Chapter 19: What's My Line Part 2
December 16, 1997 – Tuesday
Sunnydale High School – 2:30 pm
The Career Fair buzzed with a palpable energy as students clustered eagerly around the diverse booths that had transformed the school lounge into a hub of professional possibilities. Representatives from various professions stood behind each booth, ready to dispense advice, encouragement, and information, all with the aim of convincing students that the real world held the promise of excitement and fulfillment.
Willow, her eyes filled with a curious mixture of anticipation and contemplation, drifted through the bustling crowds. Physician, postal worker, policewoman—she surveyed each booth, pondering the paths she might have explored if not for the transformative events of Halloween that had altered the course of her destiny.
"What are you doing here?" Xander's teasing voice broke through her musings as he approached. "Fly! Be free, little bird—you defy category!"
Smiling at Xander's playful banter, Willow replied, "I'm looking for Buffy."
"Starfleet mission," Xander quipped, a mischievous glint in his eye. "She and Giles left an hour ago."
As the exchange unfolded, Principal Snyder, a figure known for his stern demeanor, materialized behind Xander. Willow, ever polite, greeted him with a friendly, "Hello, Principal Snyder."
The principal, caught off guard by the unexpected politeness, mumbled a curt acknowledgment. His eyes darted around the bustling Career Fair, and a rare glimmer of intrigue crossed his face as he observed the students exploring potential futures.
Xander, caught in the unexpected presence of Principal Snyder, couldn't shake the unease that gnawed at him despite the recent memories of Cale Brynn. There was something about Snyder that, even in the context of a vibrant Career Fair, instilled an unsettling sense of fear in him.
"Principal Snyder! Great Career Fair, sir. Really. In fact, I'm so inspired by your leadership, I'm thinking of principal school. I want to walk in your shoes." Xander's attempt at flattery mixed with awkward humor, and he hesitated, glancing down at the principal's feet. "Not your actual shoes, of course. Because you're a tiny person. Not tiny in the small sense, of course…" His voice trailed off, and he nodded emphatically. "Okay. Done now."
Principal Snyder, seemingly unimpressed and unmoved by Xander's attempt at levity, didn't grace him with a remark. His attention shifted to Willow, his expression devoid of any semblance of warmth. "Where is she?" he asked, getting straight to the point.
Willow, adopting an innocent demeanor, met Snyder's gaze with wide-eyed sincerity. "Who?"
"You know who," Snyder replied tersely, his impatience evident.
"Oh, Buffy," Willow replied with a knowing smile. "You've seen the memo sent out by the Air Force, right?"
Snyder frowned, a palpable sense of irritation settling on his features. "Yes," he grumbled, not entirely liking where this conversation was heading.
"Well, she is currently on a mission," Willow responded calmly, her eyes reflecting a mix of sincerity and a hint of mischievousness. "She will be back any moment, I'm sure."
Principal Snyder's already stern expression deepened into a scowl, the lines etched on his face eternally etched in disapproval. "This is unacceptable," he snapped, his voice carrying an authoritative tone that echoed through the bustling Career Fair. "You lot are students. The Air Force should relegate their activities when you three are not here."
Willow, unfazed by the principal's dissatisfaction, rolled her eyes with an air of nonchalance. "Yeah, you know the government. They don't like being told what to do."
Snyder, caught in a momentary standstill, raised an eyebrow, his disapproval crystallized in his piercing gaze. "Fascinating," he mumbled, his tone heavy with sarcasm, as if the intricacies of the government's dealings were beyond his capacity for understanding. Without further comment, he briskly moved off, the disapproving aura trailing behind him like a shadow.
"That was smart thinking, Will, utilizing the Air Force cover story," Xander praised with an appreciative grin. "That said, I can't wait for the Republic to become public knowledge. So we don't have to hide who we are."
"So do I," Willow replied, her gaze lingering on Xander as he walked off. "See you," she called after him, her words echoing in the bustling atmosphere of the Career Fair.
As Willow lingered, absorbed in her own thoughts, she suddenly jumped, startled by the unexpected presence behind her. Turning, she found herself face to face with two men, each adorned in identical dark suits and donning expressions that exuded an air of supreme authority rather than immediate danger.
"Willow Rosenberg?" the voice of one of the men inquired, their somber expressions unwavering.
Willow, her eyes narrowing slightly, felt the subtle shift within herself. The persona of Becca Reidel, with its shrewd and discerning demeanor, surfaced. "Excuse me?" she countered, her tone carrying a hint of challenge.
"Let's walk," said the man.
Willow's eyes narrowed farther. "No," she said. "Not till you tell me what this is about."
"You've been selected to meet with Mr. McCarthy, head recruiter for the world's leading software concern," one of the men explained. "The jet was delayed by fog at Sea-Tac, but he should be here any minute."
Willow couldn't conceal her curiosity as she processed the unexpected revelation. Meeting with the head recruiter for a global software giant was not an everyday occurrence, especially for a high school student. As she followed the two men through the bustling Career Fair, the air was thick with anticipation, and her mind raced with questions about why she had been singled out for such an opportunity.
They traversed past several booths, weaving through the sea of students until they reached a velvet cordon. Beyond it lay an elevated section of the lounge, shrouded in secrecy by a dark curtain. Two freestanding walls discreetly separated this exclusive area from the general population. The ambiance had undergone a transformation into a deco salon, softly lit with hidden speakers playing a gentle bossa nova melody. Willow's eyes scanned the surroundings, taking in the refined atmosphere and the company logo on the wall, which she realized bore a striking resemblance to a prominent figure in the computer industry.
A white-gloved waiter gracefully approached her, presenting a silver tray laden with hors d'oeuvres. "Try the canapé," one of her escorts suggested. "It's excellent." With a polite smile, he added, "Please. Make yourself comfortable."
As the two men turned to leave, Willow's inquisitive nature kicked in, and she stopped them with a determined expression. T
"But I didn't even get my test back," Willow said, her curiosity piqued.
"The test was irrelevant," the first man replied with an air of nonchalance. "We've been tracking you for some time."
Willow's eyes narrowed again, a blend of surprise and wariness etched on her face. How long had they been keeping tabs on her? The question lingered unspoken as she demanded more information. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice steady but laced with a subtle undertone of suspicion.
"We told you," said the second man, maintaining a stoic demeanor.
"I know, but if you've been tracking me, then you may have a lot of information that is currently not public knowledge," Willow pressed further, her analytical mind at work. "Does the name Valkyrie mean anything to you?"
The first man exchanged a glance with his companion, a hint of curiosity flickering in their eyes. "No," he said. "Should it?"
"Not yet, no," Willow replied cryptically, her expression betraying a depth of knowledge she chose not to divulge at that moment. As both men exited through the partition, leaving Willow alone in the refined deco salon, she contemplated the enigmatic encounter.
About to reach for her communicator to share the unusual turn of events with her comrades, Willow's attention was diverted. Another student, seemingly unfazed by the peculiar formality of the exclusive space, sat on a nearby couch.
Willow's gaze lingered on Oz's familiar features—his thick reddish hair, baggy clothes, and that wide, friendly mouth. Instantly, she recognized him as the one she'd gotten tangled up with in the chaotic hall on Halloween. The memories of that night rushed back, bringing with them a mix of embarrassment and curiosity.
Oz, seemingly at ease, slouched comfortably on the plush cushions, his gaze focused on the plate of food he held. Sensing Willow's gaze, he glanced up, their eyes locking for a moment. Willow, compelled by a magnetic force, moved towards the couch and settled down next to him.
The air thickened with an unspoken tension, a residue of their past interactions. Both of them stared straight ahead, the weight of their shared history hanging between them like an invisible veil. The silence stretched, awkward and pregnant with unsaid words.
Breaking the stillness, it was Oz who finally spoke. Leaning over with his plate, he offered it to Willow, a gesture that seemed to bridge the gap between them. "Canapé?" he asked casually, the simplicity of the offer carrying a subtle invitation to share a moment of connection amidst the peculiar circumstances.
Restfield Cemetery – Same Time
Giles walked beside Buffy, their hurried steps echoing through the quiet cemetery. The air held a tangible stillness, broken only by the occasional rustling of leaves or distant sounds of the city beyond.
"When you look at me," Buffy spoke, breaking the silence that hung between them like a delicate thread. Giles turned his gaze towards her, a mixture of attentiveness and curiosity etched in his features. "Do you think law enforcement? I know it kind of lines up with what we are, you the Captain of the Enterprise and me the Captain of the Valkyrie. But do you think law enforcement when you look at me? That's what my career fair tests showed I should be doing."
Giles, considering her words, took a moment before responding. "Buffy, my perception of you has always been as a defender, a protector. Law enforcement, in a way, encapsulates that role, doesn't it? Your duties as the Slayer, the Captain of the Valkyrie, they align with the idea of safeguarding others. It's not just about enforcing the law, but about preserving the balance between the supernatural and the human world."
Giles continued, his voice measured and thoughtful. "As the Captain of the Valkyrie—your role extends beyond mere law enforcement. It embodies a warrior spirit, a guardian of realms. You're not confined to enforcing rules; you navigate the delicate balance between the mundane and the supernatural, protecting both worlds."
Buffy absorbed Giles' words, finding comfort in the resonance of his understanding. As they walked through the cemetery, Buffy felt the weight of her dual roles—the Slayer and the Captain of the Valkyrie—entwined in the fabric of her identity.
"I guess I just wonder sometimes if there's more to me than just being a warrior," Buffy confessed, her gaze focused on the moonlit path ahead. "The career fair made me question if I'm more than just a force against evil."
Giles, ever attuned to Buffy's internal struggles, responded with a gentle reassurance. "You are more than just a warrior, Buffy. You are a leader, a beacon of hope. The path you tread isn't solely defined by the battles you fight, but by the lives you touch and the inspiration you instill. Your destiny is as multifaceted as the stars."
Buffy smiled, appreciating Giles' wisdom as they reached the mausoleum, where Tara waited, lightsaber in hand but unignited.
"I already checked it out; it's empty," Tara informed them, her voice calm but tinged with a hint of vigilance.
"Thanks, Tara," Buffy acknowledged, her Slayer instincts still on high alert. With a determined pull, she swung open the heavy iron door, revealing the dimly lit interior of the mausoleum. Giles and Tara followed closely, their collective breaths creating ephemeral puffs of mist in the chilly air.
Once inside, Tara ignited her lightsaber, casting an ethereal glow that danced across the cold stone walls. She and Buffy led Giles toward the vault in the far wall, where the door stood ajar, ominous in its openness.
Giles peered into the empty vault, his brows furrowing in concentration. "It's a reliquary," he explained, his voice carrying the weight of scholarly knowledge. "Used to house items of religious significance. Most commonly, a finger or some other body part from a saint."
Turning back to face Buffy and Tara, Giles continued his examination, his eyes scanning the rest of the granite wall. As their collective gaze swept over the surroundings, something caught their attention—bold letters carved into the stone above the doorway.
"Du Lac…" Giles read the name aloud, and in that moment, the atmosphere in the mausoleum shifted. Buffy and Tara exchanged glances, sensing the change in Giles' tone, which carried both recognition and unmistakable concern. "Oh dear…" he muttered, the gravity of the situation settling in.
"I take it that's not good," Buffy said, her expression mirroring the gravity of Giles' revelation.
"Josephus du Lac is buried here," Giles explained, his voice tinged with concern. "He belonged to a sect of priests who were excommunicated by the Vatican at the turn of the century." He turned to Buffy, his gaze searching for understanding. "Remember the book that was stolen from the library by a vampire a few weeks back? It was written by du Lac and his cohorts—" Frustrated, he broke off, his frustration palpable. Then, with a renewed sense of urgency, he added, "Damn it. In all the excitement, I let it slip my mind."
"I think I know what book you're talking about," Tara chimed in, her knowledge of the occult adding a layer of depth to the situation. "I heard about it. It was said to contain rituals and spells that reaped unspeakable evil."
"That's the one," Giles confirmed, his concern deepening. "However, it was written in archaic Latin, so nobody but the sect members could read it."
As they exited the mausoleum, stepping into the embrace of the sun and fresh air, the trio shared a collective sigh of relief. The dankness of the tomb seemed to dissipate, replaced by the reassuring warmth of the day.
"Then everything's cool," Buffy attempted to sound encouraging, hoping to lighten the weight of the revelation. "The sect is gone. Worm food like old du Lac, right?"
But Giles looked even more pensive than usual. His brow furrowed with a deeper concern that echoed in the lines of his face. "I don't like it, Buffy, Tara. First, the book is taken from the library. Now vampires steal something from du Lac's tomb—"
"You think they've figured out how to read the book?" Tara asked, her eyes reflecting a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
"I don't know." Giles shook his head, the weight of uncertainty pressing on him. His troubled gaze scanned the horizon, as if searching for answers that remained elusive. "But something's coming. And I guarantee, whatever it is—it's not good."
Sunnydale Bus Depot
A bus, worn and weary from countless journeys, rumbled to a halt. Its brakes screeched in protest, and a thick cloud of exhaust enveloped the surroundings as the doors hissed open. The metallic groan of the bus echoed through the terminal, marking the end of another unremarkable journey for most of its passengers.
The stream of people that disembarked appeared unremarkable, blending seamlessly into the dull tapestry of the terminal's routine. Faces etched with the weariness of travel melted into the background, each individual fading into the terminal's mundane embrace, bound for destinations as ordinary as the day itself.
Yet, amidst this sea of anonymity, one figure stood out like a colossal monument to peculiarity.
A giant of a man, towering at an imposing seven feet, loomed over the platform. Enormous boots cloaked his feet, leaving a thunderous impact with each step. His frame carried the weight of four-hundred pounds, a Herculean presence in the midst of the ordinary. Greasy locks of hair, like unruly tendrils, cascaded over his broad shoulders, casting shadows on a face obscured by the scars of time and tribulation.
But it was his eyes that held the narrative of a life less ordinary. A milky cataract veiled one eye, a testament to the challenges he had faced. The other eye, nestled amidst fleshy scars and carbuncles, stared with an intensity that bespoke a relentless spirit. This enigmatic figure bore the name Octarus, a name that seemed to echo with a resonance beyond the ordinary.
As Octarus stepped onto the platform, the ground seemed to tremble beneath the weight of his purpose. The air crackled with an indefinable energy, a sense that this colossal individual was not just passing through but had arrived with a mission etched in the lines of his formidable countenance.
Revello Drive – Same Time
A mild-mannered man, Mr. Pfister, ambled down the bustling sidewalk of Revello Drive. His steps were measured, a rhythmic accompaniment to the cheery tune escaping through pursed lips. Clad in a suit that appeared several sizes too large for his slight frame, he presented an unassuming figure on the busy street. A round moon-face framed by a sharply receding hairline hinted at a life lived with quiet contentment.
Clutching a briefcase that seemed almost comically large in comparison to his slender build, Mr. Pfister continued his journey, the purpose in his gait belying the unremarkable facade he wore. It was as if his very existence exuded an air of ordinary routine, masking the covert intentions that simmered beneath the surface.
His destination became apparent when he paused before a mailbox bearing the stenciled name "Summers." A fleeting moment of contemplation passed over his face before he redirected his steps toward the house next door. Ascending the walkway with purpose, he climbed the stoop and rang the doorbell, all the while mechanically adjusting the knot in his tie.
The door creaked open, revealing a tired-looking housewife. Undeterred, Mr. Pfister bestowed upon her his most practiced salesman's smile, a veneer of charm that seemed incongruent with the subtle intensity in his eyes.
"Mrs. Kalish?" he inquired, his voice smooth and unassuming, the embodiment of practiced politeness.
"Yes?" the woman answered suspiciously, her gaze guarded and wary.
"I'm Norman Pfister, with Blush Beautiful Skin Care. I'm not selling anything, so I'm not asking you to buy," he explained, his voice calm and reassuring. With a practiced gesture, he lifted his oversized briefcase, presenting it as evidence of his benign intent. "Just to accept a few free samples."
The woman's suspicions flickered, and a momentary curiosity glimmered in her eyes. "Free?"
"Absolutely," Mr. Pfister affirmed, his smile unwavering.
She weighed his words for a moment, skepticism giving way to the allure of complimentary offerings. After a brief pause, she decided to trust the seemingly unassuming man standing at her doorstep. With a cautious nod, she gestured for him to enter.
Mr. Pfister stepped into the quiet interior, and the door shut behind him, sealing off the outside world. The stillness of the afternoon hung in the air, accentuated by the absence of any other soul on the tranquil street.
As Mrs. Kalish led Mr. Pfister further into her home, the quiet ambiance masked the undercurrent of tension that pulsed through the air. There was an uneasy stillness, as if the very walls held their breath in anticipation. The woman, unknowingly welcoming a harbinger of unexpected events, guided her guest through the serene facade of her abode.
In the hushed atmosphere of the quiet street, far from prying eyes and unsuspecting ears, Mrs. Kalish's world was about to be disrupted. The tranquil afternoon would soon shatter, giving way to a sound that would echo through the stillness—a scream that went unheard by anyone else on that peaceful, unsuspecting street.
Sunnydale Airport
A 767 touched down with a roar, its massive engines gradually winding down as it taxied along the runway. As the aircraft came to a halt, the cargo hold hatch swung open, revealing a cavernous space waiting to be filled. In a heartbeat, a young baggage handler, clad in the attire of the trade, climbed into the dimly lit expanse. Heavy metal music blared through the headphones of his Walkman, creating a personal soundtrack to accompany his work.
As the rhythmic beats of the music vibrated through his skull, the handler paused for a moment, squinting into the shadows within the cargo hold. Sunlight poured in from the open hatch behind him, creating stark contrasts between light and darkness. A peculiar sensation gripped him, a nagging feeling that something wasn't quite right.
His gaze fixated on the cargo netting, where, for the briefest of moments, he could have sworn he detected the outline of a mysterious silhouette lingering among the crates. A shadow, perhaps, or a figment of imagination stirred by the rhythmic symphony of heavy metal. He shook off the odd sensation, dismissing it with a nonchalant shrug.
"Probably only shadows," he mumbled to himself, the plausible explanation soothing his momentarily unsettled nerves.
Determined to focus on the task at hand, the young man resumed his duties, maneuvering luggage onto the conveyor belt with practiced efficiency. In a whimsical interlude, he paused, allowing the imaginary cheers of an audience to echo in his mind. With an air guitar in hand, he mimicked the wild motions of a guitar solo, basking in the make-believe applause of a silent crowd within the belly of the 767.
And then, against the backdrop of the dimly lit cargo hold, he thought he saw it again—a fleeting shadow darting behind the cargo netting, just at the edge of his vision. His eyes widened in disbelief, a sense of unease creeping over him like an uninvited guest.
"What the hell—" he muttered, hastily killing the tape on his Walkman and abandoning the baggage on the conveyor belt. Ignoring the rhythmic pulse of the heavy metal that had been his companion moments ago, he strode toward the elusive shadows with a mixture of determination and trepidation. "Hey!" he called out, a hint of bravado in his voice. "You're not supposed to be in here."
A heavy silence hung in the air, broken only by the muted hum of the dormant plane's engines. No response echoed through the cargo hold, and the young baggage handler's bravado began to waver as uncertainty crept in.
"Come on—" he started to say, but his words were abruptly cut off by an unforeseen assault.
The blows came suddenly, swift and ruthless, as if emerging from the very darkness that had ensnared his attention. He staggered back, rocked on his heels, the taste of surprise and pain mingling on his lips. In an instant, his courage crumbled, replaced by the harsh reality of an unseen adversary. With a guttural moan, he collapsed in a heap on the unforgiving floor, the cargo hold swallowing his cries as the shadows concealed both his assailant and the mysterious presence that had eluded his senses.
From some distant spot, a blurred world of pain and disorientation, the young man perceived the distant echo of footsteps. His senses, dulled by the unexpected assault, struggled to piece together the unfolding events. In the hazy realm between consciousness and confusion, he thought he discerned a shadow cascading over him, followed by the sensation of someone stepping over his prone form.
Through the veil of his throbbing discomfort, he summoned the strength to lift his eyes. There, in the doorway of the cargo hold, stood a figure silhouetted against the ambient light, an enigmatic presence casting a haunting shadow over the battered baggage handler.
She was a young woman, her tall, slim frame exuding an exotic aura. Mocha-colored skin embraced her form, and she wore tight-fitting attire that accentuated the curves of her lithe physique. A high, wide forehead framed finely sculpted cheekbones, and her long black hair, knotted at the back of her head, cascaded down her back in a thick ponytail. Yet, it was her eyes that held the captive gaze of the injured man.
Her eyes, large and black, possessed a curious almond shape, hinting at a mystique that transcended the ordinary. As he attempted to avert his gaze, an indescribable fear took hold, for her stare seemed to penetrate the very core of his being. They were eyes that bore the mark of a hunter, feline and feral, yet ruthlessly determined.
The eyes of a predator.
To the young man's muted relief, the mysterious woman suddenly turned, gracefully descending from the cargo hold onto the tarmac below. With a sense of urgency and purpose, she moved with a fluidity that suggested a familiarity with the shadows that lingered in her wake.
Her name was Kendra, a revelation that held an air of significance, as if unveiling a chapter in a story that had only just begun.
Sunnydale High School – 5 pm
School had been over for hours.
As soon as Tara, Buffy, and Giles had returned from the cemetery, an urgent summons had gone out to Marie, Jenny, Cordelia, Dawn, Joyce, Xander, and Willow. The group swiftly assembled in the library, their faces etched with a mixture of concern and curiosity. The somber atmosphere was palpable as the nine of them gathered around a table, ready to delve into the mysterious puzzle that had unfolded before them—the du Lac tomb.
"So, Giles is sure that the vampire who stole his book is connected to the ones you two slayed last night?" Willow inquired, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Or is it 'slew'?" she added, her linguistic pondering briefly punctuating the gravity of the situation.
"Both are correct," Giles replied absentmindedly, his mind seemingly preoccupied with the weight of the unfolding events. Pacing among the towering bookshelves, he finally emerged, accompanied by Joyce, the silent observer in this gathering. In Giles's hands rested a yellowed periodical that seemed to hold the key to unraveling the enigma they faced.
He laid the magazine before the assembly, revealing it to be a National Geographic issue from 1921. The pages whispered of a bygone era, bearing witness to the forgotten tale of du Lac.
"Du Lac was both a theologian and a mathematician," Joyce explained, her voice carrying the weight of history and academia.
Giles, now leafing through the aged pages, directed their attention to a discolored photograph of an intricate cross. "This article described an invention of his, which he called the du Lac Cross—" he elucidated, the photograph capturing the essence of an artifact that transcended time.
Willow immersed herself in the faded pages of the National Geographic, her eyes tracing the lines of the accompanying article as she delved into the forgotten history of du Lac.
Marie scanned the faces of her comrades, a furrow forming on her brow. "This is not something I remember," she admitted, her memory gaps creating an unsettling void in the collective knowledge of the group.
"I do," Jenny interjected, drawing their attention. "It's from the memories of Marie's Buffy. It's a little hazy, as this all happened to her over two hundred and fifty years ago. But it has something to do with Angel. I don't remember what."
As the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place, Giles seized the opportunity to enlighten the group further. "Anyways, the cross was more than a symbol," he explained, a sense of urgency in his voice. "It was also used to understand certain mystical texts, to decipher hidden meanings and so forth."
Buffy, ever the voice of skepticism, looked up at him with a frown. "You're saying these vampires went to all that trouble for your basic decoder ring?"
Giles regarded her with a blank expression before a realization dawned on him. "Actually, I guess I am."
Meanwhile, Willow, still engrossed in the article, continued to glean insights. "According to this," she shared, "du Lac destroyed every one of the crosses, except the one buried with him."
Dawn, a perplexed expression on her face, voiced the collective curiosity. "Why destroy his own work?" she questioned, seconds before her eyes glowed, and Jolinar took control of their shared body. "For the same reason the Tok'ra destroy our bases. To keep it out of the wrong hands."
"A fear we'll soon get to experience for ourselves, up close and personal," Xander's reminder hung in the air, casting a shadow over the room. The gravity of the impending threat weighed on the group, and a palpable tension settled in the library.
"Unless," Joyce interjected, her voice a measured whisper that cut through the unease, "we preempt their plans." Her gaze shifted from one face to another, seeking affirmation.
Willow, always the beacon of curiosity, leaned forward onto the table. "How?" she inquired, her eyes wide with anticipation.
Giles, the resident authority on the matter, paused for a moment, regarding them with a sense of grim purpose. "By learning what was in the book before they do," he declared, his words a call to action that resonated with the urgency of the situation.
The weight of the impending research task settled on the group, and Joyce's pragmatic observation followed. "Which means we can expect to be here late tonight—"
Willow's face lit up with an unexpected enthusiasm, and she interrupted with infectious excitement, "Goody! A research party!" Her words injected a surprising burst of energy into the room, momentarily dispelling the shadows of impending danger.
"Will," Xander admonished her, his tone a mix of concern and exasperation, "you need a life in the worst way—"
Buffy, ever the breaker of tense moments, interjected cheerily, "Speaking of, I have to bail. I promise I'll be back bright and early, perky and ready to slay." Her enthusiasm, though infectious, couldn't deflect the attention from the brewing situation.
Joyce, her maternal instincts on high alert, glanced at her daughter with a discerning look. "Elizabeth Sera Anna Summers-Raiden, where do you think you're going?"
"Mom, please, not the full-name guilt trip," Buffy sighed, a hint of resignation in her voice. "I'm meeting Angel. Trying to sort out my feelings on how I feel about him, especially after what happened between me and Xander on Halloween night."
Joyce, her maternal concern overriding any previous annoyance, softened. "Buffy," she began, choosing her words carefully, "make sure you take the time you need. Feelings are complicated, and it's important to navigate them with honesty and clarity."
Buffy nodded appreciatively, a glimmer of gratitude in her eyes.
"May I suggest that none of us be alone till this is resolved," Tara's soft-spoken words carried a sense of concern, her gaze shifting from one face to another, acknowledging the shared vulnerability that lingered in the room.
"Wise thinking, Tara," Giles concurred, his tone reflecting a seasoned understanding of the dangers that lurked in the shadows. He turned his attention to Buffy, the leader of the group, with a thoughtful expression. "Buffy, you should take Tara and Dawn with you."
Buffy nodded in agreement, acknowledging the prudence of Tara's suggestion. Recognizing the need for swift action, she reached for her communicator. "Summers to Enterprise," Buffy spoke into the communicator with a steady voice, her words carrying the weight of urgency. Stepping away from the others, she motioned for Tara and Dawn to join her, creating a small enclave within the larger group. The familiar hum of the Enterprise's transporter resonated in her ears as she issued the command, "Three to transport to my home on Revello Drive. Energize!"
In an instant, the trio became enveloped in the shimmering glow of the transporter beam. The surroundings of the library dissolved, replaced by the familiar hum of the Enterprise's technology.
Route Seventeen Skating Rink – 6 pm
The ice-skating rink looked beautiful tonight. The pristine surface of the ice glistened under the soft glow of the moonlight streaming in through the high windows. Tara sat on the bleachers, a silent spectator to the enchanting scene unfolding before her.
Dawn and Buffy glided across the ice, moving in perfect harmony as if dancing to an ethereal melody only they could hear. Their laughter echoed through the cold air, intertwining with the crisp sound of blades cutting through the ice. Moonlight played upon their figures, casting a magical glow that painted the scene with an otherworldly charm.
Tara couldn't help but be captivated by the grace and joy radiating from the two skaters. The serenity of the moment wrapped around her like a comforting embrace, and she found solace in the simplicity of this shared experience. It was a respite from the battles and challenges that defined their lives, a fleeting interlude of peace.
As Dawn and Buffy continued their graceful circuit around the rink, the younger Summers sibling couldn't contain her joy. "I forgot how good this felt," she exclaimed, a wistful smile playing on her lips. Memories flooded back to her, of a time when Buffy had patiently taught her the art of gliding on ice. The nostalgia painted a tender expression on Dawn's face, a reflection of the bond between the sisters that transcended the supernatural struggles they faced together.
Buffy inhaled deeply, savoring the crisp, cool air that filled her lungs as she glided across the smooth ice. "Yeah, I know what you mean. I've missed this," she confessed to Dawn, her voice carrying a note of nostalgia. The rhythmic sound of their blades against the ice created a symphony of memories, and Buffy couldn't help but revel in the simple joy of skating.
As they came to a graceful stop, Buffy marveled at how effortlessly the movements came back to her. Any lingering doubt about forgetting how to skate dissolved, replaced by a sense of ease and familiarity. With a newfound confidence, she propelled herself forward again, picking up speed, and Dawn followed suit. Their figures moved in perfect unison, a dance on ice that seemed to transcend time.
Buffy and Dawn, with hair gently blowing around their faces, immersed themselves in the timeless joy of skating. Tara, too, moved with a serene grace, her focus entirely on the rhythmic flow of their movements. The ice rink became a canvas for their shared experience, a moment of respite from the tumultuous world they often faced.
Unbeknownst to them, the trio remained oblivious to the watchful eyes that observed their every move. In the shadows, a cruel and scarred face marked their every pirouette, every graceful glide across the ice. Octarus, the malevolent observer, grinned with malevolence, plotting in the darkness as the sisters spun into a tight pirouette, their laughter echoing in the cold air.
Tara's brows furrowed as she sensed a disturbance in the Force, her connection to the cosmic energies alerting her to an unseen threat. "Dawn!" she called out urgently, her eyes narrowing with concern.
Dawn, attuned to Tara's instincts, halted her graceful skating and turned to face her girlfriend and mentor in the Jedi arts. "What?" she asked, an inkling of worry etching her features.
"Reach out," Tara instructed, her voice carrying a sense of urgency that demanded immediate attention.
Dawn closed her eyes, trusting in the training she had received in the ways of the Force. She extended her senses, feeling the invisible threads that connected her to the cosmic energies surrounding them. In that moment, a shiver ran down her spine as she too detected the disturbance resonating through the Force.
Meanwhile, Buffy, caught up in the exhilaration of her skating performance, remained blissfully unaware of the unfolding events. Pivoting gracefully, she skated backward, growing braver, and picking up speed. The thrill of the moment fueled her confidence as she launched into an airborne twist, the air whistling past her. However, at the apex of her jump, an unexpected force disrupted her balance.
Landing hard on the ice, Buffy felt the momentum carry her across the frozen surface, sliding a good ten feet before finally coming to a stop. Catching her breath, she quickly realized something was amiss. The shadow of an unseen presence moved across the ice in front of her, prompting her to snap her attention to her surroundings.
"Dawn!" Tara's desperate cry echoed through the icy expanse of the skating rink. Her eyes widened in horror as she spotted Octarus just moments before he lifted Buffy with a chilling ease, as if she were a mere rag doll. The malevolent force carried her off the ice to the rink's rubber deck, where he ruthlessly pinned her against the wall, a predatory gleam in his scarred eyes.
Reacting with Jedi reflexes, Dawn's lightsaber sprang to her hand as she sprinted toward Octarus. The hum of the ignited lightsaber resonated in the air, casting a vivid glow against the cold darkness of the rink. Determination etched across her face, Dawn prepared to confront the dark threat that loomed over her sister and mentor.
Caught completely off guard, Buffy thrashed and fought against Octarus's monstrous hands, her every movement met with cruel resistance. She wrenched at the formidable grip that threatened to crush the life out of her. Panic surged as she realized the inexorable tightening around her throat, a vice that seemed determined to snuff out her existence. In the midst of the struggle, the chilling realization washed over her—she was teetering on the precipice of death.
Tara, fueled by a surge of protective instinct, hurried toward Octarus and Buffy, her own lightsaber ignited and ready for combat. The rubber deck echoed with the rapid footfalls of the approaching Jedi, the clash between light and darkness imminent.
Buffy, engulfed in a desperate struggle, fought harder than ever. Terror etched across her face, she felt the encroaching darkness closing in, her vision dimming. Everything became a swirling abyss, her consciousness slipping away.
A new voice shattered the suffocating tension. "Buffy!" Angel's urgent shout pierced the air as he appeared in the doorway of the skating rink.
As Octarus whipped around, his malevolent eyes widening in surprise, he found Dawn's lightsaber arcing toward his head with lethal precision. "Buffy, duck!" Dawn's command sliced through the air, prompting Buffy to react instinctively. She dropped to a crouch just in the nick of time as Dawn's lightsaber cleaved through the air, severing Octarus's head from his body.
The grotesque scene unfolded in a macabre ballet, Octarus's decapitated body staggering past Buffy and onto the ice. The head, separated from its host, tumbled in a grotesque dance before coming to a rest with an unsettling stillness.
Buffy, Tara, and Dawn stood in grim silence, their eyes fixed on the lifeless body that had moments ago posed a dire threat. The cold air of the ice rink seemed to hang heavier with the weight of the recent confrontation. The trio's collective breaths formed visible puffs of mist in the frigid air, each exhalation a release of the tension that had gripped them.
Angel silently joined the trio, his presence felt rather than seen. His body pressed against Buffy's, providing a comforting anchor amidst the aftermath of the battle. The weight of the vampire's silent support offered solace to Buffy as she took in the surreal scene before her.
Octarus' body, now bereft of its menacing head, continued its staggered journey on the ice. The dark force that had terrorized them lay defeated, a silent testimony to the strength and unity of the warriors who stood vigil. The ice beneath Octarus's collapsing form bore witness to the conclusion of the confrontation—a stark tableau of victory, both eerie and profound.
Without a word, Octarus dropped heavily to his knees, the thud resonating through the ice. His lifeless form fell facedown on the frozen surface, a stark contrast to the earlier threat he had posed. The once formidable adversary now lay vanquished, the echo of his malevolence fading into the stillness of the skating rink.
Angel moved past Buffy with a measured caution, approaching the fallen giant, Octarus. The echoes of the recent battle reverberated in the cold air as Buffy limped up, flanked by Dawn and Tara. Each step carried the weight of the confrontation that had just unfolded, leaving them with a shared sense of victory and weariness.
"And the Hellmouth presents 'Dead Guys on Ice,'" Buffy quipped, her attempt at levity cutting through the somber atmosphere. Her eyes then shifted toward Tara and Dawn, gratitude evident in her gaze. "Not exactly the evening we were aiming for. I'm glad you had the foresight to suggest we shouldn't be alone, Tara."
Angel, however, remained focused on the fallen adversary, his gaze fixated on the ring adorning Octarus's finger. Lifting the massive hand, he studied the glyphlike pattern etched onto the ring's surface, a harbinger of danger that drew a tight expression across his face.
"You're in danger," Angel stated, his voice tense with concern. His attention remained fixed on the mysterious ring, the gravity of its symbolism weighing heavily on him. "You know what the ring means?"
Dawn, still at Angel's side, responded with uncertainty, "No." However, her eyes glowed as Jolianar assumed control. "Angel, I can tell by your demeanor that there is something about this ring that causes you to worry."
Angel looked up at Dawn, a mixture of surprise and realization flickering in his eyes as her voice shifted with the presence of Jolinar.
"Angel," Buffy interjected, her tone carrying a note of introduction, "meet the Tok'ra, Jolinar of Malkshure. She's a symbiote within Dawn, and they share Dawn's body equally."
"Yes," Angel affirmed, his voice tinged with a protective edge. "Let's just get you all out of here."
Buffy, Dawn, Tara, and Angel began to move away from the scene, leaving the fallen giant and the chilling remnants of their battle behind. The cold air seemed to bear witness to their departure, carrying with it a lingering sense of tension and anticipation.
Unbeknownst to them, concealed within the deeper shadows, Kendra observed their every move with a calculating gaze. Her training as a Slayer had honed her instincts, and she made mental notes, formulating plans in the depths of her strategic mind.