Chapter 1: Some Assembly Required
August 31, 1997 – Sunday
Summers Home
Three months had passed since Buffy had been transported back to this time period, and the strangeness of it all still lingered. Her mother was alive, and Dawn was yet to enter her life. The summer had been spent with her father, mirroring the events of her previous timeline. Now, she was back home, in her own room, a room she hadn't slept in for over a year, from her point of view.
As she unpacked her duffle bag and neatly stowed her clothes in familiar drawers and spots in the closet, she couldn't help but feel a sense of déjà vu. It was as if time had folded back on itself, bringing her back to a place she had once left behind.
Clutching her coat, she walked down the hall to her mother's room, where Joyce was in the midst of hanging something on the wall. Her sudden entrance startled Joyce, causing her to miss her mark with the hammer, and it collided with the wall, leaving a small hole in the wallpaper.
"Mom," Buffy began, her voice filled with concern for her mother.
Joyce jumped at her daughter's voice, and her reaction only intensified her daughter's worries. "Oh, Buffy!" Joyce exclaimed, clearly not expecting her sudden appearance.
Buffy offered a reassuring smile to her mother, the worry in her eyes gradually fading as she spoke. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you. Please tell me you aren't trying to hang a weird mask."
Joyce turned her attention back to her daughter, a hint of curiosity in her expression. "Mask?" she questioned, raising an eyebrow at Buffy's words. "No. I was going to hang this painting I got." She presented the painting in question and hung it on the nail, effectively concealing the hole in the wallpaper. "Do you like it?"
Buffy moved closer to her mother, her eyes landing on the painting, and her heart warmed as she recognized the image. It was a painting of herself and Joyce, a piece of art her aunt Arlene had created when Buffy was just six years old. A fond smile graced Buffy's lips as she regarded the artwork. "It's perfect, Mom."
Joyce noticed Buffy's coat and inquired, "You going out?"
Buffy nodded with enthusiasm. "If you don't mind," she replied. "I thought I would go check and see what kind of trouble Willow and Xander were getting into.
Streets of Sunnydale
Xander and Willow walked side by side, their steps unhurried as the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the headstones of the cemetery. The air carried a slight chill, but it was softened by the warmth of their ice cream cones, which dripped lazily onto their hands as they licked at the melting treats. The towering silhouettes of the graves gave the scene an eerie serenity, but they paid no mind. This place, which might have unsettled others, had long since become a familiar backdrop for their strolls home.
"Okay, hold on ..." Willow said, her brow furrowing in playful concentration. The evening breeze tugged gently at her hair, catching strands of red in the fading sunlight. They were deep in their game of quoting movie lines, a favorite pastime that never failed to distract them from the weight of their days.
"It's your turn," Xander reminded her with a grin, his eyes glinting as he wiped a smudge of ice cream from his chin.
Willow sighed dramatically, the sound mingling with the quiet rustle of leaves above them. "Okay, um... In the few hours that we had together, we loved a lifetime's worth," she quoted, her voice softening as if the line had tugged at some secret corner of her heart.
Xander's smirk widened. "Terminator," he said without hesitation, the triumph in his voice matching the twinkle in his eye.
Willow beamed at him, her earlier seriousness melting away. "Good. Right," she replied, her smile a mirror of the affection and camaraderie they shared.
"Okay. Let's see..." Xander began, his expression brightening as he switched gears, summoning up his best Charlton Heston impersonation. He paused dramatically, then let the words spill out, full of exaggerated flair. "It's a madhouse! A m—"
"Planet of the Apes," Willow interrupted, her voice quick and sure, cutting through the theatrical build-up with a mischievous grin.
Xander sighed, his shoulders slumping in mock defeat. "Can I finish, please?" he asked, his tone carrying an exaggerated exasperation.
Willow winced, a small smile still playing on her lips as she looked at him apologetically. "Sorry. Go ahead."
Xander straightened, shaking his head for effect, then resumed, throwing his hands wide as he delivered the final word with gusto. "Madhouse!" His voice echoed briefly, mingling with the distant sounds of the city beyond the cemetery walls.
Willow stood still for a moment, eyes locked on Xander to make sure he had fully finished his dramatic reenactment. When she was sure he was done, she repeated her answer with a teasing lilt. "Planet of the Apes. Good. Me now. Um ..." Her gaze drifted upwards, searching the sky for inspiration, the pale evening light making her features appear softer, more thoughtful.
Xander shifted on his feet, growing impatient. He gave her a nudge with his elbow. "Well?" he asked, his voice laced with playful urgency.
"I'm thinking," Willow replied, stretching out the words as if the act of doing so might magically conjure a brilliant movie quote from thin air. She bit her lip, then her eyes lit up, the classic line suddenly jumping to mind. "Okay. Use the force, Luke."
Xander raised an eyebrow, a deadpan expression on his face as he looked at her, as if to say, Really? "Do I really have to dignify that with a guess?" he asked, voice dripping with mock disdain.
Willow let out a long, exasperated sigh. "I didn't think of anything. It's a dumb game anyway," she muttered, crossing her arms as if trying to shrug off her momentary defeat.
Xander smirked and tilted his head toward her. "You got something better to do?" he challenged. "We played rock-paper-scissors long enough, okay? My hand cramped up."
Willow turned to him with a knowing smirk of her own. "Well, sure, if you're always scissors, of course your tendons are going to stretch—" she said, her voice playful but with a hint of teasing concern.
Xander chuckled at her analysis, shaking his head. "You know, I got to say, this has really been the most boring summer ever." His voice shifted slightly, the humor fading into something more wistful as he glanced out at the rows of silent gravestones stretching across the cemetery.
Willow nodded in agreement, the quiet settling between them like a shared weight. "Yeah, but on the plus side, no monsters or stuff." Her voice was softer now, as she hopped up to sit on a stone wall. Her feet dangled, brushing the cool surface of the stone as Xander leaned next to her, close but not too close. They both stared into the cemetery, the stillness around them only broken by the faint rustling of leaves in the breeze.
"I know," Xander said, his tone filled with restless energy that had nowhere to go. "But I'm so restless! I'm actually glad school is starting again." He kicked at a loose stone on the ground, the sound of it skittering off into the distance seeming to punctuate his admission.
Willow gave a knowing nod, her eyes narrowing playfully as she tilted her head toward Xander. "Yeah, and that has nothing to do with a certain girl that we both know who happens to be a vampire slayer?" Her tone was light, but beneath it, there was a hint of teasing wisdom, as if she saw through his every attempt to be nonchalant.
"Please," Xander replied, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm so over her." He tried to sound convincing, but there was an unmistakable edge to his voice, a slight hesitation that Willow picked up on immediately. After a beat, he added, attempting a casual tone, "Did she, uh, say when she was getting back, about which I don't care?" The question hung in the air, transparent in its intent, as if he couldn't help himself from asking.
Willow bit back a smile, clearly amused at his transparent act. "The last postcard I got said she was getting back tonight," she said, drawing out the words with deliberate slowness. "Probably catching up with her mom right now. Which you don't care about," she added, her voice teasing.
Xander chuckled, the sound warm but a little sheepish. "Okay, so maybe there's some interest," he confessed with a playful shrug. He ran a hand through his hair in mock frustration. "I'm a man, I have certain desires. Certain needs..."
Willow shot him a look, her eyebrows raised, cutting him off before he could go any further down that road. "I don't want to know," she said firmly, though there was laughter hiding in her voice.
But Xander wasn't about to let it go that easily. He leaned in closer to her, his smirk widening as he eyed her mischievously. "Don't you?" His eyes sparkled with mischief as he moved even nearer, ice cream cone in hand.
Before Willow could react, Xander dabbed the tip of his cone against her nose, leaving a small smear of melting ice cream behind. She blinked at him, unamused but clearly fighting the urge to smile. "Xander..." she warned, her voice a mix of exasperation and amusement.
"Come on," Xander said with a grin, dabbing her nose again for good measure. "You're Amish, you won't fight back because you're Amish. I mock you with my ice cream cone, Amish Guy..." His voice took on a dramatic tone, as if delivering a grand proclamation, but all with that familiar playful glint in his eye.
Willow, trying to suppress a smile, rolled her eyes at his antics. "Witness," she answered, referencing the film he was quoting. She shivered slightly and wrinkled her nose. "My nose is cold."
Xander's expression brightened instantly, as if he had the perfect solution to offer. "Let me get that—" he said, leaning in as though he were actually about to lick the ice cream from her nose.
Willow giggled, pushing him away playfully. "Xander!" she exclaimed, her laughter ringing through the air as she tried to dodge his advances.
Xander grinned at her, undeterred by her protests. "What can I say? It makes your nose look tasty," he teased, holding back a laugh as he grabbed a napkin and gently dabbed at the ice cream on her nose.
As Willow and Xander pulled away from each other, the warmth of their playful moment evaporated in an instant. A vampire stood menacingly on the other side of the wall, its face twisted into a hungry smirk, far too close for comfort. The vampire's yellow eyes gleamed in the dim light, its sharp fangs peeking out as it locked onto its prey. Willow's heart raced, the sudden jolt of fear clumsy in her limbs as she scrambled off the stone wall, nearly tripping over herself in the process. Xander, reacting on instinct, moved back with her, his face stiffening with alarm.
Before they could fully comprehend the threat, the vampire vaulted over the wall with unsettling ease, landing in front of them with a swagger, as if this was all a game to him. The night seemed to grow colder, darker, in his presence.
"Willow, go!" Xander ordered, stepping protectively in front of her, his voice tight with urgency. His pulse hammered in his throat, but he refused to back down. Not this time.
"Xander—" Willow began, her voice quaking, but she was cut off as the vampire lunged. Everything happened too fast. The creature grabbed Xander with terrifying strength, its icy fingers clamping down around his neck as if he were no more than a rag doll.
Xander, his face twisting with effort, stepped back and threw a punch, his fist connecting with the vampire's face. But it was like punching stone. The vampire didn't even flinch. Instead, it growled low in its throat, a sound that sent icy chills racing down Willow's spine. Before Xander could throw another, the vampire's hand shot out, gripping his throat tighter, pulling him closer with a sadistic grin.
Willow's breath caught in her chest, panic flaring in her eyes as she looked around wildly for something—anything—that could help. Her fingers brushed over the rough surface of the wall, the cold stone offering no comfort. Desperation seized her as she darted forward, grabbing the vampire's arm, trying to wrench it away from Xander. Her grip was weak against its inhuman strength, and the vampire barely acknowledged her effort.
And then, in a sudden blur of motion, the vampire was spun around so fast it almost seemed like a trick of the eye. There, standing in a fluid, powerful stance, was Buffy. Her face was calm, almost bored, but her eyes burned with fierce focus. Without hesitation, she slammed a lightning-fast punch into the vampire's face, the impact reverberating through the air. The vampire staggered back, momentarily stunned, but Buffy wasn't done. In a flash, she spun into a roundhouse kick, sending him stumbling further away from Xander.
The vampire, snarling, lunged at her again, but Buffy was already ahead of him. With an effortless motion, she flipped him over her shoulder, slamming him to the ground with a thud. As she straightened, she glanced back at Willow and Xander, her casual smile at odds with the chaos around them. "Hi, guys," she said, as if this was all just part of a regular evening.
But the vampire wasn't finished. Rising behind her, it reared up with a guttural growl, fangs bared. Without even turning, Buffy's foot shot back in a precise, devastating kick, striking the vampire square in the chest. The force of it sent him flying, right onto a broken branch that jutted out from the ground. In an instant, the vampire exploded into a cloud of dust, his growl snuffed out as quickly as it had begun.
Buffy turned back to face her friends, dusting off her hands with casual ease, as if she hadn't just taken down a deadly predator. Her smile widened, her eyes warm and bright. "Miss me?" she asked, the simple question brimming with affection and humor.
Before she could say another word, Xander and Willow surged toward her, wrapping her in a tight, overjoyed embrace. The weight of the summer without her presence seemed to melt away in their hug, the familiar comfort of their friend grounding them once again.
"Buffy!" Willow cried, her voice a mix of excitement and relief. The tension of the moment, the fear, it all dissolved as she squeezed Buffy tightly.
Buffy smiled softly, her eyes shining with the bond they all shared. "Hey, Will," she said, her voice gentle yet full of warmth, as though she'd never been gone at all.
"Man, your timing really doesn't suck," Xander said, his breath still catching up with him after the adrenaline rush. He grinned at Buffy, his voice light but laced with the unspoken relief of having her back right when they needed her most.
Willow smiled brightly, the tension from the encounter melting away. "When did you get back?" she asked, her voice a mix of curiosity and excitement. There was something comforting about having Buffy around, like the missing piece of their puzzle had just fallen back into place.
"A little bit ago," Buffy replied with a casual shrug, though her eyes held a glint of something more knowing, a weight she didn't express. "Dad drove me down. And I knew you losers would be getting into some kind of trouble." There was a fondness in her teasing, but underneath, there was also an edge of certainty. She had seen this moment before, lived through the twists and turns of their lives enough to know exactly when to show up.
"I think we had the upper hand. In a subtle way," Willow said, offering a weak smile as if trying to reclaim some dignity. Her attempt at confidence faltered, though, and her eyes darted briefly to where the vampire had been dusted. It was clear that without Buffy, the upper hand had been slipping fast.
Buffy shook her head, her expression softening but still firm, the weight of experience heavy on her shoulders. "Do either of you even have a cross?" she asked, already knowing the answer. When Xander and Willow both sheepishly shook their heads, her eyes narrowed in a gentle scold. "Very sloppy..." she sighed, but it wasn't just about the crosses. There were deeper lessons she needed them to learn.
That was something else she was determined to change this time around. Buffy glanced between her two friends, her mind already spinning with ideas. She was going to make sure they were better prepared—no more relying solely on her. She had seen too many close calls, too many moments where luck had saved them instead of skill. Willow and Xander needed actual hand-to-hand training, not just the occasional pep talk. And Xander... Buffy was going to suggest that he study up on anything military-related, maybe something to counteract the lack of muscle memory from that Halloween night where they'd briefly become their costumes.
And when Dawn finally arrived, Buffy thought with a sudden pang of emotion, she was going to train her little sister herself, ensuring she could defend herself in the chaos that would inevitably come. It was all part of the bigger plan Buffy had in mind.
Xander, blissfully unaware of the deeper thoughts swimming in Buffy's mind, shrugged off her chastising. "Well, it's been a slow summer," he said, almost apologetic. "That was the first vampire we've seen since you killed the Master." His voice dropped a bit at the mention of the Master, the memory still fresh, the scars from that night still lingering.
Buffy nodded knowingly. "Probably knew I was coming back," she replied, a flicker of something dark crossing her features. She wasn't just talking about the vampire. There were bigger things out there, things that knew far more than they should. The quiet of the summer had been a lull, but it wouldn't last.
As they began walking down the street, the tension of the moment easing slightly, Xander turned to her with casual curiosity. "What about you? How was your summer? Did you slay anything?" he asked, as if expecting stories of epic battles and near-death escapes.
Buffy's gaze drifted to the sidewalk ahead, her thoughts momentarily pulling her back to those long summer days. She had faced no battles, no monsters—at least, not the kind her friends could understand. "Strictly R&R," she said, her voice lighter, though there was a shadow beneath her words. "Hung out, partied... shopping was also a major theme."
She thought back to the long, awkward conversations with her father, his face strained with the effort of trying to make up for the years he'd been absent since the divorce. He had promised to visit more often, but she could see through the hollow promises. She didn't hold it against him—she had grown used to disappointment—but it didn't make it hurt any less. What had stood out, though, was the moment when he handed her a second credit card on his account, an olive branch of sorts. He had said it was for emergencies, though she knew—and he probably did too—that it would likely end up being used for new clothes more than anything else.
"Well, you haven't lost your touch," Xander said, a mixture of admiration and relief in his voice. His eyes lingered on the spot where the vampire had disintegrated moments ago, the faint traces of dust still hanging in the air. "That vampire—"
Buffy nodded, cutting him off with a smirk. "I did kind of wail on him, didn't I?" she said, her confidence slipping out effortlessly.
Xander, ever the charmer, grinned as he shifted gears. "I really like your hair," he said, his voice casual but sincere. It was his way of bringing things back to normal, of finding some sense of familiarity now that Buffy was back.
Buffy raised an eyebrow, amused. "So, how did you guys fare? Did you have any fun without me?" she asked, her eyes flicking between Xander and Willow, curious but also wary of what she had missed.
Xander shook his head with a dramatic sigh. "No," he said, drawing out the word as if the very notion of fun was inconceivable without Buffy around.
But Willow contradicted him immediately. "Yes," she said, giving Xander a side-eye as if to remind him that they weren't completely devoid of excitement in her absence.
Xander rolled his eyes, conceding. "Summer was a little yawn-worthy," he admitted. "Our biggest excitement was burying the Master." His voice dipped slightly as he mentioned the Master, the memory still fresh, a reminder of the danger that had loomed over them not too long ago.
Willow, eager to fill in the details, nodded enthusiastically. "That's right, you missed it!" she said, her voice picking up with a bit of excitement. "Right out by that tree." She pointed to a large, gnarled tree standing at the far edge of the cemetery, its branches casting long, skeletal shadows in the moonlight. The tree looked ancient, like it had stood witness to countless secrets buried beneath it.
"Giles buried what was left of the bones, which after you made them into mincemeat wasn't much," Willow continued, her eyes glinting as she relived the moment. "We also poured holy water and chanted, and we got to wear robes!" She said the last part with a grin, as if the robes were the highlight of the entire ordeal.
"Very intense. You shoulda been there," Xander added, his tone playful but with a hint of genuine awe. The burial had been strange, almost ritualistic, but in a way, it had given them some closure after everything they had gone through.
"Have you seen Giles?" Willow asked, the question slipping out almost casually, though there was a layer of concern behind it. Giles was always the steady force behind them, and it had been strange without his guiding presence over the summer.
Buffy shook her head, her expression faltering for just a moment. "Not yet," she replied, though her voice was steady. The truth was, she had spent a lot of her summer wondering what she would say to Giles—or to any of them—about the future she now carried with her. The knowledge of what was to come, the weight of the battles they hadn't even fought yet, pressed heavily on her chest. It was a secret she had chosen to keep, and for good reason.
In the quiet moments of her summer, Buffy had gone over the possibilities again and again. If she told them, would they believe her? Or worse, would they think she was crazy? And even if they did believe her, there was the risk that they'd ask too many questions about their futures, questions she wasn't prepared to answer. It wasn't just about telling them; it was about what that knowledge could do, how it could change the course of their lives. So, she had decided it was best to keep it to herself. The burden of knowing the future was hers to bear alone.
"Man, I'm really glad you're back," Xander said, his voice softer now, carrying the kind of sincerity that didn't need a joke or a smirk to back it up. His eyes lingered on Buffy for a moment longer than usual, as if making sure she was really there, standing beside him, not some fleeting dream or memory.
Buffy turned to him, catching the seriousness in his tone, and her smile softened in response. "Me too," she said, her voice gentle but genuine, tinged with an understanding that went deeper than words.
September 1, 1997 – Monday
Sunnydale High School
Buffy led Xander and Willow down the familiar school corridor, the hum of students' chatter blending with the soft squeak of their shoes on the polished floors. Her steps were purposeful, a little quicker than normal, as if the weight of what lay ahead pressed her to move faster. She glanced at Willow and Xander beside her, their faces bright with curiosity and comfort at being back together. Her gaze then shifted ahead, locking onto the library doors where she knew Giles and Ms. Calendar were waiting. As they approached, Buffy couldn't help but let a small smile tug at her lips when she spotted the computer teacher.
Ms. Calendar. A name and face that stirred more than just casual recognition. Buffy had thought a lot about her this summer, about how things had unraveled the last time around. Standing there, seeing her alive and well, Buffy felt a surge of determination well up inside. This time, things were going to be different. She wasn't just going to save the world over and over—she was going to save the people in it, the people she cared about. And that meant preventing the tragic fate that had befallen Ms. Calendar. Giles deserved his happily ever after, and Buffy was going to make sure he got it.
As they neared the library, Willow's voice rang out, breaking Buffy from her thoughts. "Giles!" she called, her tone excited, almost like seeing a favorite uncle after a long summer.
Xander, as always, couldn't resist his own unique greeting. "Hey. G-man!" he added with a grin, tossing out the nickname as casually as ever, knowing full well the response it would trigger.
Sure enough, Giles turned toward them, his brow furrowing as he glared at Xander with that familiar, disapproving look. "Nice to see you, and don't ever call me that," he said, his tone dry but not without a hint of fondness hidden beneath the exasperation. It was a dance they'd been doing for years now.
Ms. Calendar, standing beside Giles, smiled warmly at the group, her eyes lingering on Buffy for a moment longer than usual, as if sensing something different in the Slayer's presence. "Hey, kids," she greeted them, her voice soft and welcoming, yet carrying that underlying strength she always had.
"How are you?" Giles asked, his eyes landing on Buffy with that familiar mixture of concern and curiosity. He had a way of asking that made it feel like more than just a casual inquiry—he wanted to know, really know, if she was alright.
Buffy smiled, though the weight of everything she was holding back simmered beneath her expression. "Peachy with a side of keen," she replied, keeping her tone light, almost breezy.
Before the conversation could take a deeper turn, Willow's excitement bubbled over. "Buffy killed a vampire last night!" she exclaimed, her voice so animated that a few passing students shot her strange looks, like she'd just announced something utterly bizarre. To them, she probably had.
Buffy's eyes widened slightly, catching the awkward glances from the surrounding students. She turned to Willow with a soft chuckle, her tone gentle as she leaned in slightly. "Uh, I think you can get a little more volume if you speak from the diaphragm," she teased, her smile affectionate despite the light scolding.
Willow's face flushed as she realized her outburst had attracted some unwanted attention. "Sorry," she said quickly, her voice dropping to a more acceptable level as she cast a sheepish glance at Buffy.
"We got vampires?" Ms. Calendar asked, her brow furrowing as she exchanged a glance with Giles. Her usually calm demeanor shifted to one of concern, her eyes reflecting the gravity of the situation. "I thought the Hellmouth was closed." There was a subtle tension in her voice, a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, they had seen the last of these threats.
Buffy shook her head, her expression resigned but matter-of-fact. "It's not closed for business," she said, her voice calm but with a slight edge. The weight of her knowledge about the future—of years yet to come filled with battles, heartbreak, and relentless evil—pressed down on her. Won't be for another several years, she thought grimly to herself.
Giles, standing beside her, nodded in agreement, his face thoughtful as he tried to piece together the implications. "Buffy is more or less correct," he added, his voice carrying that scholarly tone he often used when explaining the mystical forces at work. "It's not gone. The mystical energy it emits is still concentrated in this area." His words hung in the air like an ominous reminder that the Hellmouth was far from dormant.
Xander, ever quick to add a quip, shrugged, trying to keep the mood lighter. "Which means we're still the undead's favorite party town," he said, flashing a quick grin, though his eyes betrayed the underlying tension he felt. The danger was real, and no amount of sarcasm could completely mask that.
Giles, ever focused on the immediate threat, turned his full attention back to Buffy. "This vampire—could you tell where he might be from?" His voice held a note of urgency, his instincts as a Watcher kicking in as he tried to make sense of the new threat. His eyes searched Buffy's face, knowing that her instincts in the field were just as crucial as anything found in his books.
"Local talent," Buffy replied, her tone casual but with the practiced calm of someone who had faced this sort of danger far too often. "Fresh. He was still wearing his funeral ensemble."
Giles nodded, absorbing her words. His mind was already turning over possibilities, scenarios, and the implications of what Buffy had encountered. "Which means there are other vampires about," he said, his voice tightening with the realization. "And they're already killing." He paused, a flicker of self-reproach in his eyes. "I should have been on top of that." His shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of his responsibility pressing down. "I wonder if they're here for some particular purpose..."
Buffy shrugged, though she knew more than she let on. The vampires, she recalled, had once sought to revive the Master—a threat she had taken care of before it could unfold. "I doubt it," she said, her voice steady but hinting at her certainty. "I would have thought the revivification ritual, but I made sure that can't happen."
Giles nodded again, though a spark of curiosity ignited in his eyes. He made a mental note to revisit that particular ritual in his research. How exactly had Buffy learned of the ritual? It wasn't something they had discussed before. For now, though, he filed the thought away. His priority was to consult his books, to dig deeper into what they might be facing next. "Well," he said, slipping into his familiar routine, "I have to consult my books."
Xander, sensing the predictability of the moment, glanced down at his watch with a knowing smile. "Eight minutes and thirty-three seconds," he said, tapping the watch with a certain smugness. He turned to Willow, grinning. "Pay up." His tone was triumphant as Willow sighed, reaching into her pocket for a dollar bill. "I called ten minutes before you had to consult your books about something," he added, looking at the others as if to say, I know my Giles.
Willow handed over the dollar with a good-natured grumble, her cheeks flushing with mild embarrassment. "We better get to class," she said, changing the subject as she tucked her remaining money back into her pocket.
As they all turned to leave, Buffy lingered for a moment, watching Giles retreat toward the library's dusty shelves. She couldn't shake the feeling that despite everything she was going to do to change things, they were still standing on the precipice of something bigger, darker. She might have stopped one apocalypse, but that didn't mean another wasn't just around the corner. With a heavy sigh, she joined Xander and Willow, trying to push those thoughts aside—for now.
September 22, 1997 – Monday
Restfield Cemetery
Three weeks had slipped by without much fanfare. Buffy had spent most of that time patrolling the quiet streets of Sunnydale, but the town had been unusually subdued. The looming presence of the Anointed One still hovered in her mind, a faint itch in the back of her thoughts. But honestly, without the Master's bones, he felt like little more than a shadow—an echo of a threat that had lost its teeth. She didn't waste too much energy worrying about him.
Tonight, Buffy found herself alone in the cemetery once again, sitting atop a cold, weathered gravestone. The air was cool, the kind that clung to your skin and seeped into your bones after hours spent outside. She had been there most of the night, her patience wearing thin. She had an appointment—of sorts—with the newly deceased Stephan Korshak, who was due to rise from his grave tonight. But, true to form for a newly turned vampire, Stephan was running late. Buffy shifted on the gravestone, her fingers drumming against the smooth stone, her foot tapping impatiently against the earth below.
"I forgot how boring this can be," Buffy muttered, her voice low, frustration creeping in. She reached into her pocket, pulling out a brightly colored plastic yo-yo, her makeshift boredom remedy. Sure, it wasn't the most Slayer-esque way to pass the time, but it kept her hands busy. As the yo-yo spun up and down in a steady rhythm, her other hand gripped a large wooden stake, its familiar weight grounding her in the reality of the task at hand. Even while toying with the yo-yo, her senses were razor-sharp, every muscle ready for action at the first sign of trouble. "Come on, Stephan, rise and shine," she muttered toward the grave, the yo-yo spinning in a smooth arc as she practiced her walk-the-dog trick. "Some of us have a ton of trig homework waiting."
Just as the words left her lips, a voice drifted through the stillness, smooth and deep, catching her completely off guard. "Hey," the voice said, and Buffy spun around, her Slayer instincts firing all at once.
"Ack!" she yelped, the yo-yo snapping back into her palm as she turned to face the source of the voice.
Standing there, bathed in the soft moonlight, was Angel, his dark eyes glinting with amusement at her surprise. He smiled slightly, the corners of his mouth lifting in that way he always did when he caught her off guard. "Is this a bad time?" he asked, his voice low, laced with that familiar mix of concern and teasing.
Buffy's heart raced for a moment before settling, her initial shock melting into something more familiar. She leaped off the headstone, her body moving before her mind fully caught up. The sight of him stirred something complicated in her chest, a mix of longing, anxiety, and the weight of what she knew was coming. There were so many things she needed to talk to him about, so many truths she had been holding back. She wasn't ready, but it didn't matter anymore—she couldn't wait.
"Angel," she began, her voice steady but hiding layers of tension beneath it, "I had a dream last night." The lie slipped off her tongue easily, as if it had been waiting for this moment. She needed to ease him into what she knew, to give him an excuse for what she was about to say.
Angel's brow furrowed slightly, his eyes sharpening at her words. "One of your prophetic dreams?" he asked, his tone serious now. He understood the weight those dreams carried for her, the way they often predicted danger, heartbreak, or worse.
"It showed me bits and pieces of our relationship over the next few months," Buffy said, her voice soft but filled with a gravity she couldn't hide. She looked at him, her heart aching with the burden of what she had to tell him. "On my seventeenth birthday, our relationship comes to a peak," she continued, her gaze unwavering as she delivered the bombshell. "We sleep together, and you lose your soul."
For a moment, Angel was silent, absorbing the full impact of her words. His jaw tightened, his eyes darkening as the realization hit him. He had always suspected there was a clause to the curse that bound him to his soul, a loophole that could unleash the monster inside him. Now, hearing Buffy confirm it, that fear crystallized into a painful certainty.
"Which means we can't be together," Angel said quietly, his voice heavy with understanding. He met her gaze, and for a second, the unspoken emotions that had been building between them for months hung in the air like a cloud of unshed tears. He didn't fight it, didn't argue, because deep down, he had known. He had always known that there were forces greater than them, crueler than fate, standing in the way of their happiness.
Buffy sighed, a heavy weight settling in her chest as she nodded. She would always love Angel, a truth that had been etched into her heart since the moment they met. But as time wore on, she had long since fallen out of the passionate love they once shared. "I'm afraid so," she confessed, the words bittersweet on her tongue. "I love you, Angel. I always will. But I don't want to be the cause of you losing your soul." The admission hung between them, a fragile bridge over a chasm of uncertainty and fear.
Angel looked off into the night, his expression a mix of contemplation and sorrow, before finally meeting her gaze again. "I'll go," he said, determination creeping into his voice. "Try and find a way that we can be together without losing my soul. Then I will return." Buffy nodded, the flickering hope in his words both a balm and a sting as she watched him turn and walk off into the shadows of the cemetery, his figure melding with the night until he vanished completely.
In that moment of solitude, silence engulfed her, but it was abruptly shattered. Blam! Buffy was knocked to the ground, a jolt of shock coursing through her as she gasped, recognizing the presence of Stephan Korshak. Hello, Stephan Korshak, she thought, adrenaline surging as she threw the vampire off her body, rising swiftly to her feet. Her heart raced, and she quickly glanced down at her hand. She was still clutching the yo-yo, but that wouldn't do her much good now. "Where's my stake?" she muttered, frustration bubbling beneath her calm exterior.
There was no time to search for her stake now; Stephan was on the move, and she had to act fast. The vampire, fueled by the primal instincts of the undead, had grabbed a nearby shovel and was raising it high, ready to bring it crashing down on her skull. In a split second, Buffy raised her arm and with a powerful swing, cracked the wooden handle of the shovel in half, leaving a jagged, pointy edge. Presto, stake-o. The transformation was instinctual, a testament to her training and experience.
Before Stephan could register her swift maneuver, she wrestled the shovel from his grasp, her grip tightening around the makeshift weapon as she shoved it into his heart with fierce determination. Instantly, the vampire dissolved into dust, the remnants of his existence scattering into the night air, leaving behind nothing but silence.
Buffy turned, her heart still racing from the encounter, and headed off toward the edge of the cemetery. She hadn't gone more than twenty feet when she unexpectedly stumbled, face-first, into an empty silk-upholstered coffin. The impact jarred her senses, and she sat up stiffly, confusion clouding her thoughts. As she took stock of her surroundings, her gaze fell on the satin lining of the newly buried coffin, and her eyes caught sight of a lone white woman's formal shoe, still pristine in the dim light.
At that moment, a long-forgotten memory surged forward, vivid and sharp. "Duh!" she exclaimed, realization washing over her like a wave. "Forgot that Chris and Eric had been digging up corpses around this time to make Chris's brother, Darryl, a girlfriend."
September 23, 1997 – Tuesday
Sunnydale High School
Early the next morning, the quiet solitude of the Sunnydale High library was interrupted only by the occasional flutter of pages as Giles sat hunched at the main table. With his back to the open door, he remained blissfully unaware of being observed. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he rehearsed the words that had been tormenting him for days now. Nervously, he fidgeted, adjusting his glasses, tugging at his tie, and finally resorting to gesturing wildly at the empty chair in front of him, a wooden library chair that had become his unwitting stand-in for Ms. Calendar.
"So, what I'm proposing… and I don't mean to appear indecorous…" His voice wavered as he mimicked polite charm, all the while gesturing with awkward grandiosity. "Is a social engagement… a date if you will. If you're amenable…" He trailed off, realizing how ridiculous he sounded. With a long sigh, he muttered under his breath, "Idiot!" He scolded himself, rubbing a hand over his face as if to erase the humiliation of the imagined rejection.
From the doorway, Buffy leaned against the frame, arms crossed with an amused glint in her eyes. "She will say yes," her voice cut through the air confidently.
Giles nearly jumped out of his skin, whipping around to find both Buffy and Xander standing there, watching him with barely concealed smirks. His heart raced from the shock, and embarrassment flooded his face, turning it a shade of red as deep as his tweed blazer.
"Trust me," Buffy continued with a knowing smile, walking further into the room. "I know she has a thing for you, and you have a thing for her."
Giles' blush deepened, his composure faltering as the realization sank in that his secret crush wasn't as secret as he had hoped. He adjusted his glasses once again, fumbling for words, though they didn't come as easily as they had when talking to the chair.
Xander, who had been observing the whole spectacle with wide-eyed interest, finally chimed in, glancing from Giles to the inanimate chair and back to Buffy. "So, this 'chair' woman we're talking about… we're talking Ms. Calendar?" he asked, his tone drenched in playful teasing.
"Yep," Buffy confirmed casually, offering Giles a conspiratorial grin. There was no malice in her tone, only the camaraderie of friends knowing too much about each other's lives.
Xander, never one to miss an opportunity to poke fun, crossed his arms and gave Giles a mockingly serious look, his voice dropping an octave as if assuming a paternal role. "Now, is it time for us to talk about the facts of life?" he teased with exaggerated concern.
Giles, mortified beyond belief, straightened his jacket, trying to reclaim some dignity. "You know," he started, his tone sharp with embarrassment, "I am suddenly deciding that this is none of your business." He shot a look at Xander that was half glare, half plea for mercy.
But Xander wasn't about to be derailed so easily. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he leaned forward and continued, "Because you know, that whole stork thing? Total smoke screen. Big conspiracy."
Giles pinched the bridge of his nose, realizing he had to regain control of the conversation before Xander's teasing spiraled further. He cleared his throat and turned to Buffy, grasping for a swift subject change. "So, how did things go last night? Did Mr. Korshak show up on schedule?"
Buffy, catching on to Giles' desperation, straightened up and answered, "More or less. I took care of him." She paused, her tone shifting to something more serious. "There's something else, though. I had a prophetic dream and, surprise, surprise, I found an empty grave last night."
That single statement lit a fire behind Giles's eyes, the scholarly part of him immediately springing to life. His previously composed, reserved expression cracked, revealing a flicker of excitement beneath. "Grave robbing," he murmured, his mind already racing ahead. "Well, that's new. Interesting."
Buffy grimaced, watching Giles shift into academic overdrive. "I know you meant to say 'gross' and 'disturbing,'" she pointed out, eyebrows raised.
Giles blinked, quickly remembering his role in this situation as the responsible adult, and forced himself back into a more concerned demeanor. "Yes, of course," he agreed sheepishly. "Terrible thing. We must put a stop to it." There was a pause as he wrestled with the bubbling excitement of a mystery, a problem to solve. He added a quick, half-hearted, "Dammit," in an attempt to mask his enthusiasm.
"So why does someone dig up graves?" Xander chimed in, his curiosity piqued despite himself.
Giles frowned, the question hanging in the air for a moment as he considered the possibilities. No immediate answers surfaced, but the wheels were clearly turning in his mind. "I'll collate some theories," he finally said, his voice measured, though his intrigue was obvious.
Buffy nodded, already steps ahead. "In my dream, I saw two people I recognized from school—Chris Epps and Eric something or other," she said thoughtfully. "I'll talk to Chris."
"Good," Giles agreed, the conversation now firmly in his wheelhouse.
0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0
At that very moment, Willow stood in the bustling school lounge, clipboard in hand, excitement radiating from her. The annual science fair was just around the corner, and to Willow, it was like a second Christmas. Her mind buzzed with the possibilities of her upcoming project—a carefully thought-out experiment that, she was sure, could finally earn her the coveted first prize. This year, she was determined to outdo herself, and she couldn't wait to get started.
As she printed her name at the top of the entry form, the scratch of her pen was interrupted by the sudden, blinding flash of a camera. She blinked, momentarily disoriented, just as the oily voice of Eric drifted over. "Look at those legs," he muttered, his voice thick with an unsettling leer as he clumsily advanced the film in his camera, his eyes fixed on Willow.
Willow turned, her scowl immediate and sharp. She had little patience for Eric, whose presence always made her skin crawl. He was the epitome of everything wrong with the stereotype of a "science nerd"—creepy, aggressive, and thoroughly inappropriate. He sullied the reputation of genuine science enthusiasts everywhere. Her lips pursed in silent disapproval, she mentally noted how people like him were the reason girls in STEM often felt uncomfortable.
Before she could say anything, Chris Epps appeared, walking over with a slightly nervous energy. Taller than Eric, with light hair that always seemed to fall in his face, Chris had a complex look in his eyes—a mix of quiet intelligence and something deeper, a sadness that Willow could never quite put her finger on. "Eric, knock it off," Chris said firmly, though there was a softness to his voice, as if his rebuke was more out of obligation than conviction.
Willow's expression softened as Chris came closer, grateful for his intervention. She cast a shy smile in his direction and, as if by instinct, her eyes wandered over his shoulder, curiosity piqued. She caught sight of his clipboard, eager to know what he might be entering in the science fair. Was he doing something brilliant?
Chris, sensing her gaze, looked up suddenly, his eyes widening in surprise to find Willow so engrossed in what he was writing. There was an awkward pause as their eyes met, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them, and Willow's face flushed slightly, embarrassed at being caught snooping. She quickly diverted her gaze, hoping she hadn't intruded too much.
0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0
That afternoon, Buffy strolled into the student lounge, her eyes scanning the room with a purpose. The hum of casual conversation and the clatter of lockers surrounded her, but she had no time for the usual high school chatter. Her gaze settled on Chris, sitting at one of the tables, hunched over a notebook, lost in thought. Without hesitation, she made her way over to him, her boots thudding softly on the linoleum floor.
"Hello, Chris," she said, her tone firm yet carrying a weight of understanding beneath it.
Chris looked up, momentarily startled to find her standing so close. "Hey," he replied, a flicker of recognition crossing his features. "Buffy, right?"
"Yeah," Buffy confirmed, but there was no time for pleasantries. "We need to talk. About Darryl."
The mention of his brother's name hit Chris like a punch to the gut. His eyes widened in shock, and for a moment, it looked like he might bolt. How did she know? Did she really know? His throat tightened as he tried to respond, the guilt already gnawing at his insides. "I'd…"
Buffy cut him off, her voice steady but urgent. "He's going to ask you to kill for him."
Chris froze. His grip tightened on the edge of the table, and then, with a quick, almost frantic glance around the room, he grabbed Buffy by the arm and pulled her off to the side, away from any eavesdropping students. His voice was low, desperate. "He wouldn't. He just... he doesn't want to be alone. We're just creating for him a girlfriend. You know, like Frankenstein."
There was a pleading look in his eyes, a hope that Buffy would somehow understand the twisted logic, the desperate need driving him and Darryl. But Buffy knew better, her heart sinking with every word he said. She exhaled slowly, the weight of the situation pressing down on her.
"And you're missing one crucial body part, aren't you?" Buffy asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Chris's face paled, and he nodded, his expression a mix of fear and shame. "The head," he admitted, his voice cracking under the strain of his moral conflict.
Buffy crossed her arms, her eyes hardening. "Problem is, there haven't been any deaths other than the three you dug up," she said, her words coming out like a painful truth Chris was forced to confront. "Which means he will ask you to kill for him." She paused, letting the severity of it sink in. "The head he will want is Cordelia's."
Chris looked away, unable to meet her eyes. He knew she was right. Deep down, he had always known where this was headed, but hearing it aloud—hearing Buffy spell it out so clearly—made it impossible to ignore.
Buffy leaned in closer, her tone softening, but her resolve was unshaken. "We have to stop him, Chris." Her words hung heavy in the air. "Can you reverse his resurrection?"
Chris shook his head, the hopelessness etched across his face. "No," he whispered, barely able to voice it.
Buffy sighed, a deep, weary sound that spoke of the burden she carried. "Then I will have to," she said, her voice low but determined. There was no other option now. She couldn't let this spiral out of control—not with Cordelia's life on the line.
Epps Home
By the time Buffy and Chris made their way into Darryl's dingy basement lair, the oppressive atmosphere of the room immediately told Buffy something was off. The space was eerily quiet, save for the faint creak of the old house settling above them. In the dim light, the chaotic mess left behind by Darryl stood out starkly: piles of books thrown haphazardly across the floor, shattered shelves that had once held tools and notes now lay in splintered ruins. It was as if the space itself was still vibrating from the force of Darryl's anger.
Buffy's sharp eyes scanned the destruction, her mind working quickly. "Okay, he's not here," she said, her voice low but urgent, as her boots crunched against the debris beneath her feet. "Where else could he be?" Her frustration bubbled beneath the surface as she tried to piece together the puzzle. "He should still be here. He shouldn't have gone to the lab at school till tomorrow," she mused, more to herself than to Chris.
But then, like a switch had been flipped, realization dawned. Her eyes flicked to Chris, and a chill settled in her gut as the pieces started falling into place. "Eric must have overheard us talking," she said, her tone sharp with clarity. "Then he told your brother."
Chris's face grew pale, his brows furrowing in confusion. "How do you know all this?" he asked, his voice tinged with both fear and disbelief. He wasn't sure if he was ready for the answer, especially with everything spinning so out of control.
Buffy's expression softened, but only slightly. She was in Slayer mode, and now wasn't the time for full explanations. "You've seen Back to the Future, right?" she asked, the reference both familiar and strange under the circumstances.
Chris nodded slowly, clearly not following where she was going with this.
"Pretty much I'm doing something like that," Buffy continued, waving her hand dismissively as if time travel was just a casual weekend activity. "I'm kind of from the future." Her words hung in the air for a moment, and Chris's eyes widened, the weight of what she'd just said sinking in.
But Buffy didn't have time for his shock or for long explanations. She continued without missing a beat, her voice growing more urgent. "Anyways, since Eric likely knows and has already told Darryl, they've probably gone after Cordelia already."
The gravity of the situation hit Chris hard, and Buffy's words jolted him into action.
"So, we're heading straight for the lab," Buffy finished, her tone leaving no room for argument. She turned on her heel, the decision made, her mission clear. There was no time to waste.
Sunnydale High School
Eric's twisted smile widened as he methodically emptied the five-gallon drum of gasoline into the sputtering lab generator, the harsh stench of fuel permeating the air. With a low rumble, the machinery jolted to life, the humming pulse of the generator filling the dark, makeshift lab like a heartbeat. The dim lighting flickered on, casting long, menacing shadows across the room. The final stage of their horrifying plan was now in motion.
Across the room, Cordelia's voice trembled as she pleaded, her arms bound to the gurney, her panic rising with each second. "Darryl, please," she begged, her voice tight with desperation. Her eyes flicked to his face, once human, now a grotesque patchwork of stitches and scars. "You don't have to do this."
Darryl, hulking and monstrous, loomed over her with a haunted look that twisted into something darker. His expression was a fractured mixture of sorrow and determination, but his words held no warmth, only cold necessity. "I have to," he insisted, his voice low and final. "So we can be together."
Cordelia's heart raced, her chest heaving as panic threatened to overtake her. She watched helplessly as Eric, wearing that same unnerving grin, ran the sharp surgical blade through the flame of a Bunsen burner, the fire hissing as the metal turned white-hot. Her breath hitched, her mind scrambling for anything that could save her. "We can be together anyway," she tried to convince Darryl, her voice cracking under the strain. "I'll be with you. I promise."
Darryl leaned closer, his disfigured face inches from hers, giving her a grotesque, intimate view of the man he had become. The flickering light from the generator cast an eerie glow on the jagged stitches lining his once-human features. His voice was hollow, almost mocking as he sneered, "See anything you like?"
Cordelia's throat constricted, her voice lost. She couldn't answer him. She wouldn't. Her wide, terrified eyes said everything as they darted between Darryl and the body lying under the sheet on the adjacent gurney—the unfinished girl. Slowly, deliberately, Darryl lifted the edge of the sheet, revealing the cold, lifeless form beneath.
"When you're finished," Darryl said, his voice dark and possessive, "you won't go out. You won't run away." He looked down at the girl's body with a twisted sense of satisfaction. "We'll hide together."
Tears streamed down Cordelia's face, and her entire body shook with fear. The weight of what was about to happen crushed her spirit, and her voice cracked with a final, desperate plea. "Please . . ." she whispered, the word barely escaping her trembling lips.
But Eric, ever the sadistic one, had no sympathy. He approached the gurney, his eyes gleaming with a deranged excitement, the freshly sterilized blade gleaming in the harsh light. He held it up for Cordelia to see, letting her imagine her fate in its sharp edge. "Sterile enough for government work," he said with a casual, chilling nonchalance, before lowering the blade toward her neck.
And then, like a burst of salvation, the door to the lab exploded inward with a deafening crash. Buffy stormed in, her silhouette framed against the blinding light outside as the door slammed into the wall. She moved with deadly precision, her eyes locking onto Cordelia and the danger she was in.
"Buffy! Help me!" Cordelia screamed, her voice a raw mixture of terror and hope as her eyes widened in pure desperation.
Eric's eyes widened in a brief flicker of rage and panic, and without hesitation, he hurled the knife straight for Buffy's heart. But the Slayer, ever vigilant and fast, moved with almost supernatural speed. In a single fluid motion, she caught the knife mid-air by its handle, the cold metal barely grazing her fingertips before she clenched it tightly in her hand. The force of her catch echoed in the room, making the cowardly Eric flinch. His bravado shattered, he scrambled into a corner, cowering like a frightened child, hoping to blend into the shadows.
But Buffy's attention had already shifted. She locked her gaze on Darryl, her eyes searching for any trace of the humanity that had once belonged to the boy he used to be. His hulking frame stood over Cordelia, the harsh light casting eerie shadows across his distorted face. Buffy softened her voice, hoping that reason could still reach him. "Darryl, listen," she began, taking a slow, steady step toward him. "I know what you're doing. I get it. But this—this isn't the way. Your brother sent me to stop you."
Darryl's face twisted in disbelief, his monstrous features pulling into an expression of deep betrayal. "No. He wouldn't do that," he growled, his voice shaking with a mixture of hurt and denial.
From her place on the gurney, Cordelia's panic reached a fever pitch. "Buffy, they're crazy!" she shouted, her voice a piercing cry of fear, desperate for salvation.
Buffy, her focus still unwavering on Darryl, spoke to Cordelia without looking away. "It's okay, Cordelia. I'm getting you out of here." Her words were calm, but there was a simmering intensity behind them, a silent promise that she would not let anyone hurt her friend.
"No! I'm not done with her yet!" Darryl's voice erupted in a thunderous roar, raw and jagged. His trembling hand reached for a sharp surgical saw from the nearby tray, the blade gleaming under the dim lights as he poised it over Cordelia's neck. His anger, his desperation, had pushed him to the brink. "I'M NOT FINISHED!"
In that moment, Buffy surged forward, her body a blur of motion as she delivered a powerful kick to Darryl, knocking him away from Cordelia. The sound of their impact echoed through the lab like a clap of thunder. Darryl, despite his undead strength, staggered back, but he was quick to recover, years of football training making him resilient.
Buffy braced herself, her chest heaving as she squared off against him. "Don't make me do this, Darryl," she warned, her voice pleading. She hated this—fighting someone who was already caught between life and death. "The last time you and I fought, you died in a fire. Please, don't make me do this again."
Darryl's face contorted in fury, his response swift and violent. He lunged forward and delivered a brutal punch, his heavy fist colliding with Buffy's jaw. The force sent her stumbling backward, slamming into Cordelia's gurney with a loud metallic crash. The gurney rolled across the floor, carrying Cordelia helplessly along, her wide eyes filled with terror. As it skidded backward, it knocked over the can of gasoline. The remnants of the fuel spilled out onto the floor, the pungent odor thickening the air with danger.
"Buffy!" Cordelia screamed, her voice shrill and desperate, her fate tied to the chaos swirling around her.
But Buffy couldn't stop now. She rolled off the gurney and sprang to her feet, her muscles taut and ready. As she pulled back her arm, preparing to strike, Darryl charged at her again, his fury blinding him. The two collided with a force that sent a shockwave through the room. Buffy's feet slid across the slick, gasoline-coated floor, her grip on her control tightening as she struggled to maintain her balance.
"I won't live alone!" Darryl shouted, his voice cracking with anguish. He moved toward Buffy again, each step heavy with the weight of his desperation, his desire to escape the isolation that had consumed him since his resurrection. His eyes burned with madness, his determination unrelenting.
Just then, in a panic-fueled burst of adrenaline, Eric bolted for the door, desperation flickering in his eyes. "I'm getting out of here," he mumbled under his breath, as his feet pounded against the cold floor. The thought of escape, of leaving the chaos behind, was all that filled his mind.
But Darryl had other plans. No one was leaving—not until he had what he needed. Rage surged through him as he saw Eric's cowardly retreat. With terrifying strength, Darryl reached out, grabbing the scrawny science nerd by the scruff of his neck as though he weighed nothing. Lifting Eric into the air effortlessly, Darryl's monstrous grip tightened, his eyes blazing with desperation. "You have to help me," Darryl growled, his voice thick with menace and a crazed sense of purpose.
Eric thrashed helplessly, his legs flailing above the floor. "Let go!" he pleaded, his voice shrill, panic consuming him as he kicked at the empty air. But reason was lost on Darryl. His mind, warped by his undead state, was a storm of fury and obsession. Without another word, Darryl hurled Eric across the room. The boy's frail body slammed against the unforgiving cement wall with a sickening thud. Eric slid to the floor in a crumpled heap, his glasses askew, consciousness slipping away.
Buffy, seeing her opportunity, lunged for Cordelia. But Darryl wasn't finished. His need for control, for revenge, was too powerful to let Buffy take what he saw as his. He dove at her with a primal roar, but Buffy was ready. In a split second, she raised her leg and delivered a swift roundhouse kick to Darryl's gut. The impact was solid, sending Darryl stumbling back into a nearby table. The sound of metal and glass crashing filled the room as Eric's Bunsen burner clattered to the ground.
For a moment, Buffy hoped the pain would slow Darryl down, but he was beyond feeling. His body, fueled only by rage and blind determination, shook off the hit like it was nothing. With a wild look in his eyes, he grabbed a bottle of chemicals from the table and hurled it straight at Buffy. She dodged just in time, the bottle smashing against the wall behind her.
But something else caught Buffy's attention—the flame from the fallen Bunsen burner. It had ignited the gasoline spilled earlier, and in seconds, fire began to spread, its tendrils creeping rapidly across the floor, licking up everything in its path. Buffy's heart pounded as the flames inched closer to Cordelia, who was still strapped to the gurney, her eyes wide with terror.
If Buffy didn't act soon…
Before she could finish her thought, the door to the lab burst open. Xander charged in, his eyes immediately taking in the chaos—flames, fallen debris, and Cordelia, trapped in the middle of it all. He barely heard Buffy's voice over the roaring fire, but it cut through the noise with urgency. "Xander!" she called out, her voice sharp, commanding. "Get Cordelia."
Xander didn't hesitate, darting toward Cordelia despite the wall of flames blocking nearly every route. His mind raced as he searched for a way out, the fire closing in like a relentless, burning maze. The heat was intense, oppressive, and he could feel the sweat beading on his skin as he tried to figure out what to do.
"Xander!" Buffy shouted again, catching his attention just as he was about to lose hope. "Get out of there! Shove the gurney and jump on. Ride it across!"
For a moment, Xander hesitated, the idea seeming crazy—but then again, everything in Sunnydale was crazy. Without another second to waste, he gritted his teeth, grabbed the edge of Cordelia's gurney, and gave it a hard push. The wheels squealed in protest as the gurney rolled forward, gathering speed as it moved toward the flames. With a leap of faith, Xander jumped onto the gurney, holding on tight as it raced across the floor, flames licking at the sides as he and Cordelia hurtled toward the other side of the room.
The others—Chris, Giles, Ms. Calendar, and Willow—rushed into the lab just in time to witness the chaos. But the fire had already grown out of control, consuming everything in its path. They stood helplessly at the door, watching as Buffy continued her fight with Darryl and Xander struggled to save Cordelia.
Buffy's eyes never left Darryl, her blows raining down on him relentlessly as she tried to stop the undead boy once and for all. "Darryl!" she shouted; her voice strained. "Please don't make me kill you."
"No!" Cordelia screamed, her voice cracking as the flames crept higher, the heat now licking dangerously close to her and Xander. Panic flooded her mind, her heart pounding in her chest as she was certain this was the end—that they were about to be swallowed by the inferno, burned alive in a nightmarish blaze.
But somehow, miraculously, the gurney kept moving. Xander gripped the edges with all his strength, guiding them through the narrow path the fire hadn't yet devoured. The flames roared on either side of them, but as if by some twist of fate, they managed to roll toward the door, the intense heat scorching the air but miraculously leaving them untouched. As they reached the threshold, the fire behind them raged, a wall of flames separating them from the madness inside.
Willow and Giles were already waiting, their faces pale but determined as they pulled Eric's limp body to safety. He didn't deserve their help—not after everything he'd done—but Giles and Willow weren't the type to leave anyone behind, even someone as vile as Eric. His body slumped between them, unconscious but alive, dragged from the edge of doom while the lab burned.
"Buffy, get out!" Ms. Calendar's voice pierced the chaos, her eyes wide with urgency. She knew the building was on the brink of collapsing into a fiery ruin, but Buffy's work wasn't done yet. There was still one more thing she had to do.
With an intensity born from years of facing life-and-death battles, Buffy turned her attention to Darryl, whose monstrous form still loomed amidst the flames. She didn't hesitate. Grabbing him by the shoulders, she summoned every ounce of her Slayer strength and hurled Darryl's huge, undead body into the heart of the inferno. The flames roared as they devoured him, engulfing not only Darryl but the lifeless form on the other gurney—the grotesque, unfinished girl he had intended as his eternal companion.
The fire consumed them both in seconds, the searing heat obliterating everything that had gone so wrong in Darryl's twisted resurrection. His body writhed in the flames for a moment before becoming eerily still, his tragic second life ending in a blaze of his own making.
"No!" Chris's anguished cry cut through the crackling of the fire. His brother—his last connection to the life they'd once shared—was burning before his eyes, and instinct took over. Without thinking, Chris lunged toward the flames, his hand outstretched, desperate to save Darryl one more time, just as he had before.
But Buffy was faster. In a heartbeat, she sprang to her feet and grabbed Chris, pulling him back from the blaze before he could do something he could never undo. "It's too late, Chris," she said, her voice soft but firm as she held him in place, her grip steady. "I had to do it. I'm sorry."
For a long moment, Chris stared at her, the horror and heartbreak written across his face. The weight of what had happened, of what he and his brother had done, sank in. Slowly, the fight drained from him, and he nodded—just once, a small, broken movement. He knew there was nothing left to save.
Together, Buffy and Chris moved away from the fire, leaving behind the hellish scene. As they crossed the threshold into the cooler night air, Darryl's huge, tormented body fell silent, consumed by the flames that now raged out of control. The building crackled and groaned, but the only sound that filled the air outside was the deep, heavy silence of a tragedy that had finally come to an end.
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Buffy sat in silence beside Chris, both of them perched on the hood of a police car, the cool metal beneath them doing little to ease the burning emotions between them. In the distance, the Sunnydale Fire Department worked furiously to tame the blaze, hoses spraying arcs of water into the roaring flames, but it felt like a losing battle. Smoke filled the night air, thick and suffocating, and the crackle of the fire was a constant reminder of everything that had happened—everything that had been lost. Chris's eyes remained fixed on the fire, unable to tear his gaze away from the place where his brother, Darryl, had been consumed by the inferno. It was as though, even now, Chris was hoping he might see him one last time, though he knew better. Darryl was truly gone.
"The first time he woke up," Chris said quietly, his voice raw and heavy with guilt, "after… he told me I shouldn't have brought him back." He paused, the weight of the words hanging in the air. "I was just trying to look out for him. Like he would've done for me."
Buffy turned her head slightly, her gaze softening as she listened. She knew that feeling all too well—the desperation to protect someone you loved, to save them from pain, even if it meant making impossible choices. She thought of Dawn, her sister, and how she had leaped from Glory's tower to stop the world from tearing apart. In that moment, she had done what she thought was right, what she thought would save Dawn, even if it meant her own end. The ache of that memory was still sharp, but she kept her voice steady.
"I understand," Buffy said softly, her eyes lingering on the burning remains of the lab. Her tone was filled with a quiet kind of sadness, the type that came from making hard decisions—ones that changed everything.
Chris turned to look at her, really seeing her for the first time. There was a depth to Buffy that he hadn't noticed before, something in her gaze that told him she did understand, in ways most people couldn't. He stared at her for a long moment, the shared grief between them binding them in an unspoken way.
"If I can ask…" Chris began hesitantly, his voice trailing off, unsure if he had the right.
Buffy's lips curled into the faintest of smiles, though it didn't reach her eyes. "My sister, who I love dearly," she answered, her voice barely above a whisper. "And hope to see again someday."
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Giles walked over to Jenny Calendar, cradling a steaming cup of hot coffee in his hands, the warmth radiating through the ceramic and comforting against the cool evening air. As he approached, the rich aroma of the brew wafted towards him, a small solace amidst the chaos of the night. "I'm sorry about all this," he apologized, his voice tinged with genuine concern.
"That's okay," Ms. Calendar assured him, her smile a soft beacon in the dim light of the room. She took a sip of the hot drink, letting the warmth spread through her. The steam curled up and disappeared into the air, and for a moment, it felt like a brief escape from the overwhelming events of the evening. "Although a good rule of thumb for a first date is don't do anything so exciting that it will be hard to top on the second date." Her playful tone lightened the mood, even if only a little.
Giles couldn't help but chuckle at her quip, a hint of color rising to his cheeks. He shifted his weight slightly, a nervous habit that surfaced whenever he was around her. "Believe it or not," he began, a rueful smile breaking across his face, "since I've moved here to live on top of the Hellmouth, the events of this evening actually qualify as a slow night." The weight of the supernatural chaos surrounding them felt almost normal to him now, a strange comfort in the unpredictability of their lives.
Then he stopped, a thoughtful look crossing his face as he processed her words. "Did you say, 'second date'?" he asked, curiosity piqued, his brow arching slightly as he studied her reaction.
Ms. Calendar laughed, a melodic sound that danced through the air, momentarily overshadowing the lingering tension. "Ah. You noticed, huh?"
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Xander watched as Giles blushed like a fool in front of Jenny Calendar, a sight that made him both chuckle and groan. "Well, I guess that makes it official. Everyone's paired off. Vampires can get dates. Hell, even the school librarian is seeing more action than me," he complained to Willow, his voice dripping with mock exasperation. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, feeling a twinge of jealousy as he took in the cozy scene. "You ever feel like the world is a giant game of musical chairs and the music stopped and we're the only ones who don't have a chair?"
Buffy glanced over at Xander, her mind drifting. She couldn't help but wonder, in her original timeline, if she had been chasing the wrong person all those years. First Angel, then Parker, followed by Riley, and finally Spike—each relationship a winding path that never quite led her to fulfillment. Was it possible that Xander was the one for her? He had always been there, steadfast and loyal, except when he along with Dawn and the rest of her friends had kicked her out of her own house. Xander had stood beside her through thick and thin, a constant source of support. Was it possible there could have been more if she had tried? The thought lingered in her mind like a haunting melody.
"All the time," Willow assured him, her voice soft yet resolute, as she watched her two friends.
Just then, Cordelia approached, interrupting their moment. She walked over to Xander, her face smudged with soot and her cheerleading uniform in disarray, but remarkably, she was unscathed. "I… uh… just wanted to thank you for saving my life in there," she began, sincerity weaving through her words. "It was really brave and heroic and all. And if there's ever anything I can do to . . ." She hesitated, her eyes flickering with uncertainty as she tried to articulate what she felt.
"Do you mind?" Xander barked at her, his tone sharper than intended. He turned his attention back to Willow, dismissing Cordelia's heartfelt gesture as if it were merely a distraction. "We're talking here."
Cordelia's face registered shock and surprise, her eyes widening at his abruptness. She had been making an honest, heartfelt thank you, and Xander had just completely blown her off. The moment hung in the air, thick with unspoken words and miscommunication. Stung, she turned and walked away, her posture stiffening with rejection.
Xander, blissfully unaware of the impact of his words, turned his attention back to Willow. "So, where were we?" he asked, as if nothing had happened.
Willow looked from Xander to Cordelia, her brow furrowing in contemplation. She couldn't help but note the irony in the whole situation, the tangled web of relationships that seemed to ensnare them all. "Wondering why we never seem to have dates," she reminded him, a hint of melancholy in her voice as she reflected on the complicated dynamics that defined their lives.
Summers Home
Later that night, Buffy sat in her room, the dim light from her bedside lamp casting a soft, warm glow over her weary face. Shadows danced on the walls, flickering like her restless thoughts, while the quiet hum of the night outside contrasted sharply with the turmoil inside her heart. Crickets chirped in the distance, a reminder of the peaceful world beyond her window—a world she had once taken for granted. But inside, her mind raced with a whirlwind of emotions and memories, each one colliding with the next, leaving her feeling dizzy and overwhelmed.
Determined to find clarity, she had decided to transform her journal into letters for her sister, for after Dawn arrived. Her pen hovered over the page for a moment, quivering slightly as if reflecting her uncertainty, before she began to write. Each stroke felt like a release, her emotions pouring out onto the paper in a way that felt both cathartic and necessary.
Dawn,
I miss you, little sis. I've decided to turn my journal into letters for you to read when you're created. The thought of you coming into this world fills me with a mix of excitement and fear. I want so much for you, and yet I know that some things will be beyond my control.
I guess some things I'm just not going to be able to change no matter how hard I try. I truly wanted to save Darryl. Maybe with a good plastic surgeon, he could have looked human again. But it's more than that, isn't it? It makes me wonder if it will be possible to change other things or if fate, destiny, God, whatever will make sure some things don't change. The weight of these decisions feels heavier than I anticipated, a burden I'm not sure I'm ready to bear.
Though I know some things will change. I went by Angel's apartment. He left like he said he was. Originally, he didn't leave for another year and a half. So that at least gives me hope I can change things for the better. But what if my changes bring new challenges, new heartbreak? Though I have to wonder if I shouldn't leave some things alone. Like Kendra. I like Kendra. But if she doesn't die, Faith won't be chosen. And if Faith isn't chosen, will she still go up against that Kakistos or whatever his name was? If she does, will she die? The weight of these thoughts crushed her; she felt the burden of potential futures swirling around her like a storm. Which is the lesser of two evils? Kendra's death or possibly Faith's?
Then there is Oz. I like Oz; he was a good friend. But even I know Oz in the end was just a high school crush. Willow is meant for Tara. Should I try to meddle and steer Willow from Oz and toward Tara? Or should I let history repeat itself so that Willow finds Tara naturally? Or what? I guess those are questions I will have to answer for myself.
Then of course, there is you, Dawn. You are the one thing I don't want to change. You are the one thing I want back. I want to fulfill the promise I made when Willow was trying to destroy the world. I want to watch you grow up into the beautiful woman you will become, and I want to show you the world—its wonders and its dangers, its joys and sorrows. I want to share everything with you, all the experiences I wished I could have had when I was your age.
Your loving sister,
Buffy
Buffy set down her pen, a deep sigh escaping her lips as she stared at the words on the page, her heart aching with both hope and sorrow. Writing to Dawn felt like reaching out to a part of herself that was still whole, still untouched by the battles and losses she had endured. It was a way to connect with the future she yearned for, a future that felt both fragile and impossibly far away. She closed the journal, her heart a little lighter, knowing that these letters were a promise to herself as much as they were to Dawn. They were a testament to her love, her determination, and her unwavering belief that, no matter the challenges ahead, she would do everything in her power to protect her sister and ensure a better life for her.