're hard to grasp."

He offered her the glass of water, and she took it.

Just held it, a moment, her fingers drumming across the surface.

"Crystallizer," Summers repeated. "I remember the Crystallizer. Or… I think I do. I…" She thought a lot harder. Concentrated, her brow knitted. "It's… important. I'm sure of that. The most important thing of all."

Interesting.

Summers shook her head. "Maybe I'll remember later," she said.

Downed the water in one go.

Then smiled at Gardell.

"Thanks for that," said Summers, putting the glass down on the table. "Mysterious illnesses really take it out of you."

Gardell nodded. "This… Crystallizer," he said. "You said it was responsible for the children speaking in unison."

Summers frowned. "I did?"

"You also said," Gardell continued, "it's what's making you sick."

Summers opened her mouth to speak, but no sounds came out.

"You said… this was happening over and over again," said Gardell. "The children said that, too. They're coming back. Whomever is making the children speak in unison… have they been here, before? Is the Crystallizer left over from last time they showed up?"

"I… I can't…" Summers began.

But didn't seem able to get the words out.

"I know you want to help," Gardell said. "That's clear. But you need to tell me. What's going to happen? How can we stop this?"

"I… can't… breathe…" Summers choked.

Then fell to the ground, suddenly feverish and unconscious.

Gardell raced forwards, but could tell immediately that this wasn't a 'dizzy-spell'. Her throat had nearly closed up, her heart was shutting down, her internal organs failing.

Two seconds later, the door burst open. And a medical staff were crowding around, injecting her with something and then heading off with her to the medical center.

Gardell stayed behind.

Staring at the pitcher of water, still on the table-top.

Samuel came running in. "I saw the medical staff. What—?"

"Poison," Gardell said. His eyes never leaving the pitcher. "I recognized the symptoms. Someone poisoned the water." He grabbed the glass up, his knuckles turning white.

Hiskaloph was right.

Someone in the FBI knew what was going on. And didn't want Summers to talk.

This was becoming an even more dangerous game than he'd thought.

"And so," Mitch Philhorn reported, on his show, "as today winds down, and the world waits for whatever is coming tomorrow… well, I think I speak for myself as well as everybody else in this country when I say this."

He turned around to face Camera 2.

"Buffy Summers," he said. "Where are you?"