Previously on Buffy....

"This way," Buffy yelled. Which way? she thought, and then tripped and fell like Alice down the rabbit hole, and that was almost a nightmare that Anya might have, wasn't it, down the rabbit hole, and either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for Buffy had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next.

She rolled and crashed through dry leaves, which filled her mouth and clung to her hair, and was then flung sprawling into a ditch full of mud. Pushing herself up to her hands and knees, she spat out a leaf and looked up to see a blade of light sketching the ground ahead of her, coming closer in back and forth motion, like the sweep of a needle on an EKG; like the pattern of her own fast heartbeat. Above her, the trees were filled with light, and the sound of the helicopter was louder than before.

Buffy scrambled back from the light and bumped the edge of something hard and wet; a large drainage pipe, trickling water onto the sludge of the ground. One hand braced against its inner wall, she crouched inside its mouth until the spotlight passed. As the noise of the chopper faded, she poked her head out. The ditch she'd fallen into wasn't as deep as she'd first thought and she could now hear rustling above.

"Buffy!"

"Down here! Watch your step," she called, then murmured to herself: "First one's a doozy."

Xander came half-sliding, half-climbing down the side of the ditch, bracing himself on protruding roots. "You all right?"

"More like all left, as in feet." Buffy stood and brushed mud from her knees. Underneath the mud was more mud. As she ineffectually cleaned off the worst results of her tumble, the others came skidding down into the ditch, Xander giving them a hand.

"So we're all standing in mud," Anya observantly reported on arrival. "I'm wondering how this is helpful."

Tara glanced her way. "If you rub it on your face, you'll avoid the spotlights." From her pleasant tone, it was hard to tell how serious she was, and Anya frowned indecisively.

"There's some kind of drainage or runoff pipe here," Buffy cut in, turning to inspect her hiding place. "We must be close to town. We should be able to follow this back."

"You mean, inside?" Dawn gave it a skeptical look.

Willow was absently rubbing the grunge of one palm against her jeans. "Funny how Sunnydale drains are always conveniently human-sized."

"Let's have a round of applause for our beloved and very former Mayor Wilkins," said Xander. Buffy and the others looked his way in surprise. "When you contract for enough underground parking garages, you get to see a lot of the original blueprints. The man's name is on everything. Richard Wilkins, Richard Wilkins Junior, Richard Wilkins the Third. He had influence in making sure the water and sewer systems were built to spec. And that spec was demon-friendly."

"I don't care if this was built by Genghis Khan as long as it helps us get into town unnoticed." Buffy stepped back inside.

"Why does everyone always think Genghis was such a bad guy?" asked Anya, following along with the others. Her next words echoed against the pipe walls. "I never received a single petition for vengeance against him, despite the many hundreds of women he used and enslaved. He was a considerate lover, for a Mongol...or so I've heard." She glanced at Xander.

"Splende," said Willow, and with a twitch of fingers conjured a glowing ball that hung in the air a moment before rolling gently forward, lighting their way. The drain ahead was a featureless grey tube with only a few stains and striations along the sides; at their feet ran a thin stream of water.

Their group fell into single file, the better to navigate the curved pipe bed, and Buffy moved to take the lead, feeling more claustrophobic the deeper they went. On the side of optimism, floods were rare in Sunnydale. On the side of pessimism, she was all too easily imagining scary things and dead ends, or dead things and scary ends, not to mention the possibility of the pipe growing narrower and swallowing them up like a big snake.

"Are there any rats down here?" Dawn wondered.

"Probably depends on how recently it rained," Willow answered. "Don't worry, Dawnie. Any rats we see I'll send packing back to Ratville."

Dawn looked back over one shoulder. "Isn't this Ratville?"

"Well, uh...okay, I'll send them to a rat-friendly dimension."

"What if they're ex-minions of Amy?" Xander wondered.

Willow's voice got testier: "Then they'll be right at home."

Buffy tuned out her friends' chatter and let Willow's little glowy ball guide her path. The further into the pipe she went the chillier and danker it got. There were no turn-offs and no deviations--it was a pipe, not a tunnel--and she hoped she hadn't made a bad move by directing them this way. Playing follow-the-leader was less fun when you were always the one leading. Especially when the stakes of the game were so high.

Stakes made her think of the wooden kind, which led to vampires, which led to a subject of preoccupation she'd somehow managed to avoid until now: Spike. Where was he? Hiding out, maybe. Or not even up yet. She imagined him sprawled out in his crypt, one arm flung over his face, blood and whiskey heavy on his non-existent breath as he lay motionless; a muscular log, sleeping away a day without daylight. Big oblivious vampire creep.

Buffy's wandering attention was caught by something on the side of the pipe, and she paused to take it in.

"Hey, what is that?" asked Willow, behind her.

"I don't know--some kind of graffiti." A large black 'S' was sprayed on the north wall. Buffy moved slowly forward, reading. "S...P...I. Oh my god." With growing dismay, she jogged until she could read the entire thing.

"Spike Loves Diu," Xander said in incomprehension, as they clumped together at the end of this dedication. "What is that, French?"

"Dieu--that's 'God.' Spike loves God?" Dawn sounded dubious. "I don't think he's really a big fan. Plus, he spelled it wrong." She ended on a lofty, superior note.

"I think that's supposed to be 'Dru'," Tara noted dryly, brushing some caked mud off the 'r' with her fingertips.

Xander's face cleared. "Ah. Simple. Timeless. Trite."

Dawn shifted a little closer to Buffy. "Where do you think Spike is? Do you think maybe he got out of town?"

"Oh, I don't think so," Willow drawled, her voice as cool as the air around them.

Buffy turned her head a little at the remark, but forced herself not to meet Willow's eyes; not to see whatever was in them. This was the wrong time and place for a fight. She looked back at the inscription her thoughts had conjured. "Well, at least we know one thing--this pipe is going to lead us somewhere."

But if it led them to Spike, she might be inclined to punch him in the face. Just for old time's sake.

It reminded him of the night Buffy came back from the grave.

A nip in the air now; the hijinks on a grander scale, but the motive for celebration wasn't much different than it had been back then. Liberty for the monsters to wander. Joy of chaos. Hell, no one needed more motive than that. The excitement was its own reason, a force building like a storm. The party was spilling across town, street by street, house by house. Spike could smell blood and fire on the wind. The scents made him heady, filled him with longing and a sense of youth. Set his fangs itching.

His Jeep rolled down Main Street at a sedate pace, though. Stately pace, you might say. On either side, demons rampaged unchecked, breaking store windows, spraying piss or paint on the walls to mark their newly claimed territory. Die Humans! shouted a red scrawl across the front of a bank. Hyuman = verminn read another. Like Kristallnacht but with worse spelling, thought Spike, watching two Fyarl heave themselves bodily through a sheet of plate glass, either in pursuit of women's fancy dresswear or just for the sheer bloody hell of it.

With distance and the dignity of his uniform between them, Spike could almost convince himself he was above this lot, a rabble little better than animals. But in some part of himself, he felt the call of like to like. He was demon, after all. Only a twist of fate drove him to kill his own kind. He couldn't make a meal of death now, but he could serve it. And maybe it wasn't so unnatural. People move up the food chain, and those too slow or stupid to adapt got left behind. Taking them out was a kind of mercy, looked at like that. Saved them from their own pathetic existences.

A Preggothian lifted a trashcan and sent it sailing through a display window of a little coffee shop where Spike had occasionally tossed back an espresso or five. "Troops will be here soon," said Raus, his unshakable shadow. He sounded on the verge of a disapproving sniff. "Destruction of property can't be avoided, but the cost of rebuilding falls to us. They don't think of that."

"Daresay they don't," Spike agreed indifferently.

"They demolish perfectly good buildings and we foot the bill."

"Dashed shame." Moodily Spike scanned the street, wondering what he was supposed to do with himself. Drive around in an endless maze like one of those little Pac-Men thingies, gobbling up demons? He'd gotten the hang of his mission quick enough, and was already feeling restless, even a bit bored, if truth be told. Just then he noticed a crew of uglies advancing on the Magic Box. He swiveled his head sharply as they drove past, and ordered the driver to make a sharp u-turn. "I'm going to save the Reich the cost of some reconstruction, mate," he told Raus as the Jeep veered. "That work for you?"

"Of course, sir."

And why was he going out of his way? Not just boredom: Anya'd never let him hear the end of it if he didn't save her little shop of horrors--screech like an owl on fire, she would, if he let them trash the place.

"Where are those brilliant brass whatsits of yours?" he asked Raus, snapping fingers impatiently at his aide. "C'mon. Look sharp there, Gollum." The Grauth scrabbled around in the back seat, then handed over the Reich's sigil just as they pulled up alongside the demons, whose crowbars and bats signified they'd come to play hard. Spike hopped out onto the sidewalk.

"It's the Slayer's pet vamp," sneered the chief big ugly, sketching a frown up and down Spike's uniform. "You dressed up for Halloween, Spike? Little late for that."

"Every day's a holiday--if you got the right attitude." He offered the kind of smile that smart folks were reluctant to accept, then went over and slapped the sigil onto the front door of the Magic Box. The force of his blow drove its sharp little prongs into the wood. "Pay heed to this sign. Anywhere it hangs is off limits to you lot. Spread the word. Anyone trespasses here, they answer to the New Grauth Reich in terrible, painful ways. So slag off now and get your jollies elsewhere."

The lead demon stepped closer. "You change sides like a weather-cock, vampire. Every which way the wind blows."

"Least I know where to blow and when."

"And who," muttered someone in the back. Laughter followed. "Weather-cock," another demon snickered.

Spike's face sharpened in an unfriendly way, but his eyes gleamed. Hell, he could appreciate a joke. Sometimes he was even still laughing when he gutted the clever bugger. "That's right," he said, tapping two fingers against a strip of ribbons. "Captain now. Serving the Imperial Grauth Army. Might want to remember that." He hollowed his cheeks, lips curling into a smirk. "Could mean the difference between life and--oh, hell, you have no options." And he struck a blow faster than the eye could blink, snarling in pleasure as the nearest demon went down.

They hadn't reached the end of the pipe, but after what might have been miles they did find a gaping hole blown in its roof, from which a rusty ladder descended. Buffy climbed up first, a beat behind the bouncing witchlight, then dusted her hands off while looking around. "Well, this is not so eerily familiar," she said as the others emerged from the hole. The hollow bonging of shoes on metal mixed with the clatter of guns, the sounds echoing in the large room.

Xander looked around. "The factory. You know, I vowed never to step foot in this place again, but it's giving me this warm, weird feeling. Almost like nostalgia." He paused contemplatively as he circled his hand just in front of his stomach. "No...no, that's not quite it. More like feverish nausea."

"So this is where Spike used to live before he was encrypted?" Dawn frowned. "What a dump."

"Doesn't look like anyone's been housekeeping in a while," Willow observed, moving through the debris of fire, age, and vandalism and pausing by a table laid for a dinner party of the damned. Buffy mirrored her steps, noticing the dust on the broken plates, the overturned tapers, the cobwebs lacing the chair-backs. Empty wine bottles. Blood spatters on the white tablecloth. And, oh, a nice centerpiece, made of--well, something dry and shriveled she really didn't want to identify. She could almost feel ghosts brushing the back of her neck as they passed; hear the brittle clink of goblets raised in toast, accompanied by laughter. Too familiar laughter; casual, vicious, mad.

"Good," she said, turning away. "We'll set up camp here."

"Here?" Willow repeated doubtfully.

"For tonight, anyway."

Xander stood with one hand on the strap of his gun, his restlessness obvious. "I'll do a perimeter check."

Buffy watched him walk off, feeling as tense as he sounded. She suspected she'd be hearing the words 'perimeter check' a lot more often now, and that it wouldn't take her long to grow sick of them. Never mind. Time to make job assignments. Keep yourself busy, she'd learned, and you could nearly stop thinking about what might happen next. Keep everyone around you busy, and you didn't have to talk about it either.

"If we're bedding down, we'll need something to sleep on--there's a lot of fire damage, but the other rooms might have something. Dawn, Anya, can you check, see if there's anything not entirely ratty or nesty that we can use?" They nodded and moved away arm in arm while she turned to Willow and Tara. "We're going to need food too, and we can't make any plans until we get a lay of the land. When Xander gets back, I'm going to head into town. I'd feel better if one of you came along, but someone has to stay here with Dawn." And Anya. "I mean, you know--a magicky someone."

Tara's eyes flicked sideways, then back to Buffy. "I'll stay."
 
"Thanks."

Having set the work to motion, Buffy wandered through the room, stroking a dangling chain as she passed, setting it swinging; straightening an overturned chair. Above, Xander's steps clanged on a catwalk. Following Buffy's movements with her eyes, Willow measured her friend's degree of worry by slope of her shoulders, and thought about what remained unsaid between them.

"We need to tell her," Tara said quietly, reading her thoughts in a way that needed no spell. To Willow's ears she might as well have said: you need to tell her.

Willow pressed her lips together briefly, then forced herself to relax. She gusted out a soft little breath. "Soon."

"Very soon."

Her tone drew Willow's gaze around. "Some things aren't easy to tell," she said, trying not to let anger rise as far as her throat.

"The longer you wait, the harder it is."

If you charged for platitudes, I'd be bankrupt by now, Willow thought ungraciously. "I know," she said aloud, watching Buffy pick up a book and set it back down into a puff of dust. "I really know."

"Smells like teen spirit," Dawn said, nose wrinkling in disgust as she sniffed the blanket. "After the body died." She dropped the material and trailed her hand along the baseboard of the bed. Wrapping a hand around one of the posts, she swung lightly from it, but the wood creaked alarmingly and she forced herself to stop.

Anya was folding sheets while trying to touch them only with her nails. She wasn't doing a very good job and looked grumpy. "I don't know why she wants us to sleep here. We could all hide out at our apartment. Xander's not important--no one will look for us there. And it's much nicer. We have an air-popper and comfy pillows. Clean pillows." She aggressively whacked dust from the one she'd been plumping and sneezed several times, looking even more peevish when she finished. The lit candles flickered in the draft.

Dawn knelt down before a trunk and tested its lock. "Yeah, except the soldiers have seen us now. That officer guy, anyway."

"I'm sure we all look alike to them. Pale, bipedal, badly dressed." She cut a glance at Dawn. "The rest of you, I mean."

The trunk opened easily. Inside were about a hundred dolls, all mangled and headless. Dawn picked a disembodied head up and turned it around a moment, before chucking it back inside with a grimace. "Jeepers," she muttered, feeling shivery. They had to be Drusilla's. Spike's old girlfriend. Dawn had worked hard to make herself forget Dru, and didn't like being reminded. In the flash of a moment, she was reeled back to that night she'd been hurrying home from Janice's, and how the crazy lady in the white dress had beckoned, drawing her helplessly into the bushes for one blind, terrible minute before Buffy had rescued her. She'd had nightmares for weeks, of long fingernails and a moonlit smile. And those eyes.

"I've had it up to here," Anya muttered, making some finger-waving gesture Dawn didn't quite catch. She only paid half attention. Anya was prone to rants. "Hiding while these kresk'neth take over the town and steal our hard-earned money--"

"What's a 'kresk'neth'?" She pronounced the word with care.

"--property damage is already unimaginable--"

Dawn tilted her head, thinking back to forbidden books she shouldn't have read. "Doesn't it mean 'ditch-pig'?"

"--and I was nearly a member of the City Council--"

Out of the corner of her eye, Dawn could see Anya pacing; she picked up another doll and stroked its silken dress. The doll's white porcelain arms were stretched out as if frozen in the moment before twirling.

"--so when you stop to think about it, it's really my civic duty."

The last word tore Dawn's alerted attention away from the toy trunk. "What's your duty?" she asked warily.

Anya was rubbing her hands like a nervous cricket. "The store! Weren't you listening? I need to get into town." With sudden impatient movement she knelt next to Dawn and seized one of her wrists. Her eyes were intense and the candle light made a halo of her hair. "I can't just lay down and sleep like some fluffy lamb in a slaughterhouse, not with all these clumsy Nazis wannabes rampaging through Sunnydale."

"Nazis?" Dawn squeaked.

"Crack a history book, little girl." Anya gave her wrist an irritable shake.

Dawn wrested her wrist away; it already felt bruised by the other woman's tiny pinchy fingers. "I'm not a child. If you made any sense maybe I'd understand you. Then again," she infused her voice snarkiness, "that's asking a lot."

"I'm leaving," Anya said.

Now it was Dawn's turn to grab Anya's wrist. "You can't go," she said, a bark of astonished laughter escaping her. Seeing Anya's determination, her voice rose more urgently in warning. "You just said. There's soldiers out there! Remember? With the guns and the shooting? They'll kill you."

Anya shifted closer, bones twisting out of Dawn's grip; and then her strong warm hands were covering Dawn's own. She smelled of floral soap and had the impassioned, irresistible gaze of an Avon lady. "For a thousand years I've walked this earth. Well, teleported mostly, which saves on travel time. But do you know what I have to show for all those centuries? One human male and a retail shop. And I don't even own Xander." She made this sound like an unfortunate error she hadn't fixed yet. "Sunnydale is the Slayer's. Or, now, maybe some demon army's. And sometimes I think Xander is too. Hers. The army's. I don't know. But he's not mine--not all mine. The shop is. That's my world. My oyster."

"But it's just things. Stuff. You can always get more stuff." Dawn couldn't understand it at all. Except, she kinda sorta did, and ambivalence made her voice waver weakly. Her assertion was reduced to imploring.

"It's not just stuff. It's what I do." Anya spoke with certainty. "What you do is who you are, and this is what I am. Bricks and shelves and a cash register. Ka-ching!"

"No! You're not. You're..." Dawn almost drew a blank, then out popped one of those cheesy things that made people feel better: "You're magic."

Anya stared at her for a long moment, flinty eyes softening and lips trembling as if she might cry, then said, "I'd prefer not to be holding your hands right now."

"Okay," Dawn said immediately. With relief, she rose to her feet along with Anya. "I'd ask to come with you, but you'd just tell me no." She gave a sudden smile of complicity. "So I'll cover your back while you get away."

After Anya had snuck out, Dawn staggered back into the main room under a burden of blankets and pillows. Tara came to help her. Willow was clearing space on the table. Buffy was sitting on a crate and staring off into space, like a queen bee among drones.

"Where's Anya?" her sister asked, blinking awake to notice Dawn's arrival with supplies.

Over the years, Dawn had refined the art of lying, picking up beginner's tips at school and rising to advanced placement with coaching from Spike. She glanced up casually before returning her attention to the blankets. "Going through some old boxes. Dru's stuff. Dresses, dolls. She wants to thrift them up for resale. I think she'll be a while." Calculated pause, then she grouched in a ten year old's voice: "I'm hungry. My stomach feels all squished up like a balloon animal."

Buffy, the good sister, stood on cue. "We're off to forage as soon as Xander's back."

"Xander's back," said Xander, walking up. "Except for some broken windows, a missing door, and a dozen unguarded bolt-holes, this place is completely secure."

"We'll only be gone a little while." Buffy swept a look Dawn's and Tara's way. "Anyone comes, you do two things: run and hide. Nothing else."

"Mind if I breathe and blink?" Dawn muttered at the bedding.

"Don't worry," said Tara. "And be careful." Somehow the most ordinary words gained intensity in her mouth, like lines in a serious play, and Dawn felt her gut tighten as she looked up to watch the others leave. Like always, it could be the last time she ever saw them. An impulse kicked in briefly to run after her sister and give her a hug, but it passed. You couldn't be afraid all the time. It would drain you like a battery.

Tara came over and sat down next to her in a rustle of skirts. Dawn sometimes felt as if Tara was the only one who really saw her, but she wasn't seeing her now. She looked like she had a stomach ache in her entire body, and her attention was absent. "You okay?" Dawn asked, latching onto the opportunity to be solicitous to someone. Needed.

"Not really." She gave a rueful smile, and her eyes finally focused on Dawn. "What about you?" She reached out, laying her wrist on Dawn's knee, taking her hand.

It was enough to make Dawn want to curl up and cry. "I-I keep thinking about everyone from school. My teachers. And Kerry." Anxiety she'd tried to control all day was bubbling up inside. "The Hellmouth is so...I'm so over it."

"Me too, sweetie."

"Isn't there a way to put a lid on it?"

Tara looked as if she was thinking seriously about the question, which made Dawn feel not so stupid for asking. "Well, in theory it's already closed. But the energy seeps out. The entire area is a nexus of negative ley lines, and that allows other portals to be opened." Tara caught her eye and read her confusion. "Energy flows here. Like water flowing downhill. And even if we could build a dam, it would still rain. Some of it's even good energy, some neutral. Mostly it's evil. But it's all natural. Part of the balance of the world."

"Great. So we hold prime real estate on the flood plains of hell."

"We'll get through this," Tara said. Her long hair swung as she leaned forward and pressed her forehead gently to Dawn's for a moment. Dawn, watching their hair tangle at the tips, smiled a little. Warmth grew where they touched, and remained after Tara pulled away.

Like driftwood on waves, one through rose in Dawn's mind even as another fell. "Anya said..." She hesitated. "She said that these demons, they're Nazis. Or like Nazis."

Tara's face became harder to read. "Oh?" she said, rather sharply. "How does she know?"

"I'm not sure. The uniforms, maybe?"

"We don't know what they are yet, Dawn, or what they want. Making assumptions can be dangerous. For all of us."

Dawn raised her brows dubiously. "Well, they did try to kill us."

Tara's shoulders slumped a little and her face shifted again, into the shape of pain. "I know they did. I...know."

And this pain was new and different, Dawn realized, looking at Tara's downturned face. Bigger and sadder than anything she'd seen there before. Not like the world was ending.

Like it already had.

The club was thumping with music, strobing and flickering with white light. Beams cut through darkness and illegal smoke and plucked puzzle pieces from the chaos of dancing bodies on the floor of the Bronze. Demons and vampires waved their arms in the air, dancing indiscriminately with each other and passing victims through the crowd into the growing mosh pit by the stage.

On the spiral risers of the stairs, a pair of polished boots rose step by step above the throng. Bodies shifted, giving a glimpse of white gold under a cap. Light dazzling off wrist braid. Gloved hand lifting a cigarette.

The lyrics broke, and far above the gyrating bodies the boots left the stairs and strode slowly toward the edge of the grilled catwalk. If anyone had looked to heaven with their dying glance, they would have seen black gloves cutting the air like wings and a cloak thrown open, its dark flare revealing the iron-sharp crease of trousers, the silver glint of a belt buckle.

Cigarette smoke swirling, a slow tilt of chin, an inhalation that sharpened cheekbones.

Cold blue eyes surfaced under the ascent of lashes and measured the scene. Spike drew the cigarette from his mouth and added his exhalations to the haze hanging over the dancers. He squinted, bemused by the celebration, and after a moment shook his head and flicked the fag-end disdainfully into the melee. The bodies below writhed with oblivious abandon, fragmenting choppily in the electric light.

A fledgling vamp, all girlish curves and skimpy leather, came up smiling and offered him a drink from a tray. He took the blood-filled martini glass, feeling disgruntled and not bothering to hide it. Glaring at the stylish glass, he took a grudging sip. Fast becoming a right poof. Raus stepped up next to him, arms laced behind his back, and peered out over the railing. Grauth soldiers had been stationed at the doors like bouncers, but no one dancing noticed or cared.

"Quite a showing," said Raus. "We expected only a thirty percent return on our invitations. I'd say this is--" He paused, assessing the floor. "--more like seventy."

Spike paused in the act of lifting the glass back to his mouth. "You sent invitations?" He was reluctantly impressed by the inventiveness.

"To some of the more exotic and hostile locals. We called it an 'inauguration party'."

"Clever," Spike admitted. "I'd have come." Come ready for trouble.

Raus's head twitched, gaze moving past Spike's shoulder. "Ah, General Nilec."

Spike turned first his head, then his entire body to greet the new arrival. Should he salute, he wondered, decided yes after a look at the fellow's face, and executed a passable thump to the chest.

"Captain Aurelius." Nilec looked him up and down while stray electricity strobed off the dance floor, striking like knife blades across his grey skin and uniform. "Well met."

"Ditto." A pause lingered, and Spike stared into the other man's yellow eyes with interest before drawling a careful, "Sir." That'd need work.

Nilec turned away and looked out over the railing, face tightening into a subdermal sneer, like a rock star presented with a cheap buffet. "Dregs," he said.

"In a word," Spike conceded amiably. He watched Nilec sidelong, rather than the floor below. "What's the program then? Bit of ethnic cleansing to kick off the new regime?" He tried to keep his voice light, but the angles of his face threatened to harden and reveal his private dislike. Not a full day had gone by yet and already he wondered when he'd balk. Not if. When.

"Later, perhaps," Nilec said, as if declining a drink. Serious as a corpse he was, too. "Their numbers could stand to be thinned. Our rough census places the indigenous demon population of the Hellmouth at eleven thousand."

That earned a skeptical double-take. "Yeah. Pull the other one...sir."

"Quite true. The dimensional interstices of this town are crammed with them. Like roaches between the walls." Now there was an image. "Some few will be assimilated into the Grauth elect. Others, deported." Deported? "And some," he smiled unpleasantly, "will further the progress of our noble research."

Spike didn't have time to react before Nilec raised his hand in a signal. From the shadows of each entrance melted a figure in hooded robes, and Spike's gaze traced from door to door in quick succession, a path set on fire a moment later as bolts of energy flew around the room and cut off all escape. Half the room was still voguing, unaware they'd become trapped, while those closer to the walls began to mill and shout. A line of vampires who'd been feeding from a girl on the bar top broke off and lifted their heads as one to see what was happening. Compelled by his own view, Spike watched as the strobes playing across the increasingly agitated crowds flared with new intensity, amped by the warlocky types into spidery fingers of lightning that stretched out across the club floor.

Screams rose in pitch and bodies began to fall, zapped like beetles in a bug light. Some of the hardier breeds struggled toward the doors, only to be shot flat by Grauth soldiers. In a few short minutes, the floor of the Bronze was carpeted with fallen bodies giving off wisps of smoke. No one stood behind the gaudily lit bar. The victim sprawled on its surface remained unmoving, a row of shot glasses arrayed along the curve of one hip.

"They look crisped," Spike noted coolly, swallowing down an inappropriate and disturbingly human sense of outrage. He fought an urge to toss his new confederate over the rail. Grauth uber alles.

Spike uber alles, if it came to that.

"Just a little electro-shock," said Nilec. "The majority will survive."

"For your experiments."

"Yes." Nilec considered him with unblinking eyes. "You're not shocked--are you, Captain?"

"Me? Right." Spike made a show of lighting a cigarette. "Your white coats'll have a hard act to follow. Heard of the Initiative, haven't you? What installed this chip?" He saluted the side of his own head with two fingers and the smoldering cigarette. "I've been through the wars once, along with a lot of others in this town. Humans are worse than any demon when they put their minds to it. Crueler." He diverted the venom of memory into his final word.

"I have heard of the Initiative. Some might suspect that your ordeal at their hands would make you sympathetic to--" Nilec waved a hand; below, soldiers were dragging away bodies. "--the plight of lab rats."

"Don't think the Animal Liberation Front includes demons in its bleeding-heart manifesto. And I'm not a member. Sir."

"I'm pleased to hear it." Nilec gave a thin smile. "We have quite a prize here, Raus." He didn't sound enthused.

"Yes, sir."

"He'll go far."

"Indeed, sir."

"You'll be attending the real inaugural ball, I hope, Captain."

Spike inclined his head a half inch. "Wouldn't miss it."

"Excellent. Be alert for the invitation."

"Ever vigilant, sir," Spike said softly, eyes narrowing as Nilec strode away.

The sign read "Richard Wilkins III Memorial High School" and fronted a neatly mowed lawn that looked as if no human foot had ever trod its blades. It edged up to a concrete walk that outlined the school building itself.

Shadows grew to looming proportions along the rough brick wall, drawn there by the spotlights on the breezeway. Buffy looked cautiously back over one shoulder, then ahead again. Xander suspected she was feeling as highly visible as he was. He trailed behind her with Willow, no one talking until they reached the institutional-green entrance doors, its handles secured by a short chain and padlock. After making another quick scan of the premises, Buffy reared back to kick.

"Wait," Willow whispered. "I can magic it."

Buffy paused a moment, staring at her friend as she considered, every thought written on her face: it would be quieter and safer to do it Will's way, but she wouldn't concede this. "No," she said, confirming Xander's impression. "Don't waste it." She resumed her high kick, smashing the lock apart with one blow and creasing the metal that held the doors closed. One bounced open as if it feared the boot. And well it should. "Behold the magic of Kenneth Cole."

"Deja vu me," Xander said with a shake of his head, unhappily eyeballing the doors and the dim hallway beyond. "First the factory, now high school...can my next flashback be Pizza Hut?"

As they entered, Willow threw a small look of pique Buffy's way, but was ignored. And Xander tended to side with Buffy on this one--why spill magic when you could open a door the normal way, with fashionable violence? Slayer fu versus witch fu was never a fun argument, though, and he very deliberately said nothing.

"It looks just like the old Sunnydale High," Willow said, gradually abandoning her miffed stance to marvel at the lockers and the school dance banners strung above them. Her face opened, eyes and smile widening with nostalgia, and in the forgiving darkness Xander's eye was tricked as she lost seven rough years to become a girl again. They might have been sophomores breaking into school to meet with Giles, back when he was a librarian, and Xander a virgin, and the world this small.

Xander caught hold of his ranging thoughts and nodded. "Built on the same plan." The fun house was sucking him in--he had to remind himself that he knew the floor plans not as anecdote, but because his company had contracted for the job; because he was a wage-earner and an adult now, not a sixteen-year old loser; not an innocent who walked home after dark without looking over his shoulder, and not the terrified kid who'd learned about vampires when his oldest buddy became one. He'd grown up. He'd become the guy who built high schools that kids wanted to escape, schools named after evil mayors.

He was The Man.

"I feel like I left my math book in my locker," Willow said a trifle anxiously as they reached an intersection in the halls. "Like I have a test tomorrow and I haven't studied."

"Yeah." Xander knew exactly what she meant. It was all flooding back, as if there was some eternal hall monitor around the corner who'd pull them into class and never let them out again. He could tell himself he was an adult all he wanted, but he didn't feel like one. He didn't feel too old or too big for school. It still fit him fine. This was where the world tilted. Vampires and pop quizzes; gym class and demons with the faces of people; after-school study sessions and unruly boners and Willow and the deaths of friends; terror and boredom blurring together until he was at perfect equilibrium and perhaps clinically insane, until the nightmares in daylight were hard to tell apart from the ones at night, when the egg cracked open and its contents burrowed into his head. And then he'd wake up, unsure which was more real--even turning on the lamp didn't help and so he'd call Willow in the middle of the night, calls that ended with them both murmuring off into sleep, and he'd still have the phone clutched in his hand when his alarm buzzed at seven.

"Cafeteria should be this way," said Buffy.

Xander took a deep breath. "Contemplate the irony a moment," he observed, holding his hands pointedly to mark the pause, and drawing their looks. "We're breaking into a high school. To steal cafeteria food."

Buffy's brows twitched up. "It sort of invalidates all our evolutionary progress, doesn't it?"

"And every natural law of god and man."

"But don't you miss the fishsticks--oooh!" Willow interrupted herself, adding a hop to her step. "Maybe they'll have those little ice cream sandwiches!"

"You just got way too excited, Will." Xander clasped her shoulder affectionately.

His other hand rested on the strap of his semi-automatic.

From within the girl's bathroom, an unseen eye watched through a crack in the door as the strangers passed down the hallway. They seemed human. Looked human. Two of them were carrying guns, but none of them were dressed like soldiers.

Which might make them even more dangerous.

It was so hard not to get angry at Buffy sometimes. Not letting her magic the door--what was that all about? But being back in high school again, even if wasn't really theirs, made Willow forget her grudge. How could she hold a grudge, anyway, when she still held so many secrets in reserve? She knew the moment was going to come when she had to tell Buffy about the visions, and it made her sick to her stomach. Better not to think about it yet.

She filled a crate with half-pints of milk, enough only for one meal, because they wouldn't keep; and put apples on top of them. And hey--

"Little boxes of cereal," she said, holding up a box to show Xander, who was packing another crate with tubs of yogurt and trays of sticky buns. "I love these, 'cause you can pour the milk in." He smiled absently and went right back to work, and for some reason she found herself thinking about the UCS dining hall, wondering if she'd ever eat there again; sit with Tara in their favorite sunny spot, books spread out, sharing a sandwich.

"I miss school," she said wistfully. Deep down, she really missed normal.

"That's because you're special. Right now, kids all over Sunnydale are deeply grateful that the demon invasion has spared them from having to turn in their book reports on Monday."

He sounded so cynical, she thought, and it was so familiar; as if he'd just been waiting for a new disaster to spend his wit on. And then Buffy walked up and plunked two full crates down on the counter, fingers twined casually through the mesh, and Willow flashed on Sigourney Weaver in Aliens, strapped into the walking forklift. She felt admiring and slightly jealous, and there they were: Xander, Buffy, and her inescapable self, three stars in a constellation that could, even after all these years, realign into the pattern they'd held when they first met--a trio of secretive rebels on the wrong side of the cafeteria line.

Geeks with guns.

Camaraderie could be an opportunity. She glanced at Buffy speculatively from under her lashes, said, "I think we should stop by the Magic Box before we bring back the food. There are some books I need. We shouldn't leave them there."

"The shop's right on Main Street, Will. Too close to the action."

"We could take the tunnels."

Xander looked up from his crate, objectively interested. "Do you know the way in from this side of town?"

"No, but--"

"No buts," said Buffy. "It's too dangerous right now."
 
Willow bent her head rather grimly, and thought about the book she'd hidden in the basement, and weighed the odds of the shop being torched despite all its protective spells and wards, and okay, was that a sound?

"Did anyone hear that?" asked Xander.

"Foreboding offscreen noise? Check." Buffy moved toward the side entrance, stopped as she remembered to unsling her gun, then poked the tip forcefully at the door to set it swinging. A thump and a yelp sounded from the other side, followed by a huge crash. Buffy dashed through the door, Xander and Willow on her heels.

In the cafeteria, a figure lay sprawled across a hill of fallen food-trays, and another was racing for the far doors.

"Stop!" Buffy yelled with full cheerleader authority, and the runner stopped on a dime, one leg and both arms raised in the air, a precarious stork-like position that lasted about three wavering seconds before toppling. The body submerged within a sea of tables and groaned feebly.

"It's just kids," Willow said, as Xander hauled up a teenager from the mess of clattering trays. Buffy collected the other one and guided her over. The boy was black, the girl white, and both wore matching track suits. The girl had pigtails and horn-rimmed glasses and a rubber choker; the boy had spirals shaved into his hair above his ears. They looked freaked out.

"What are you doing here?" Buffy shoved her gun back over her shoulder and faced off with them confrontationally.

"Saturday morning," Xander said knowingly. "Detention." No one contradicted him, not even to point out it was late afternoon. The clocks kept ticking, but darkness arrested time.

Willow exchanged a look with Buffy. "Are you the only ones here?" The kids were silent. "It's okay. We're not...uh, bad guys."

"There's four of us," the boy finally said. "Rest went home, except for--" He hesitated. "Teacher never even came."

"Why didn't you go?" Even as Xander asked the question, Willow could imagine the answers. Why not stay? It was better than home, it was exciting, and the streets were dangerous.

"Lewis," the girl said, and her breath hitched once.

"Some damn ugly thing tore him apart on the lawn." The boy tried to scowl bravely, but his eyes were unnerved. "Pieces all over."

"It drank right out of his--" The girl  faltered, staring at a private viewscreen of memory. "Head," she finished in a whisper, and then her eyes rolled back in her own head and she went down in a heap on the chipped linoleum.

"Oh boy," Willow said.

They'd found a deck of cards with naked ladies on them, and Dawn had watched Tara's face twitch between appalled fascination and nervous indecision. She'd finally given in and let Dawn deal a hand of Go Fish.

"Give me all your queens," Dawn commanded.

Tara drew out a card, looked at it, and winced. "I don't think--are, are you sure?"

"Hand it over." Reluctantly, Tara passed her the card. Dawn glanced at it. "Huh. The queen of diamonds is holding her scepter in a really strange...oh." She lowered her eyebrows and tucked the card away carefully. "That was disturbing. My tender mind is way scarred."

"Really?" Tara seemed ready to take that claim all too seriously.

"Um, no." She grinned a little. "They didn't have online porn when you were growing up, did they?"

"Oh...oh, no. But we made our own fun. Also, we had farm animals." Tara paused and looked up from her cards. "Those two thoughts were in no way related."

Dawn giggled, and then footsteps from the hall made their heads turn. "God. Food. I hope you guys got--Kerry!" Squealing, she hopped up and threw herself at her friend, who squeezed her back, more tightly and more affectionately than she ever had before. She smelled of patchouli, and felt bony and small in Dawn's arms.

"Hey, sibs."

Dawn pulled back. "What are you doing here?"

"Your armed and dangerous sis broke into our school, bogarted some food and kidnapped us. Oh, and on the way back she killed this one guy with a tongue depressor. Very Nikita," Kerry summarized approvingly. "Hon, I did not cred your vampires. But once you see the dust fly, you gotta believe."

The others had set food crates on the charred table, and Dawn finally realized there were other kids too, bad kids, the kind Kerry hung with by natural selection and Dawn by association. And standing beside them was La Femme Buffy, wearing an expression of forced cheer Dawn hadn't seen in a while, like a kindergarten teacher about to launch a sing-along. Despite Kerry's endorsement, Dawn felt the cold, gut-level chill of impending social mortification.

"This is Jason, Marcos, and Dor," Buffy announced a bit too loudly, pointing to each one in turn as she made the introductions. Dawn cringed. "And Kerry. They'll be staying with us overnight." Buffy passed a meaningful look around. "While we camp out here." And then her gaze rolled off to one side, as if she'd done her part in maintaining a facade of cheerful normality. Cross that off the list. Next task. Immediately she frowned. "Where's Anya?"

"She's been in the other room for--for quite a while." Tara's tone changed mid-sentence from casual to worried. "I should go check on her."

"I'll go," said Xander.

"No...wait." Dawn's shoulders hunched. "She's not there. She went into town. She wanted to make sure the store was okay."

"And you let her go?" Buffy folded her arms. "And then lied." Her voice flattened condemningly with that statement.

Dawn cocked a hip and folded her own arms, driven to posturing in front of her peers. "You did not see her. She was all Anya of Arc. Her eyes were glowing." But she stole a guilty glance at Xander, whose eyes burned through her with nearly as much ferocity. The whole mussed-hair, mouth-breathing, motionless NRA posture he held was far spookier than Buffy's familiar anger. He was deeply pissed.

Only Buffy was vocal, though. "That's just great, Dawn." She turned away dismissively, focusing on Xander. "Let me grab some food and I'll go get her."

"Count me in. She's my batty girlfriend." His jaw twitched, and he looked as if he wanted to say more, but wasn't letting himself.

"I'm going too," Willow added quietly. "We need stuff. The kind I can't put on a shopping list."

"Does anyone else hear music?" Tara wondered.

"I found a hand." Heads turned. Jason was holding an open jewelry box with a twirling ballerina, from which tinkled 'Some Day My Prince Will Come.' He kept staring fixedly inside. "Yo, why you all got a hand in here? It's like...mummified."

"Oh my god," Dor said, looking over his shoulder and then fainting.

"Don't worry about her." Kerry lit a cigarette nonchalantly as everyone else stood frozen in momentary surprise. "Dumb bitch takes too much crank."

The alley behind the Magic Box was dark. Everywhere was dark. End-of-the-world-dark, Anya supposed. Except what if it wasn't? If the world went on, someone would eventually have to go shopping. And someone else, namely shop-keepers like her, would have to make sure the stores opened on time. But who would bring supplies to restock the stores, now that they were trapped in a bubble of Sunnydale? If the trucks passed right through with their eggs, and herbs, and shoes? That was the question. She wondered if she could get her herbs and orbs teleported in. It would add to the per-item cost, and mark-ups would naturally follow. What would happen when people ran out of money, though--when no more money was coming into the banks? It didn't bear thinking about.

Anya stiffened as something banged further down the alley, like a garbage can lid falling to the ground. "Who's there?" she called, clutching her scavenged piece of two-by-four in both hands and raising it. Guns weren't for her, but she wished she'd taken one. "I'll shoot if I have to," she called. But nothing answered and she made it inside the shop safely, and flicked on the lights.

She'd expected to see chaos, debris, the ruins of her livelihood, but the shop was as tidy as when she'd left it, which gladdened her heart. "Good, it's all good," she murmured to herself as she checked the undisturbed cash drawer and assessed her stock. Was it too late to open? Did time matter any more? She glanced at her watch dubiously, then shrugged and went to open up. Flipped the sign from 'Closed' to 'Open', peered out, then opened the door. The bell jangled in the quiet night, and she stood there a moment in the frame, anxiously staring up and down the street.

"We're open!" she announced loudly, then frowned. Maybe that wasn't such a good idea. She turned to go back inside and noticed something hanging on her door, a fierce brass bird on a shield, wings outspread. "Hey," she complained. "Who put this here?" Whirling angrily, hands on hips, she surveyed the street again. "Who put this on my shop?" The lack of response made her even more irritable, and she tried to pry the sign off, but it wouldn't come loose.

Muttering, she went back inside to find a hammer, but just when she'd found it, the entrance bell rang. She turned and went still; the hammer was in her grasp but she didn't dare raise it. "Hello," she said, nervous but drawing on a face of cheer. "How can I help you today?"

Two of the uniformed demons walked around slowly, taking in the contents of the shelves and the display tables. The third, who wore little glasses, stepped forward, looking uncomfortable. "Good evening, ma'am," he said. "You are a herbalist, ka?"

"Ka!" she said, smiling brightly. "Yes. We have many herbs."

"I have an itch," the demon said, edging nearer as if afraid his companions would hear. "A nether itch."

"Oh, I should have something for that." She went and collected a little baggie of ground yugguth root from one of the apothecary jars and brought it to the counter. The demon met her there to hand over payment. Sort of.

"These are sticks," Anya observed aloud. She held them up. Yes, sticks. Two of them, small, with colored beads.  "These aren't money. Do you have any mo-ney?" She sounded out the last word slowly, then added, "Dollars?" She held up the green stuff as an example, and the demon hesitated, then handed over another stick. They had to be new to this plane of existence, Anya decided. Foreigners with their funny money. A bank would never convert this.

"This isn't money, either. This is another stick." She tried to remain polite and helpful. He did have a gun, after all.

The demon stared at her. "That is Imperial Grauth tender. Your sign indicates you are licensed to sell."

"Oh." Anya put the pieces together. "Of course. No problem. I'm sure they'll have a currency exchange set up very soon." She rang up the sale and tucked the sticks in her drawer. They fit quite well in the check slot. "I can't make change. Is--is that all right?"

"Ka. Fine." He took the bag and stuck it in his pocket. "I am Arnje. You have a boyfriend?" A sudden frisky glimmer lit his eyes, a look she'd only seen ten thousand times before, usually right before she zapped the guy with a curse. You could dim men's ardor with painful boils, but rarely anything short of that. They were stupid that way.

"Several," Anya rejoined quickly. "Too many to keep track of, really. I keep a harem. I prefer my men leashed, powerless, and pathetically obedient. Nothing at all like you."

"I will be back. When my itch clears up, I will thank you." The demon returned to the others, who were hulking patiently by the door.

Anya wasn't particularly interested in thanks other than money, but on the other hand....

"Thank you for visiting the Magic Box," she called after them. "Please tell your friends about us! Ten percent off this week for all invading forces." And why not? Buffy might get angry, and Xander too, but practicality never hurt.

Time to make a sale sign, Anya decided.

"The first twenty-four hours are critical, sir. We have to subdue as much of the populace as we can and convince the locals that resistance to our rule is pointless. Announcing our victory is premature, but the humans won't know that. They'll believe what they see on TV. Of course, if we'd been able to introduce our sedatives into the water--oh, well." As he spoke, Raus unlatched the straps on the leather carrying-case and pulled out a flask, a capped cocktail shaker, and a short glass, setting them one by one on the brick wall running around the roof.

Captain Aurelius watched this process silently. He might not have wanted a drink, but the sheer gratuitous luxury of having his personal aide make one for him had to be entrancing. Raus had served four officers in his career, and each assignment had been a figurehead, a straw man. He was practiced at seducing them into a decadent lifestyle, distracting them from paying too much attention to their nominal duties and whatever circumstances might eventually befall them. And a vampire--such a creature would be infinitely more susceptible than any Grauth. Little better than animals, they were. All fang and fight, no subtlety. And the captain had not disappointed so far, proving ready to make the extravagant and violent gestures that would win over the ranks.

He had flair, Raus had to admit.

Brilliant white light from the street backlit the liquor accessories, and cast the dazzling glow and long shadows of a Hollywood premier across the gritty surfaces of the roof-top. It bleached the captain's face to the bone and stripped him of any softness, highlighting the blades of his cheeks and gilding the dark lashes which lay half-lowered across his eyes. Raus thought his glance went unnoticed, but the captain's head suddenly turned and tilted his way, gaze fixing on his with too much intelligence. An unexpected shiver went through Raus.

"Blood and whiskey, sir." He held out the shaken cocktail, and the captain took it in one black gloved hand with great deliberateness, holding his eyes all the while. A faint murmur rose from below. "The speeches should be starting soon," Raus said, clearing his throat.
 
"And we care why?" asked the captain. His voice was dry and cynical, and while Raus himself was also cynical, it just wasn't right coming from a vampire. He bristled but held his tongue, and after a moment the captain sighed and moved toward the edge. Raus flanked him, arms laced behind his back, and peered down into the street. A podium faced rows of metal chairs, around which were situated TV cameras to capture various photogenic angles. The chairs were filled with soldiers restlessly chatting, while on stage behind the podium sat a row of officers, passing congratulatory smiles back and forth. A long banner bearing the Imperial seal hung down the front of a majestic marble building. Bank, Raus thought.

"The speeches will be beamed live to all television and radio stations." He couldn't keep the admiration for the technology from his voice. "It's very exciting. To finally be here, to experience your TV first hand." The captain shot him an incredulous look. "We've seen so many old shows and films, but the quality is poor. My first purchase will be a VCR. I would like to see Citizen Kane again. I think it will be even better with dialogue."

The captain made a sound Raus classified somewhere between derision and amusement, but the conversation went no further. Below, General Nilec stepped up to the podium. As he raised his arms, silence descended.

"Soldiers and citizens of the Imperial State of Grauth! Over fifty years have passed since the gates of our realm were closed to Earth and the greatest spiritual reformation that Grauth has ever known began to take shape. This is a momentous day for our people, the day that we have returned to seize that which destiny has promised us. Today the New Grauth Reich is born!"

Raus, seized by the moment, cheered vigorously along with the crowd below. Captain Aurelius remained unmoved beside him.

"Great are the tasks before us, if we are to maintain the conquest that our brave soldiers have begun...."

Buffy pushed up the trapdoor in the shop cellar and climbed out onto the dusty floor. Xander and Willow followed as she goat-footed it up the stairs, but she stopped at the door hesitantly before opening it, unsure what she'd see. The shop was quiet, though, no carnage or breakage immediately apparent; the lights on, the front door closed.

As she stepped out into the shop, Anya appeared several feet away, walking towards the front entrance with her back to Buffy, oblivious to her presence. "Anya," she said, halting the other woman as her hand came to rest on the door handle.

"Oh," she said, turning. "Hello." Guilt was audible in her voice, but not a lot of it.

"Hello," Xander shot back, making the one word an accusation.

"I know you're probably angry," Anya began.

"Angry? Why would I be angry? Just because you snuck out on us and came back to town right in the middle of a hellborn invasion so you could count your money? No, not angry. Of course, I am going to tie you up and drag you back through the sewers by your hair. I know that's very Ricky Ricardo of me, but I think I can live with the rep."

For a moment, Buffy wondered if she should speak up on behalf of girl power and Anya's right to behave like an idiot. But on second thought, no. Willow was unsupportively mute as well. In fact--Buffy glanced behind her in surprise--Willow wasn't there. But when she started back into the cellar, Willow appeared in the doorway, smiling crookedly and holding a book.

"...can't just take off, An," Xander was saying. He'd met her halfway across the shop floor and was looming. "You might try to think of other people once in a while. Our puny existences may not always penetrate that bubble around your head, but we are all in this together."

"Xander," Buffy finally said, hoping to curb his anger.

"In this together?" Anya snapped back, tone escalating. "Do you pay rent on this shop? Do you come in to open even when you're sniffly and your throat's sore?"

"Oh. My. God." Xander's hands chopped the air like axes, scant inches from her body. "Is it always about money with you? People are dying, Anya. The world is being ripped apart!"

"It's not money!" she burst out with uncharacteristic fury. "It's not money, it's not money, it's not money!" She shoved him in the chest and he staggered back a step, looking shocked. Buffy and Willow stood at a distance with eyebrows raised, and remained carefully silent. "It's about survival, Xander. Everything is. It's why we ran, why we hid. It's why I came back. This is how I can help. This is what I do."

"Help how?" Xander stared at her.

"I don't know. But I know I'm not good for anything else. I'm not going to carry a gun, and I'm not a witch or a slayer...or even a demon any more."

The line of Xander's shoulders softened, and he took her arms in his hands. "It's not all about fighting. You're not useless, An. There's plenty you can do. You're putting yourself in danger for no reason."

"I'm not in any danger. I'm licensed to operate under Grauth rule. There's a bird on my door."
 
Xander's hands dropped away. "Right."

"Look," she said, and walked over to open the door. Somewhere close, a cheer roared to life and then fell away again, replaced by the metallic, staccato sounds of someone speaking into a microphone. Buffy couldn't make the words out. She exchanged a frown with Willow and they crossed the shop on Xander's heels.

They gathered as a group outside the front door, and for a minute they could only stare. Here was the carnage the magic shop had somehow escaped: bodies lying twisted and motionless in the gutters, windows shattered, graffiti scrawled violently across bricks. On the other side of the street an overturned car burned, the blackened remains of a body visible inside.

"Oh my god," said Willow, her breath hitching. Buffy couldn't speak even to give comfort; her own throat had closed up at the sight. As they stood there, another crescendo of cheers rose.

"What is that?" Xander asked, hushed by the terribleness of it all.

Buffy forced herself to speak, her legs to move. "Let's find out."

"...and I would like to introduce to you now the Mayor of Sunnydale, David Garvey." There was a clatter of polite applause for the human being ushered to the podium. Buffy edged closer, into the fringes of the crowd, the others staying close. At her shoulder, Xander darted nervous glances in every direction. Buffy's attention was focused on the stage; she'd already realized the crowd wasn't entirely demon. Humans with badges clapped and cheered along with everyone else. Immersion in their fervor nauseated Buffy, but no one seemed to find them out of place or even notice their guns.

"Thank you, General Nilec." Garvey adjusted his glasses and smiled out over the crowd as if he were addressing a meeting of the PTA. He paused several moments to let the crowd settle, and energy crackled between microphone and speakers in the silence before he continued. "Citizens of Grauth. Citizens of Sunnydale. We have heard the general's rousing call to action. Today has witnessed a difficult conception, and I won't lie to you--our growing pains aren't over. Together we struggle to birth a new Sunnydale, a city united under the Imperial Reich.

"In upcoming days, I will address Sunnydale citizens directly. I have accepted a new role in this new state, and a welcome one. I thank General Nilec for this opportunity, and look forward to working with our friends from below. They've come to usher us into an age of cooperation and peace between humans and Grauth--a community of prosperity and culture. I hope you'll let me guide you as we adjust to the strange but, I think, exciting changes ahead. Watch and listen for these broadcasts--they'll be carried at the top of every hour.

"For now, I ask that all Sunnydale residents remain in their homes. Municipal employees whose positions are designated critical-need will be contacted soon. If you are given instructions by a Grauth official, please follow them. Thank you." Garvey stepped back and took a seat on the stage, shaking hands with one of the generals on the way.

"Collaborating bastard," Xander said, and spat to one side. His words had been quiet enough to go unheard by anyone outside their circle, but the bitterness of his gesture jerked Buffy from the daze left by Garvey's speech. She didn't know what to do next.

And then she did.

"Come on," she said. Where she led, they followed.

 
 
Spike had taken up a lounging position on the parapet, leaning against a bit of decorative brick-work, one knee drawn up, cigarette lit and flask handy. It gave a good view of the action. He held a secret appreciation for pomp and circumstance. He'd watched Queen Victoria's Golden Jubilee procession from the overlook of a well-curtained window; Charles and Diana's wedding on the telly of a London hotel room (Dru had dressed her dolls in white; herself worn nothing at all). Compared to the extravagance of the royals, though, this dog-and-pony show wasn't what you'd call rousing. Dull as watching worms race across a coffin lid, actually.

He looked away from the scene below. "Tch. How often d'you invade the earth?" he asked Raus with rhetorical irritation. "Two, three times in your life at most? Reich can't be hurting for money now--why not splurge on the festivities? Victory parade and fanfare, naked virgins on horseback tossing garlands. Elephants and cannon fire and twisty little dancing girls, all decked out in bells from toes to tits. That's what this town needs, mate." Surfacing from glittery images, he cemented his advice by pointing at Raus, cigarette twigged between two fingers.

"Yes, sir. It's time, sir."

The man had his attention. Spike tensed slightly, preparing to move fast in whatever direction circumstances dictated. "Time?" Soldiers appeared from the shadows and saluted Spike with respectful force. Still wary, Spike rose and returned the gesture. After another squint at Raus, he accompanied them in silence off the roof and down the narrow stairs.

Buffy wound her way up the narrow stairs until she reached the door to the roof, which she slammed open with further help from Mister Cole. The pebbled roof crunched under her heels, and a few stray pigeons whirred softly from some hidden eave, but these low sounds lasted only as long as a break in oration from the street below. A voice filled the mic and the crowd began clapping again as Buffy and the others walked across the roof. She glanced from side to side, seeing no one on the nearby roof-tops, then scanned the layout of stage and seating.

"What's the range on these?" she asked, raising her semi-automatic.

"At least a hundred yards." Xander gave her a concerned frown that she ignored, then glanced over his shoulder at the others. She could feel their uncertainty and restless movements without having to look.

"So, longer than from here to there," she said, estimating dubiously the distance between her position and the stage.

"Uh, yeah. That's about sixty feet. Buff, are you sure you want to do this? I'm all for hitting them hard, but there aren't many ways off this roof. And even if they have this whole area cordoned off, they've probably taken precautions against snipers."

"I feel some magical energy nearby," Willow told them. "But it could just be the force-field. We don't know how low it is." She gazed upwards, and Buffy tipped her own head back a moment, thinking she might see its glow. But the sky was clear, the stars glimmering in the black.

"This is a bad idea." Anya's tone was sharp. "Why should we all get captured?"

Xander's face tightened as he turned her way, but when he spoke his voice was gentle. "We shouldn't. You should go back to the store, An." He caught Willow up in his look. "You should both go. This is hardware, not software."

"Until their wizards start wizzing."

"What makes you think they have wizards?"

"Hello? Giant force-field." Willow's voice rose to a pissed-off pitch. "I'm not leaving, Xander."

"I am." Buffy, examining her rounds, spared Anya a look. "I'll be in the shop," the other woman went on. "No one suspects me of anything. I can hide you there, create distractions."

Not a bad plan, Buffy realized, starting to see the benefits for the first time. "You're right. We might need the shop later. It could be helpful, having a front." She clocked Xander's expression of displeasure, and knew that at some point down the line they'd have to convince him of this plan.

"A front." Anya visibly latched on to this idea, face brightening. "That's what I'll be. A front! I'll divert the enemy with my charm and wiles. I'll sabotage all the spices, bringing their spells down from the inside." Apparently eager to begin, she kissed Xander's cheeks, said "Don't get killed, honey," and went trippingly off.

Xander stared grimly after her, then turned his attention closer. "Now we'll never pry her out of there."

"Can we talk about this later? I'm about to kill things."

He rallied himself. "Want help?"

"Actually, I was hoping you'd cover--"

Even over the rising noise of the demons, Willow's gasp broke through their conversation, and they tracked her gaze to the scene below. A dark red carpet bisected the seats and heads were turning as two soldiers, guns shouldered, trailed and guided a figure toward the stage. His black cap and cloak hid his identity, and Buffy couldn't have said for sure whether he was officer or prisoner, except that prisoners probably wouldn't be dressed like that and the wave of applause from the crowd suggested welcome.

The man reached the stage and swept up the steps to clasp the hand of the demon general, and somehow Buffy had known. She'd known by the way he moved, by the glimpse of gold hair, by the certainty that her life was forever and always a cruel joke waiting to unfold. Even under the partial eclipse of his cap, she could see Spike's hooded eyes, the flat line of his lips. His cloak swirled around the black length of his uniform, and he exuded the confidence of someone who knew exactly where he belonged, on stage, on the winning side.

"I would like to introduce our newest hero of the Reich, Captain William Aurelius," said the general. "In his short tenure with us, he has already slain and captured dozens of rebels and enemies of the state--"

She backed away from the roof edge, gun lowering.

"I'm sorry, Buffy." In the blur of her peripheral vision, Willow's face hung motionless and white like an unticking clock. "I wanted to tell you."

"He's spying," Buffy said mechanically. "He's getting his foot in the door so that he can... He wouldn't just...switch sides. Not after all this time." She heard her own rigid denial, couldn't stop mouthing the words or shaking her head. "He wouldn't."

Xander, who should have had something to say, said nothing.

"I had visions of this," Willow said, her small voice cutting through the larger noise, a tiny blade that made Buffy flinch and drag herself into focus. She couldn't feel the wound yet, but knew she was bleeding. Xander's head was swiveling slowly toward Willow as he listened with the same grasping, uncomprehending expression. "Months before they invaded." Willow swallowed. "I couldn't say anything. Everything we tried to stop this, in the visions--it didn't work. It killed us all. Every time, Buffy. Horrible deaths--you, Xander, Tara, Dawn. The prophecy was always destined to come true. Darkness rising. I wanted to tell you. I--"

"You saw this," Buffy broke in. "You saw this."

Willow's voice wavered and she looked to Xander, but seemed to find nothing in his frozen face to take strength from. "I saw--I knew Spike was a traitor. That's why--"

"Why you've been such a stone-cold bitch?" Biting off the words, Buffy felt something savage coiling inside her, aching to spring free. Willow was silent.

A cheer rose from below, and as if she were underwater Buffy heard the amplified murmur of Spike's voice. She shook free of her inertia and made herself walk back to the roof's edge. But he was no longer speaking into the mic; whatever he'd said had been brief, and he was shaking the demon's hand again, wearing a shiny, tacky medal around his neck. He moved to the side of the stage, eyeing the crowd, then suddenly canted his head up toward the roof-tops. She pulled back out of sight, and took a deep breath. She flicked the safety off her gun.

Xander unexpectedly touched her, his palm warm on her shoulder-blade. "Buffy, you don't have to do this. You don't have to prove anything."

"He's in the wrong place at the wrong time," she said. "Too bad for him." Her mouth tightened in resolve. "Besides. He'll survive. They're just bullets."

Spike felt exposed and didn't like the feeling. Instinct was telling him to leave the limelight, slink back into more familiar shadows. Instinct was also telling him he desperately needed a fag, but he suspected that lighting up during Nilec's interminable spiel wouldn't cut ice with the office of protocol. Edgily, he scanned the crowd and roofs again. A minute ago he thought he'd glimpsed movement above, but it was probably just someone like him, taking in the view; or maybe one of the Grauth. They must have the area covered; be bloody stupid if they didn't. He tried not to gamble his survival on the odds of other people's stupidity, but here he was on a well-lit stage, wearing a medal with a ruby big as his fist. Might as well have painted a target on his chest.

Would this wanker ever shut up?

Nilec had segued from Spike's almost entirely invented feats of heroism, to the general greatness of the Grauth armed forces, and if there'd been any cue to leave the stage buried somewhere in there, Spike had missed it. He scowled at the general, and watched odd little polka-dots appear on his chest, dots that connected a moment later to a rattle of gunfire. Spike's eyes widened and he dove off the stage, with time enough to think, that's not very hero-like, before he landed in a heap of camera and light cables.

The stage was only a knocked-together platform of wood, and Spike could see through the slatted boards to the alley beyond, over which the Grauth banner had been draped. He started to snake his way in, then stopped with gritted teeth and indecision. He wasn't a hero and didn't give a toss for his current benefactors--but he was on camera, wasn't he? How would it look?

"Bloody hell," he muttered in disgust, sliding back out. He crouched by the stage edge and then darted forward, grabbing one of the fallen generals by his collar and dragging him to safety. "Get under there," Spike ordered aggressively, shoving him below the stage. The demon moaned as he complied, and Spike took a deep breath and sprang back across the platform, vamping with a growl as a stray bullet caught him in the shoulder, before tackling one bewildered, staggering officer to the ground behind the stage. Bullets splattered across the wood behind him, sending splinters flying. "Christ!" he barked, a little shaken despite himself.

Other officers were crouched behind the bullet-tattered banner as if it afforded protection. A few of the less wounded, guns in hand, peered out in search of targets. "Security's not exactly up to par at this concert," Spike said to the nearest, needing his own target for his monumental annoyance.

"Don't know how anyone got so close," the officer said, punctuating this with a breathless grunt of pain as he shifted. "The area was secured--the roads covered."

Spike might have mentioned the vast underground system of tunnels riddling the town, but why make it easy for them? Let them do their own legwork. "Probably local Army," he said. "Holed up before the show, bided their time." Not much he could do about that. Chip and all. And yet, jittery and roused, he ached to sink his teeth into the fight. "I'm going to scout about," he said, and ran off down the alley, energy sizzling in his veins. If he circled the building and cut under the street further down, he might be able to sneak up on the bastards.

It was no plan at all. But it was fun. And that's what really mattered.

"Buffy, we have to go." Xander tugged at her arm, voice rising with urgency, feet poised to run. Return fire was beginning to bounce off the bricks--they were cutting it close. One more second and he was going to turn his best attempt at brute force on a slayer.

She slung the gun over her shoulder and moved with him across the roof-top. Willow was at the far side, waiting on them. A bridge of shimmering green fire stretched between their roof and the next. "Don't ask," she said tersely, "just run."

Xander gauged the distance to the ground. "Oh god." He let the women go first, then swallowed fear and darted across after them, not looking down. On the other side he looked back and saw the door to the roof flung open. Soldiers poured through.

"Secate!" The bridge split and dispersed under Willow's command, and they dashed forward again, taking cover behind an array of fans just as bullets began striking around them. He fired back and didn't turn until he heard Willow's yell, and then ran across the next bridge. She cast two more, zig-zagging them out of range. They ended up huddling behind a roof shed; he kept a look out while someone whammied the door open, then descended with them into the building's interior. It smelled of damp wood and pesticide, and he had no clue where the hell they were, couldn't place the building, and then it didn't matter, because they were running out of it.

"This way," Buffy said, then turned quickly on her heel and looked around, getting her bearings. "No, wait--this way."

Xander was beginning to think Anya was right about this whole idea, and he regretted that. If he died, he'd never hear the end of it. He pictured himself hovering over a seance table, listening to her complain about his irresponsible choices.

"There's a sewer tunnel entrance around here somewhere." Buffy paused, searching the ground, kicking aside trash.

"Somewhere?" Oh, yeah. They were so dead. The echoes of raised voices bounced off the alley walls, nearing and then fading.

"I've used it before. It should be right--" She stopped at what looked to Xander like a perfectly random point. "Here." Tossing aside a piece of cardboard, she uncovered the entrance, then slid the cover off.

Xander began to move forward, then went still as the cold circle of a gun barrel touched the back of his neck. "Well," said a familiar voice. "Should have known our spunky Powerpuff trio was behind this daring assault." In disbelief, Xander turned to see Spike lowering his pistol.

"You got your chip out," he breathed, feeling his gut contract in horror even as a crazy splinter of his brain admired the stylish cut of Spike's black uniform. Damn it. He wished he could get that splinter back.

"You think? Maybe I just didn't intend to hurt that nummy neck of yours, Harris." Spike wasn't even looking at him as he spoke; was looking past him to Buffy, his face refracted by hope and doubt and what might have been anger. "Buffy," he said, lacing her name with infinite meanings.

"Captain," she said coldly.

The geometry of his face shifted into a frown. "It's not--"

Buffy was dangerously still. "Don't even try it on, Spike."

"Was it you who shot me, Slayer?" Spike's voice was taking on an edge Xander didn't like.

"Maybe you'd better stay out of my line of fire."

"Is that right, love? Maybe we'd better--"

"This way!" someone called, and Xander's head jerked quickly as he tried to locate the source. A troop of running footsteps could be heard approaching.

For a moment they were frozen in a tableau, tense and silent and unsure, then Spike abandoned the unfinished drama and said quickly, "Go."

Unfreezing, they bolted for the tunnel, Buffy dropping first, Willow climbing down, and Xander taking up the rear. He paused with his hands on the ladder rungs, halfway down the hole and looking up at the vampire, who knelt ready to cover the entrance. "You're a dead man walking, Spike. Don't come near us again." It was a promise, not a joke.

Spike studied him a moment, then suddenly grabbed the back of his neck and hauled him close, his expression leashed and fierce. "Pass this on to Buffy for me, pet." He kissed Xander on the mouth and let him go roughly.

"Freak," Xander muttered and continued his descent, shaken. It was hard to make a threatening exit when you were retreating down a ladder, kissed by a vampire your escape depended on. But you took what you could get.

Pink feathers carefully nudged around the web, leaving the spider unmolested. Dawn had found the feather duster in the bedroom, and she so didn't want to know what it had been used for, because the place had clearly never been dusted in the past five million years. She felt virtuous redistributing the dust. Especially when everyone else was just lying around like a bunch of lazy meat-sacks.

Kerry sat propped next to Marcos on one of the mattresses they'd pulled into the main room, passing a cigarette back and forth, while Jason and Dor sprawled face to face on the next one, making out like there was no tomorrow. Dawn, stealing a glance, couldn't help but notice how they'd paired off and how she'd been excluded. And it was the most natural thing in the world, wasn't it, because hey, she was the most unnatural thing in the world. She imagined a future of pathetic personal ads: Ex-key, 17, SWF, seeks cute guy to unlock her heart. No vamps or creeps, please.

Across the room, Tara sneezed several times in quick succession, tiny little sneezes, like a cat. "Bless you," Dawn said with a smile.

Tara smiled wanly back. "Dawn, why don't you leave that for now."
 
Oh great, now she wasn't useful at all. Dawn ditched the duster and kicked around the room restlessly, her feet taking her upstairs; the building was six stories tall, because she'd seen the elevator numbers, and this room looked like two of those stories. On the rickety catwalks she found odds and ends: another one of Dru's headless dolls, a lace glove, a bull-whip.

"Sheesh," she said to herself. "You gotta wonder about vamps sometimes." She gave the whip an experimental snap, then noticed a door marked 'Stairs' at the end of the walkway. Time for Indy to go exploring.

The dim lamp-light didn't stretch far across the cellar, but the shadows it cast thinned the nearer one moved toward its source; the dull browns of cardboard boxes glowed brighter, stock jars reflected the lamp in miniature, and the red of a rolled carpet leaning against the wall soaked up the meager light, taking on the rich color of wine.

Anya perched on a chair, Buffy and Xander sat on the couch, and Willow stood off to one side next to the torso of a mannequin. Buffy was staring off to the other side, where Willow wasn't.

"At least no one got a look at us," Xander remarked. "For all they know, we're still lying dead in the dump."

"I think they know we're loose by now." Willow's voice was low in her throat, and she ducked her head, letting her hair obscure her face. "But they may not make the connection." No one had spoken to her since they'd escaped the roof and there was no response now. During the awkward moment followed her words, the emptiness filled itself with an acute sense of misery that made her stomach ache and drove a suffusing pressure through her head. She was going to cry--don't cry--going to cry. One tear fell, and a thousand more felt ready to burst from the stony dam of her face. Without looking at anyone, she said, "I'm sorry."

"Now's a good time to be sorry," Xander said in a hard, unforgiving voice.

A small ragged sob broke free as her face crumpled, humiliating her. Cry-baby, she thought savagely, wiping fresh tears away.

"How could you not tell us, Will? We could've at least prepared better. Not been caught off guard. We almost died. Other people have died."

"I didn't know how much knowledge was dangerous," she said, focusing on him in anguish, trying to make him understand. "I didn't know when it was coming!"

Driven to his feet by anger, he jabbed a downward finger at her. "Well, maybe we could have figured that out!"

"You would have done the same thing."

"No. I wouldn't have. No one else would have. You're a control freak with trust issues, and this is what comes of it."

Shocked, she shook her head, unable to take in his harsh words. "No--"

"You turn to magic whenever you can't face reality. Spells to change my feelings for you, erase people's memories, make yourself stronger--"

"Oh, and you haven't done stuff?" she shot back through hot tears. "You're not even a witch, Xander, but hey, let's whip up a love spell, a little song-and-dance, what could go wrong--"

"Stop it!" Anya cried.

"Because being a witch has helped you so much," he said bitingly.

And through it all, Willow was aware of how Buffy sat quietly, letting them do her fighting for her. It made Willow angry as it always did, made her want to cast her friend open, dig free the words she kept selfishly inside, more hurtful for remaining unspoken. Rage filled her at the unfairness of it, but her lip trembled. Powerful and weak at the same time, she knew anything she did would be the wrong thing, another chisel blow in their fractured circle. It didn't stop the wanting.

"Stop fighting." Anya sounded genuinely upset. "You're friends. Don't you want to hug?" She motioned in the air with her hands as if to smush them together; but, stiff and angry, neither of them moved. Willow felt better though at Anya's show of concern; she'd expected a harangue from her, along with the others.

"It's too late to argue about this." Buffy finally stood up. "It's happened. Now we deal with it. No use crying over spilled blood, is there." She said this staring directly at Willow, as if to make sure her irony hit home. "We should get back to the factory." She flipped open the trap-door.

"I'm staying," Anya mentioned, in case anyone had forgotten. Apparently Xander had.

"Anya, please--not now."

She didn't rise to the provocation. "I can sleep here on the cot," she said matter-of-factly. "Or upstairs. There's food. Well, Pop-Tarts, anyway."

Xander wiped his hand over his mouth as if erasing things he wanted to say. "Fine. I'll stay too."

This didn't seem to bother Buffy, who wasted no time climbing into the tunnel. Willow, feeling as if someone had smashed a boot into her doll house, desperately wanted to make things up with Xander before she left, but his gleaming, dark-eyed look and the set of his jaw warned her not to push it. She hefted her bundle of spell books and left without speaking.

A breeze had sprung up, making the bullet-riddled victory banner sway with grandeur. Spike, head cocked to one side, smoked moodily and stared through it. Around him the aftermath of the attack was a controlled chaos of overturned chairs, soldiers tending one another, and plucky cameramen checking their footage. Nearby, a medic truck had backed up to the stage, where generals were receiving personal aid for their wounds. He didn't bother to mention his shoulder to anyone; he'd already dug out the bullet with a knife and tossed it, leaving only the damage to his brand-new uniform. Now that offended him. Bitch had shot him. A mix-up, of course, right farce--got to expect that, what with the uniform and context--but she might've given him the benefit of the doubt.

He had no luck with women.

"You Grauth have tough hides," he commented offhandedly to Raus. "Wouldn't have put myself out if I'd known bullets bounced off your sort." In his mind, making his words empty distraction, he played Buffy, Buffy, Buffy on an endless loop of agita and self-recrimination. The sight of her across the alley, all golden-haired and gun-toting, had made him realize he'd lost the plot. What had he meant to do, impress her with his shiny buttons? Shove rank in her face and show her he could do well without her? What a git he was.

"What?" he said sharply, skinning Raus with a glare.

"I said, not all bullets do, sir. But the longer the range, the less effective they are."

Spike tucked away that piece of information and let his attention drift to Nilec, who was yelling and striding around the site in a fit of rage, shoving anyone who happened to get in his way and berating the cameramen. "Don't suppose it plays well, getting yourself shot up during the victory speech."

Buffy, he thought. Buffy. Buffy.

"Yes. This will require damage control," Raus said in bland tones that Spike barely registered. A nameless junior officer was approaching.

The demon pulled up short and saluted him. "Your bravery in the line of fire was noted, sir," he said. "Colonel Sordicov tenders his regards."

"Who the hell's he?"

Raus leaned in discreetly. "One of the officers you ushered to safety, sir."

"Oh." Caring so little, Spike could think of nothing else to say. While his grudging mind was trying to think up a gracious reply, Junior said:

"He'd like to invite you to join him in the officer's club for a drink."

Officer's club. That sounded posh and advantageous, and he could pour himself into the bottle, which he knew from experience was about the only thing that would get the blonde bint off his mind. He tossed his cigarette. "Lead the way, Corporal."

"Lieutenant, sir."

"You can be a bloody general for all I care, long as you lead me to the plonk."

Lights shut off, door locked, window guard drawn, the night silence filled the shop from floor to ceiling. Xander and Anya lay inside one of the emergency sleeping bags on the floor of the gym. Bare shoulders met bare shoulders above the hem of the material as Anya's hands stroked and gripped Xander's arms like a kneading cat's. Xander, braced over her, stared into her eyes and drew in ragged breaths as he moved slowly inside her. She bit her lip and arched her neck, hair dragging at the pillow of his folded shirt, eyes falling closed as he shifted his hips.

He could make a baby for her, make it now. It might be a tragic mistake, but it could happen and how could he stop it, he couldn't stop it. She looked as if she had no thought in her pretty head and his head had too many. Thoughts of Buffy, thoughts of Spike, thoughts of great and miserable wrongness, of guns and demons and his job and corpses, and he sped to outrace them and oh, christ, oh christ--

Xander gasped and closed his eyes as he came.

"Don't stop," cried Anya in a strangled whisper. "Don't you dare stop, oh, oh, oh--" He kissed her mouth shut and she shuddered against him, tightening around his cock. A few moments later he detached himself carefully and rolled off to stare at the shadowed ceiling.

"You stayed with me." Her words hitched between breaths. "You stayed."

"I did, I will, I do."

She began to cry. He turned and cradled her, pressing his face to her hair and kissing the messy strands, while she sobbed wretchedly against him with a depth of fear and hopelessness she'd never revealed before. He let it beat against him as he stared over her head into the darkness, seeing futures that should never happen.

It was a long trek back to the factory, made longer by silence. Buffy didn't know how to talk to Willow; she knew her own claws would extend if she tried, and her rage would be like poison in the wounds she inflicted. The past several months had been difficult--were their lives ever not difficult?--but this new knowledge cast a darker shadow over them. Another rift, both between friends and between slayer and witch. She didn't want to play slayer and witch, but Willow did. Willow made it so. She was used to thinking of Willow as her lieutenant in the field of battle; of her abilities as second-rank. It felt natural to think that way. And then Will kept things from her, things that could help her fight better, smarter. It made no sense.

She didn't entirely like these thoughts, but she couldn't help them. And she suspected Willow knew her feelings; that this was part of the problem.

They moved from tunnels to fields and back to tunnels again, weaving from the darkness below to the darkness above, until they reached the seedy grounds of the factory. Weathered boards and drums littered the tall grass next to gutted, abandoned cars. The wind picked up, rustling the grass with a rattlesnake softness, brushing the hairs of her arms and loose strands into her face. She tucked them behind her ear and breathed in a moment's heightened awareness of ordinary scent and sound, and the desolation around her. She was finally living in the apocalypse, rather than anticipating it.

Inside the main room of the factory, Buffy paused, taking in the scene. Tara at the table playing solitaire, her head at a tired angle; the kids sprawled asleep on two adjoining mattresses in a clearing among the burned furniture. Crates of food stacked on the floor. Stale piles of bedding waiting to be used. Candles lit. The spacious room was starting to look like a cramped fall-out shelter, and it struck her sharply--this was no longer a lair for vampires. This was her place now. The laws of her world had been reversed.

"Hi," Tara said in a ghostly whisper, getting up to greet them. "They're all asleep, poor things. I don't think they'll want to wake up soon." Her sharp eyes moved from Buffy's face to Willow's, and she seemed to see something there that made her gentle. "Hey, sweetie."

"Hey," Willow said lifelessly.

Tara's brows knit in concern, and she looked past them to the empty doorway. "Xander's not with you?"

"He stayed in town." Buffy took off her gun and laid it on a chair. "At the shop with Anya."

"I meant to ask about Anya too...they're okay?"

Buffy nodded, glanced around again. "Where's Dawn?"

Tara gestured upwards with her eyes and the curve of one cheek.

Buffy walked out onto the roof, letting her boot soles scrape so as not to startle Dawn. But Dawn, sitting atop a defunct ventilation unit near the roof's edge, didn't move at her arrival. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and was staring steadily off the roof, poised and calm as an Indian at a campfire. Buffy rarely saw her energetic sister this still.

"Didn't I teach you to rise and greet evil vampires when they sneak up behind you?"

"I knew it was you. I can feel when it's you."

That was news to Buffy, and kind of disturbing, but she let it go, continuing to look at her sister; the fall of her loose hair, her graceful profile--a little sharper than last year's, closer to adulthood. The monks had worked magic, but hadn't got the family resemblance entirely right; she looked nothing like mom, nothing like dad. Not even like her slayer sister. She was just Dawn.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer."

Reassured by this offhand snark, Buffy made herself turn away, looking instead to where Dawn looked. "My god," she said, voice lowered by shock and awe as she stared out over the valley. Scattered fires patched a stretching sea of darkness, and dim beacons swung across the sky. A siren wailed faintly in the distance, and then a chopper passed across the source, sound beating out sound. Other lights in the sky were circling at regular intervals.

"I've been up here for hours." Dawn's voice was flat.

A blossom of fire appeared to the east, the dull boom of detonation reaching them a moment later. They watched in silence.

"Maybe they blew up the high school," Dawn said after a minute. Buffy recognized the futile attempt to find a silver lining where there was none; recognized also how she'd taught Dawn by example. Making ironic jokes in the face of evil was just a new spin on the copy-cat games of childhood, when Dawn used to steal into her room and use her make-up, admiration of her big sister disguised as petty annoyance.

"A grand Sunnydale tradition," said Buffy. But what she'd meant as lightness failed on delivery, her voice as darkly bereft as her sister's. Humor couldn't take this down to scale. It was too big, too wrong.

She failed by example. And she was afraid.

Footsteps sounded behind them. Buffy, knowing them, didn't turn. Willow and Tara drew into line alongside her, Tara draped in a shawl that couldn't have been hers, Willow bare to the light chill.

Tara drew in a shaky breath. "All that burning."

Buffy had nothing to offer at this. She might have reached out and touched Tara's arm under the shawl, but it didn't seem a moment for comfort. She couldn't even comfort herself. Profoundly disconnected, she stood alone among family and friends and thought about how she might have stopped this from happening, if only she'd known.

Willow, catalyst to her regrets, said coldly, "When we make our own fires, the demons will be our tinder."

A dark thought for the darkness, the words lingered as they looked out over the valley, a frayed thread of women arrayed along a watchtower. Watching their captured city struggle in its bed, like something raped. Like something terrible being born.
 

Notes:  Huge gratitude and thanks to everyone who has written me in this past month and, uh, ever. Depression lingered, and your e-mails continue to go unanswered because I suck, but thank you for reading. And thanks to everyone who reads but doesn't write--that's fine too.

Please do not archive, but feel free to include links on rec pages--no need to ask. So, you know, I always say this is not beta-read, and that's not hubris, it's actually a subtle psychological crutch that I reiterate for my own comfort, in that I like to consider this a work-in-progress so that I can write fast and loose and not feel the angst and agita and pressure that comes with final drafts. I know you don't *think* I write fast and loose, but actually, when I am writing, I tend to write fast.

Spike/Buffy is so very right. Don't tell me otherwise or I will slay you in effigy.

Eighth episode in an alternative season 8, with an AU season 7 in between; everything branches off from "Gone."

There's a little backstory here and here on the season noir concept. It has a few broad, spoilery things for stories to come. But I am fast catching up. Hey hey hey.