Xander took a breath. "The sun," he said, staring at her. He swallowed. "It's gone."

Buffy stared back at him, stomach rolling over at the certainty of his tone. She grasped for denial, panic firing her nerves. "What do you mean 'gone'? Like, overcast?"

"No."

"Eclipse?"

"I don't know," said Xander. "I don't...I don't think so." He took another breath. "But it's not just that." He was looking to Anya and looking unnerved. "We were heading out on our trip. We thought maybe a storm was coming in. But it was like night outside. Is. And on the way across town..." He broke off, and Anya picked up the thread.

"There are spotlights in the sky. Army trucks out on the streets. It's crazy. We saw demons and vampires wandering around, just--" She hesitated with arms wrapped around herself, and made a helpless flipping gesture with one hand.

"Partying," Xander said grimly. "And preying."

"Praying?" asked Dawn with an anxious facade of hope. "Like, kneeling and churchy and saying the 'Our Father' praying?"

"No," Xander replied. His voice was quiet. "The other kind."

Buffy suddenly strode through the knot of her friends to the door, opened it and stepped out. The others followed, clustering around her on the front porch. It was eight in the morning and the sky was pitch black, and cutting across that blackness above the roofs was a spotlight. The sharp pulse of a chopper filtered to her for a moment, then faded. Lights were on all down the street, and here and there people stood on their lawns, neighbors grouped and talking with each other.

"Look," said Dawn, and Buffy's head turned in the direction she pointed, to the house next door. A strange truck sat in the drive and all the lights were ablaze, including a few kliegs on the grass that had never been there before. "Do you think the Martinsons are okay? We should go check, right?"

"Get inside, Dawn." Her sister's face was stark and wide-eyed, but she obeyed without protest as Buffy turned to the others. "I'm going to go next door and see what's up. The rest of you wait here."

"I'll come with," Xander said firmly.

Buffy nodded, and they walked with swishing sounds across the dewy grass, past the hedges that needed trimming, under the tree where no one lurked in wait for her. Thin birdsong fed the darkness, and the air held a pre-dawn chill long past the hour when dawn should have come. The lights next door were sharp and bright; the front door closed. Buffy exchanged a brief look with Xander as they approached, then rang the bell. After a minute, the door opened a crack and Mrs Martinson peered out at them. She didn't seem to recognize Buffy immediately.

"Mrs Martinson, hi." Buffy offered a smile but kept alert. "We saw your lights on. We thought we'd come over and see if everything was all right."

"Oh," the woman said, drawing the word out slowly as if struggling to connect it to her thoughts. "Oh...Buffy, isn't it? Yes. W-we're fine." In contrast to her nervous words and the tight, strained mask of her face, her eyes pleaded. She might not even have realized they were communicating independently of her.

"Yeah? 'Cause you have all these lights on your lawn." Xander tipped his head in the direction of the kliegs without moving his gaze from hers. "A little early Christmas decoration?"

"Christmas," echoed the woman blankly. Silence stretched.

"Can we come in?" Buffy finally asked.

Mrs Martinson seemed momentarily stunned witless by this suggestion, then stammered, "I, I don't--it's not a good time. No. We're having breakfast."

"Okay." Buffy smiled. "We'll come back later." She held her wide, forceful smile until Mrs Martinson closed the door on them.

"I'm thinking she's got company for breakfast," said Xander.

"I'm thinking we should join them." Buffy drew back and side-kicked the door, which flew back off its hinges with an impressive crash. There was a chance her neighbor had been behind it, but better odds that the grunting underneath the splintered wood came from something else entirely; confirmed when she spotted Mrs Martinson standing off to the side, one hand raised to her throat in shock. Buffy shoved the door to one side and yanked up the figure underneath, a uniformed demon struggling to unholster a gun.

"Buffy!" Xander cried, and there was a flurry of movement and the bang of a weapon going off in close quarters.

She drove her fist sharply into the demon's throat, heard a crunch and let him drop, whirling with a sense of desperation almost before he'd fallen. Xander was struggling wildly with another demon, their hands locked around a gun pointed first at the wall, then at the ceiling, then down again. Another shot went off, the bullet smacking into plaster. She leapt to help, edging Xander aside to let him deal with the gun while she knocked one leg out from under the demon. He half-collapsed to the ground, still trying to wrest the weapon from Xander while Buffy punched him in the face repeatedly. Wordless wails from Mrs Martinson stitched into the furor of grunts and Xander's breathless curses, but she ignored it all. When she'd finished off the demon with a neck crack, the keening continued, punctuating the sudden silence.

"Xander," she said. He got up, the gun still clutched in his hand, and tried to calm the woman.

Buffy left them and searched the rest of the house quickly. The downstairs was empty, and she began heading upstairs.

"Robin," the woman said, his name a frantic whimper.

"Your son--he's up there?" said Buffy, looking up toward the landing. The woman nodded. "Are there more of them?" She nodded again, fingers pressed to her lips, eyes wet. Xander had an arm around her shoulders; he held out his free hand, turning the gun around butt-first to offer it to Buffy. She shook her head once from habit, then held his fear-bright eyes and felt something inside her shift. This was a whole different ballgame. Bending over the first demon she'd killed, she unholstered his gun and flicked the safety off. It had been a while since she'd handled one, and it didn't quite fit her hand, but she thought she'd remember what to do.

Upstairs, she moved cautiously from door to door, listening for movement. Only one door was open, and she paused there at the master bedroom. A man's body slumped on the floor against the bed, eyes open and unseeing, blood spattered across his white tee-shirt and boxers. He still grasped a handful of bedding, pulled from the mattress where he'd fallen. The carpet was green, the blood already drying darkly on its surface. Buffy continued down the hall, reaching what had to be Robin's room. A poster was tacked to the door, some cartoony kid thing, and under it a crayoned picture on pink construction paper. Tension leaked from around the door, a thickness of fear and danger. Gunshots, she realized. Whoever was inside was warned and would have a gun trained on Robin.

Dawn had babysat Robin once or twice, before the Martinsons learned of the Summers' neighborhood reputation and looked elsewhere for a sitter. All Buffy could think to do was break into the room for a rescue. But if she that did she'd probably get Robin killed. Tucking the gun into the small of her back, she retraced her steps to the bathroom and quietly pushed up the window. She crawled through to the roof and edged over toward the bedroom. Through the parted curtains she could see a demon standing in the middle of the room with his arm wrapped around the boy's throat, a gun pointing to his head. His back was to her as he watched the door.

She took a deep breath and drew out her own gun. Feet wedged more firmly into the gutter, she placed the gun barrel against the glass and then tapped with her free hand. As soon as the demon began to turn with his gun arm raised she shot high. The bullet went clean into the side of his head and he fell to his knees. Robin screamed and dashed from the room. Smart kid.

A few minutes later Buffy was back inside and downstairs. Mrs Martinson sat sobbing quietly on her couch with Robin in her arms, enfolded so completely he was nearly invisible.

"Look at this," Xander said, easing Buffy over to the dining room table where a radio of some kind had been set up, the remains of an abandoned breakfast scattered around it. "Short-wave radio," he told her. "Looks like army issue, but it's really crazy old. Like, fifty years maybe." His brows were lifted with interest as he examined it.

Buffy couldn't get too excited, but it would probably be useful. "Bring it with us," she said, and went back into the living room. "Mrs Martinson, did the dem--the soldiers tell you anything, like why they were here?"

"They had papers. They said our house was being common." She paused to swallow; her eyes looking crazier, and Buffy frowned in confusion. "Commandeered," the woman finished after a moment. "I don't know what they were. I don't know what--what were they?"

"It doesn't matter. You need to leave." Buffy made her voice authoritative. "Take Robin, pack a bag and get out of here."

Mrs Martinson stared at her, dazed and obviously not getting it. "And go where? Doug is...I have to call the police. I can't leave my home."

"Not your home," Buffy said, her face setting into grim lines. "Sunnydale."

By the time they got back to the house, the others had dressed and the smell of fresh coffee hung in the air. Everyone was in the living room, tensely perched on the edge of their seats. They looked up as a group when Buffy and Xander came in. Xander set the radio down on the coffee table.

"How are they?" Dawn asked, staring at the radio and guns. Buffy could see her trying to make sense of them, and tucked her weapon away. "What happened?"

It seemed pointless to mince words. "Mister Martinson is dead," she informed them flatly. "There were demons wearing uniforms and carrying guns. They'd taken over the house and they shot him."

"Oh my god," Tara whispered, face twisting in sympathetic pain.

"Looks like our invasion has lift-off," Xander said. He began to pace, running a hand across his hair. He still held the gun in the other, pointed toward the floor but dangerously ready. Dawn's gaze was locked on it, and it occurred to Buffy that this might be the very gun that had killed Martinson.

"Xander," she said, and nodded at the weapon. He held it up as if seeing it for the first time, then shoved it into one pocket in a strangely assured way.

"The phone lines are dead," Willow told them in a low voice. "We tried to call Angel, but there's no dial tone. No TV or radio reception either."

"I knew it," Xander said fiercely. "They've hit everything at once. Next thing you know, they'll cut the power."

They all froze, waiting for his jinx to trigger the inevitable black-out, but as the moments ticked away none came and eventually they relaxed back into a shaky status quo.

"Okay," said Buffy, "Let's not panic."

"Actually, I think now is a highly appropriate time to panic," Anya rejoined. "The world has been invaded, I'm missing my trip to see California's scenic coastal wonders, and the Magic Box is probably being looted as we speak--speak and sit here on our duffs."

"Looted?" Willow said sharply, turning to Tara. A significant look passed between the witches. "We have to get down there and, and...save the magic."

Anya seemed mollified. "That's very thoughtful."

"Look." Buffy moved into the center of the room, the better to loom over them. "We can't just rush out of here without a plan. We need to reach Angel and Giles, and we need to get Dawn out of town."

"No way!" Dawn said shrilly, leaping up from the couch with fists clenched. Her face was tear-streaked. Buffy hadn't even noticed she'd been crying until now. "You can't make me go! You can't just--"

Buffy overrode her protests: "Angel will put you up if Dad's not in town."

"I'm sick of being kicked out whenever--"

"Dawn, this isn't the time for--"

"--you want to play the hero. You're such a control freak, and I'm tired of being your bi--"

"--you to act out your poor-little-me role and don't you dare say--"

"Hey!" Xander shouted, inserting himself into the charged air between them and slicing the air with the side of his hand. "Enough." His face was white, tense.

Startled and embarrassed at the spectacle she'd made, Buffy forced herself stand down. She took a deep breath before turning back to face the others. "We don't know what's going on out there, but we're going to need help. Someone needs to head to L.A. with Dawn."

"Anya." Xander looked her way. "You should go."

"Buffy." Willow's reedy voice rose from the other side of the room, slowly capturing everyone's attention. Heads swiveled like keys in reluctant locks. "Buffy, I need to...I, I think you should know..." She swallowed and kindled her hands against her knees.

Buffy leashed her impatience. "Know what?"

"I, the invasion. I--"

The front door crashed inward along with the windows. Dawn screamed and Anya flung herself sideways with glass splashing across her blouse and hair as uniformed demons filled the room on all sides, front and back, and Willow and Tara were jumping to their feet, Xander pulling out his gun, Buffy spinning to face the nearest opponent on pure instinct, but she fell back with a gasp at the array of weaponry trained on them. Fighting her own reflexes instead of the demons, she held perfectly still. One impetuous move and they could all die. Dawn could die.

Buffy shifted on her feet and flung a quick glance over her shoulder, confirming the presence of more soldiers behind them who must have entered from the kitchen. They were surrounded and vastly outnumbered. Braving herself, she faced off with the nearest demon, lifting her chin and toughening her stance. "What is this?" she challenged.

The demon had a grey and weirdly lumpy face, as if a blistering rash were rising up from under his skin. Ropy lines of cartilage descended along his temples to his cheeks like curlicued vines. He wore a grey uniform like the others, but with black and silver trim and a cap, and he was the only one not carrying a rifle, though he had a pistol in his holster. If you went by the silver marks on his sleeves, he probably outranked the others.

"Buffy Summers," he said. It wasn't a question, and it wasn't even clear that he was speaking to her. "Slayer." He took a notebook from his pocket and consulted it. "Dawn Summers. Sister." He made two tick-marks on the paper, then his cold, dark-eyed glance swept across the rest of the room dismissively. "The others are of collateral importance. Take them all. Shoot them if necessary. But try not to damage the rugs."

He turned and walked away before Buffy had a chance to react. "Hey," she called after him. The spirit of rebellion was too ingrained to submit without protest, but the demon left without responding.

"If you come quietly to detention," rasped one of the remaining soldiers, "we won't have to kill you. And we will damage the rugs, if necessary." He nodded curtly at another demon, who grabbed Dawn and jabbed his gun in her side.

Buffy felt coldness wash over her, a slapping wave of rage and fear. She held Dawn's gaze a moment with silent reassurance, then looked at everyone else. Their expressions were shocked, torn. Of all of them, Willow was most clearly thinking of taking action. Buffy could see it in the speculative lines of her face, the cat-like flexing of her hands.

"We'll come quietly," Buffy said, staring at Willow until the other woman met her eyes and acknowledged the futility of making a stand like this. Not here, not now.

The soldiers herded them together, divested them of guns and handcuffed their wrists behind them. Outside, an uncovered army truck idled in the street, chugging exhaust into the dark, cool morning. They were marched across the yard, their bodies jostling. Anya's arm bumped hers. "Sorry," she murmured to Buffy out of polite habit. Fear raised the pitch of her voice.

"It'll be okay," Buffy said. Wet grass slithered under their shoes. People in yards up and down the street watched from their lawns, unmoving, like bystanders at an accident. A mingled sense of relief and fear squeezed the breath from Buffy's lungs as she understood she'd been singled out. Whatever was happening, some people were being spared, at least for now. She couldn't blame her neighbors for their inaction. Demon soldiers with guns in hand paced the street, watchful for any resistance or interference.

When they'd nearly reached the truck, there was a sudden flurry of mad barking. Demons and humans both halted abruptly and Buffy watched in alarm as a dog raced down the street, a blur of golden speed heading for the line of soldiers. Somewhere a child's voice cried out in distress: "Spirit, Spirit! No!"

A soldier raised his gun. A pause, horrible and silent and still, stretched between the moment he took careful aim and the moment when the shot rang out. The dog dropped with a yelp to the pavement and writhed there. Raucous laughter rippled through the soldiers.

"Oh my god," said Xander in a hush. "Oh my god."

Don't panic, Buffy reminded herself, staring at the dog as it tried to drag itself upright and failed. Its cries spiraled eerily into the darkness.

Let's not panic.

"No, I don't want another cuppa," Spike said with acidic patience, looking with disgust at the proffered tray. "One more drop and I'm going to start sweating blood. Which is not as attractive as you may think." He stood and gave Lal a penetrating stare. The demon backed up as Spike swayed closer, moody as a cobra. "I've been cooling my heels here all night. Dawn's come and gone. But if you think that'll keep me here," he smiled nastily, "you're mistaken, mate."

"Colonel Liyoge will be here soon," said Lal. And hoped as much. He didn't enjoy playing tea-servant to a crabby vampire, but you didn't hear him complaining. Fortunately, Spike had spent most of his time wandering the stacks of the UC Sunnydale library; Lal had tracked him by the echoing clomp of his boots from marble floors to carpet and back again, and up and down the tiny stairwells that linked the floors of books. In Lal's experience, vampires weren't particularly bookish, but after one particularly long absence, he'd gone looking and found Spike cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by unshelved volumes of poetry, most torn to pieces. Nose in a book, cigarette dangling loosely from his mouth, he'd glanced up at Lal's bewildered survey and growled, "Bleedin' hacks like this don't deserve immortality." And rip went another spine.

Now Spike was pacing the check-out lobby and playing with things, which made Lal uneasy. He'd emptied what little change was in the cash register, drawn an intricate and perverted design on the counter with a date stamper, dumped a few card catalog drawers, and spun a giant free-standing globe long enough to abrade Lal's nerves down to nothing. He had found scissors and seemed very interested in them. That couldn't be good. Lal wished Clude would return.

The demon surreptitiously eyed the twenty-foot high windows and their custom-fit shades, then eased over and peeked out. He smiled. It had come then. Day was night, and Sunnydale was theirs. Their reign had begun.

"What are we lookin' at, oh pal o' mine?"

Spike's silken voice at his shoulder made Lal jump and drop the shade. "Nothing," he replied, surly. "And my name is 'Lal', not 'Pal.'"

Not listening to him, Spike relifted the shade and gazed into the darkness. "Here," he said sharply. "What time is it?"

"Eight twenty-five," said Lal with precision, after checking his watch.

Eyebrows arched. "Er, yeahhhhh. Thing is, there's usually a great ball of fire hanging up there, baning my existence. Blue sky, fluffy clouds, picture postcard from hell?" The vampire gestured at the window with one white, eloquent hand as if to illustrate the missing fluffiness.

"All gone now," Lal said, feeling the triumph of his people. "The invasion has begun. Our forces rise to power, bringing subjugation and terror to the race of man."

"You don't say." Spike tilted his head and gazed at him keenly. Lal couldn't read his face. It was cold and dead and expressionless, shadows gathering to obscure whatever was behind his eyes. "Sounds delightful," he said. "The kind of party I wouldn't want to miss." He began walking off.

"No, wait! You can't leave." Lal hurried after him. "The Colonel is expecting you. He's an extremely important man!" He touched Spike's arm and the vampire whirled and uttered a low growl. Lal fell back a step.

"So am I," Spike said. Fed and fired up, he abandoned his minder without a backward look. Thoughts of Buffy nagged at his mind, but what really drove him out was his own fascination to see the mantle of night that had fallen over the earth. If he'd been able to feed, this would have been an occasion to remember for years to come.

He'd just reached the pillared foyer when the heavy doors banged open and a company of demons poured in. Various uniformed soldiers held the doors wide and took sentry positions; others carried in heavy boxes and swept past him on either side with official briskness. After the first bewildering deluge, another figure appeared, stepping across the threshold and coming toward Spike with a smile.

Nazi, thought Spike. He wore a sharper version of the grey uniform and a black cloak, and despite looking not at all human, he carried the same air of supercilious authority worn by pasty Germans sixty years past. When the cloak was thrown back--dramatic bugger--the homage to the party couldn't be mistaken: red armband with some swirly demon sigil, and what looked to be a man-made gun snugged to the hip.

"You must be Spike," said the demon, drawing off his leather gloves but not offering his hand. "I'm Colonel Liyoge."

Caught somewhat off guard, Spike grudgingly nodded. "Charmed," he said, walking a fine line between sarcasm and manners. Playing it close to the vest seemed suddenly wise.

"Pardon me a moment," the colonel said to Spike, before turning to an aide who'd materialized at his side. "Set up a temporary office on this floor and have Sergeant Nemyn begin rounding up our candidates. I want to begin interviewing by twelve hundred hours. Officers this afternoon, so have a lunch buffet set up. We'll be seeing the rank and file in groups tomorrow. No buffet."

"What about barracks for the inductees?" the aide asked, scribbling notes on his clipboard.

"They're converting the dorms. The sergeant will have more information."

Spike listened with growing wonder, mind traveling across campus as he envisioned the masses of spoiled, sulky youth being pried screaming from their cozy dorm rooms to make way for an army of demon soldiers. It was an appealing image. He eyeballed Liyoge with a new and warier degree of respect, beginning to realize the scale of what was taking place. Sun struck from the sky, a university campus seized--

"Well then," said Liyoge, focusing on Spike again. "Have you had breakfast? Yes? Good. Come, let's talk." He strolled through the library, gaze stabbing left and right as he assessed his surroundings. "This will need to be completely redecorated," he sighed, inviting commiseration. "American architecture is a travesty that has laid waste to the inherited style and wisdom of the ancients."

"I've often thought that meself," Spike said with a straight face, eyes slitted watchfully as he tried to suss out just how big a ponce he was dealing with.

Liyoge chuckled. "Oh, I know when I'm being mocked. But I'm used to it. Architecture is my passion. How grand it would have been, had the current Hellmouth been located in Rome or Paris. To devote one's life to remaking such cities...." He shook his head and entered an office that already showed signs of being refashioned for his occupancy. Taking a seat behind the glossy desk, he paused with a frown and rubbed his gloves across a scratch on its surface. Spike sat down across from him, crossing his legs and leaning back in a pose of indifference.

"So," said Liyoge, steepling his hands and giving Spike his attention. "You've heard our offer."

"Yeah."
 
"Are you interested?"

"Might be."

Liyoge smiled, and they matched gazes for a long silent minute as another aide entered and set a coffee tray on the desk. He also handed over a black leather-bound folder, which the colonel opened and read from. "You may go," he said absently. The aide finished pouring the coffee and slipped out, closing the door behind him. "You've made a long and colorful history for yourself, William the Bloody. Your death toll is more than respectable for your age, and includes two slayers--you're the only vampire extant who can claim such a distinction." Liyoge looked up. "I understand it would be three, if not for an unfortunate...operation." The last word was spoken delicately.
 
"If you know that, then why are you so interested in me?" Spike asked, eyes narrowing.

"A vampire unable to feed must bear a great deal of hatred." The colonel smiled easily. "Surely you've proven that, considering your efforts against the local demon population."

So much for any pretense at cover. "You know a lot about me. I'm a fangless beggar who fights for the wrong side. Must admit I still can't see the attraction for," Spike's eyes flicked over the demon's uniform, "your sort."

"William--"

"Spike."

"William," Liyoge repeated with emphasis, holding Spike's eyes with a mesmerizing force he'd barely hinted at before now. "We think you'd be...very valuable to our cause. You have special gifts, and a willingness to use them." He leaned forward, hands clasped. "Why do you think 'our sort' is here?"

"Kill humans, take over the world, yadda bloody yadda."

"Half right. Humans have their uses. For now. Many of the tainted races sadly do not. The Grauth have been chosen by the Powers to rule the next great age of earth. It is the destiny for which we have long prepared ourselves. From the secret depths of hell, we've planned, studied, made ourselves ready. And now we've come forth to claim our birthright, as promised to us. You can imagine the jealousy and misunderstandings our rule will engender in the lower orders of demons. This is why we need someone like you, who knows this town and its clans. Someone willing to help us control them, guide them...cull them."

Spike blinked, adjusting to this new slant on things. "So this demon-friendly Age of Aquarius that's bein' touted all over town--"

"Just a little helpful propaganda. Not that we don't have a place for those who recognize their own."

"And what's my place to be then?" Spike asked with an edge of menace.

Unexpectedly, Liyoge ran an approving eye over Spike's features. "Our position for you would be in Special Forces. You exemplify the sort of allies we do want to cultivate. We appreciate your...style."

"My style?" Spike repeated, brows rising in amazement. "You're recruiting me to your great evil cause for my fashion sense?" Barking mad, they were.

"And your propensity for indiscriminate violence." Liyoge took a leisurely sip of coffee. "So then. Do we have a deal?" As Spike silently weighed his options, another Grauth burst into the room after a perfunctory rattling knock. "I'm in a meeting," the colonel said sharply.

"Sorry, sir." The soldier held out a sheaf of papers and a pen. "Need your approval to deploy a crew of ten to assist in converting the mayoral offices for General Nilec's use."

"By Sytos, is he raiding the ranks already?" Liyoge grumbled. "The man is shameless." But he signed with an irritable scribble.

"Unexpected skirmish with the human army, sir. Lost some men. But victory was ours."

Bloody christ, thought Spike in shock. They're taking the town. He'd known it, but some part of him had resisted understanding. This new evidence hit home. Somewhere out there Buffy was trying to fight this, surprised and vastly outnumbered. Needing him. As the foot-soldier scurried out with his signature, Spike looked at Liyoge. "What about the slayer?" he heard himself say before he could stop the words.

"The slayer?" Liyoge paused, coffee cup raised halfway to his mouth. "Dead by now, I expect." His tone was matter-of-fact. "Good news for you. I gather she'd become a very personal torment to you, as nemeses go." He clucked in sympathy before finishing his sip.

After the first spasm of fear passed, Spike's temper flared, then flattened to coldness. No way was Buffy Summers dead, certainly not if gits like this underestimated her. He made his decision at that moment. "A shame to hear, actually. I'd have liked to get in one last shag." He threw this out deliberately to see how Liyoge reacted. "She was a hot little number."

A spark of curiosity lit the colonel's eyes, but there was something closed and speculative in his face that said Spike might have just been tested himself. "Indeed? Then it's true about your relationship."

"Relationship?" Spike scoffed. "Dunno if you'd call it that. Bitch kept me on leash like a whipped dog. Taught me all sorts of new tricks, though. Tell you a secret--slayer's a lot closer to our sort than they'd have you think. I'd have cleaned her boots with my tongue if she told me too. Did a few times, if you want the truth. Like a thrall, it was." He emasculated himself with savage cheer, steadily holding Liyoge's gaze the entire time.

"Well, well. She sounds...intriguing. I'm sorry to have missed the opportunity to meet her."

"Don't lose sleep, mate. Deadly as an asp. Not a girl you'd want to meet in a dark alley."
 
"She let you live."

"On my knees," said Spike, and smiled suggestively. "She liked me there." He uncrossed his legs and stretched, finding a more comfortable position that incidentally showed off his body. When a bugger wanted a piece of you, it paid to know which piece. "What about you?" he said. He let a beat pass, watching the demon's gaze narrow. "Still want me on your team?"

Liyoge rose and came around the desk, drawing Spike instinctively to his feet. The demon held out his hand. "Absolutely, Captain. Captain--?"

Spike frowned a moment at the unspoken question, then his faced cleared into a sharp-edged smile. He clasped Liyoge's hand. "Captain Aurelius. William Aurelius. At your service."

The truck rolled unhurriedly through the dark streets, taking them on a tour of chaos. Xander craned his neck as they turned onto Arrowhead, oddly desperate to know whether his parents had made it out. His childhood house was lit up like the others on its block, both cars parked neatly in the drive, the curtains closed. Relief hit him the same moment as resentment. He could picture them all too well, couch-sitting the TV--wait, no reception, scratch that--no, wait, they'd still be planted in front of the dead TV, hoping it would come on and feed their empty heads. And they'd be drinking already, and arguing like crazy. Whether to leave or stay. They'd argue to stalemate and they'd sit there, grudging each other's existence and not speaking, while outside the world crashed down around them.

"Your parents," said Willow softly. A strand of red hair whipped into his face, smelling of girly apple shampoo; they were so close their cheeks were almost touching. She watched with him as his house was left behind.

"Probably haven't even noticed yet that an invasion's taking place outside their windows." His frustration bubbled up. "God, why aren't they getting the hell out?" It couldn't be that they were worried about him; they wouldn't stay for that.

"Maybe they will." Her voice lapped at him, reminding him of old closeness. "Maybe they tried." Minty. She'd taken time to brush his teeth. A part of his mind noticed this even as the rest of it ran around flapping and chicken-like inside his skull. Feathers of thought drifting everywhere up there. Cool breeze ruffling her hair and his. It was a hayride without the hay. He shifted back to look around the truck's stark interior. On the opposite bench sat Buffy, Dawn, and Anya. Tara was on his side, at the far end. None of them were sitting together. The truck had been filling up with other prisoners, stop by stop, and the soldiers had assigned seats at random. Xander didn't recognize any of the new arrivals. They were at full capacity now; and at each end of the truck demons were braced with guns ready.

"What about your parents?" he asked Willow, as his distracting thoughts criss-crossed each other.

"They--they're in Boston for a conference. I'm so sorry, Xander. I'm so sorry."

Xander glanced sideways at the guilt-filled apology. She was sniffling, tears slipping free. "It's okay, Will. It's good that they missed this." He wished he could pat her hands or shoulder or something. The cuffs on his wrists chafed, and kept scraping the side of the truck behind him.

Willow began to sob in quiet misery, head hanging to her chest and hair swinging forward to obscure her face. Anger swept through Xander and he fixed his attention on the demons at the rear of the truck. Grey-faced and stolid, the one across from him stared back. After several moments, he lowered his gun and pointed it at Xander's chest. Xander didn't immediately look away, but then heard Buffy say his name and forced himself to. Good little beta-male, said the mocking part of his brain. The smart part shot back: why die now, for no reason?

Pride. It might actually be the death of him.

He turned his head and looked out over the edge of the truck again. Two boys on bicycles suddenly appeared, racing them along the curb, pedaling quickly and then falling back. Only young kids, like the ones he used to sell ice cream to, their juvie monkey faces blank and intent. Xander watched them until the truck pulled ahead and left them behind. They were entering the business district now, rolling past a tiny, shabby strip of stores where he used to hang a dozen years ago--laundromat, arcade, taco stand; past the used car lot and the pink stucco hotel that used to cater to vacationing movie stars.

They rounded a corner, the truck rumbling into the center of town, and a wave of light splashed across their faces. Everyone's heads turned, craning to see the source. A building was on fire--Xander recognized it as one of the historical buildings, converted a few years back into an arts and crafts mall that Anya resented for stealing away business. Around it lay bodies in cammo. Motionless. Human. A car, wedged and resting on its back wheels halfway through a window, seemed to be the source of the blaze.

Xander looked away when he heard the gunfire. Shouts came from the truck cab as they revved forward, and the guards behind them stirred, murmuring and training their guns more closely on the prisoners. The cracking exchange of shots grew louder; a few people began to cry. It was hard to tell the direction of the battle, and Xander was inching up to see what he could see when an explosion reverberated, shaking the truck. Most of the prisoners folded instinctively, covering their ears. Fresh cries and babble rose as the noise faded, and the guards barked warnings and fired shots into the bed of the truck between their feet.

The driver rolled forward steadily, carrying them away from the town center, and soon they took a new turn, heading down a narrow road with no houses. The only buildings here were small plain boxes, surrounded by chain-link fencing and piles of machinery. Hubcap sales. Auto-body repair. Junk yards.

"They're taking us to the dump," said Xander abruptly, realizing where they had to be going. He cracked a sharp, empty laugh and stared wildly into Willow's eyes.

She drew in a breath, eyes widening. "No."

"You think they want a slayer around to stir up trouble?" he whispered fiercely. The rattle of the truck covered his words from anyone else's hearing. "We're heading to the ovens, Will. Except they probably haven't had time to get that sophisticated. We'll just dig our own ditches and then they'll shoot us and tidy up afterwards." Willow swallowed convulsively and bit her lip. Part of Xander regretted the panic his words had caused; other parts couldn't care. He was becoming schizo boy, his world hitting the fan and fracturing into a thousand pieces--then, catching Dawn's big, scared eyes across the truck, he pulled it together with a shaky breath. "We have to get out of here," he said, half to himself.

When he looked Buffy's way again, her lips were moving. For one terrible moment he thought she was praying, then understood she was trying to mouth a message to him. He couldn't read lips but now would be a really good time to learn. The truck jounced and groaned as they hit the turn-off for the dump. What was she saying? Die? Yeah, he knew that, thanks. No, wait. More. Die...virgin? Befuddled, he shook his head minutely. What the...oh. Diversion. He nodded and then spared a covert glance at the guard to see if he'd caught anything, but he was merely eating a strip of licorice and staring out into the unnatural night like a tourist.

Low-hanging trees branches whipped by their heads, and then the truck was slowing. Breathe, Xander reminded himself, as his pulse began to race against its own best time. The truck ground to a halt, engine still running, and the demons hopped off, taking a moment to josh each other in some incomprehensible way before lowering the rear flap and waving Xander and the others off the truck. He made a head-count as he was prodded ungently along the rutted earth. Four, six, seven...ten. Not a hell of a lot; they were outnumbered by their own prisoners. Stupid demons. With big scary guns.

"Look," said Willow, bumping at his shoulder. He followed her gaze and saw a bulldozer. The stolen one, it had to be. Next to it was an excavator--guess they'd missed a theft report on that--and near both machines sat piled dirt from a long ditch, deeper than he'd pictured it in his head. A few tall lamps illuminated the killing ground; beyond their range hills of garbage could be dimly made out. They'd thought matters out ahead of time pretty well after all.

"My god, they're going to kill us and bury us here," he heard Anya say in a high anxious voice. She didn't deal well with her own impending death. Or his. He turned his head, caught Buffy's eye again.

Die. Version.

Quelling fear, Xander looked around the lot they were crossing. How do you make a diversion when you're surrounded by monsters with guns and your hands are cuffed behind you?

"I'm going to make a diversion," Willow said near his ear, just as he said, "Diversion," to her out of the corner of his mouth. They exchanged a startled glance, and Xander nodded.

Willow called to the nearest soldier: "Hey, you. In the grey." The demon glanced at her in faint puzzlement. "I don't think you picked your burial grounds very well. You know that this place is the breeding--uh, feeding ground for the, uh, Giant Hellbeast of Sunnydale."

Oh yeah, thought Xander in admiration. This is what we call winging it. Don't try this at home, kids. "Nocturnal, isn't it?" he asked, pretending to look around nervously. "It's gotta be lovin' this endless night thing you've got going on. Hey, what's that over there?" At his side he felt a humming charge that made the hairs on his arms stand up. Ozone crackled off Willow's body. "Over there!" he repeated urgently.

The demons began muttering and peering into the darkness, and then a roar filled the night, so impressively loud Xander felt like Jurassic Park was coming to life around him. Screams rose from the prisoners and a flailing surge of bodies began breaking apart the convoy as the demons turned back and forth, trying simultaneously to keep them in place and see what was coming for them. Crashing sounds in the brush mixed with cracks nearby--not bullets but bones. Slayer kicks hitting home, he was sure, and in good faith he dove forward, sending a guard crashing to the ground. Latin rose around him in nonsensical syllables from familiar voices and suddenly his handcuffs fell open.

Under him the guard writhed. Xander scrabbled against his prone body, pulling himself upright far enough to begin punching his head. The impact of fist on bone made him suck air through his teeth, then he lost his balance, bucked off onto the ground and rolled under the weight of the demon's body. He grabbed an arm that was shoving a gun to his throat, heard a stammer of gun shots somewhere behind him and then more rising Latin, followed by a clatter as the magazine slid from the weapon he struggled to control. Nice.

A minute later he'd pummeled his demon into unconsciousness and, kneeling to catch his breath, was able to take stock. Most of the civilians--no better word for them--were huddled in a daze of confusion, though a few had clearly taken part in the melee. New wounds were visible among them and two women lay on the ground, gasping, shirts drenched in blood. He couldn't quite take it in. It was sick, it was like...war.

No. Not like war. It was war.

He looked at Willow and Buffy. Both seemed uncharacteristically lost; they were staring in a zone of horror at the dying women while others knelt by them in the muddy ground, uselessly trying to staunch their wounds. Anya, tearing her gaze away to scan the edge of the clearing, asked, "That roar wasn't attached to anything real, right?" No one replied.

Quietly, Xander reloaded the gun at hand, then slung it across his shoulder and stood. "We have to get out of here," he said as Anya picked her way over and hugged him in merciful silence.

Buffy blinked free of her stasis. "And go where?" Any doubt from her threatened to swamp them all, and Xander took a breath and spoke even more calmly.

"Anywhere. They might be planning to use this place again. Other trucks could be on their way. If we stay off the road, cut through the fields, we should be able to make our way back into town."

She nodded, shaking off her momentary lapse. Xander could practically see authority return in how she straightened her body, and he felt a great wash of relief that he wasn't going to have to be guy-in-charge.

"Okay," she said. "We'll take the guns. And we should check the bodies for anything useful."

"They're not all dead," Tara pointed out hesitantly. "Should we...we have the cuffs. Should we tie them up?"

"No," said Xander, before Buffy could reply. "We shouldn't." He turned and in quick, smooth movements slid the gun down his arm, flicked off the safety, and fired several rounds into the unconscious form. It jerked slightly as the bullets entered, and spent shells bounced around his own feet. He stopped firing and met Tara's shocked eyes. Immediately, he put the brake on his anger--it wasn't aimed at her--but his voice still came out in a rough grind. "We aren't up against the Joker here. No Biff! Bam! Ka-Pow! We aren't going to have any narrow escapes from the giant saw and we don't recycle the bad guys for next week's show. We get the chance, we kill them." He looked around grimly. "Anyone want to debate?"

No one said anything, and Xander moved to the next body. The demon groaned and opened its eyes as he loomed over it. It stared at him, dark eyes glazed over to unreadability, and he shot it with only the smallest flinch and feeling of nausea.

He'd get over that soon enough. He knew he would.

"Quite the kit," Spike said, adjusting his gold and enamel cuff-links and smoothing down the sleeves of his jacket until only a proper inch of white silk cuff showed. And then, as if the uniform demanded manners, added: "Well done."

Nodding with agreeable deference, the tailor unwrapped the measuring tape from around his neck and began coiling it. "A privilege, sir." He cleared his throat. "Would you like to see the full effect?"

Spike turned his head exactly thirty degrees and stared at the demon. "Beg pardon?" The tailor pulled a sheet from what was revealed to be a full-length standing mirror. Annoyed at the man's idiocy, Spike opened his mouth to snipe, then caught a flash of movement in the glass. He stared at a pair of startled eyes and foolish face, thought, Who is that gaping git? and abruptly closed his mouth. The git closed his. "Bloody hell," the two of him said.

"Mirror of Monarog, crafted by the Artisans of Reflection. Imported especially for you, sir, or so I'm given to understand."

Walking up to the mirror, Spike gazed at himself in narcissistic wonder until he nearly smacked into his reflection. Nose to nose with himself, he touched the surface suspiciously, but it felt like any other mirror. Maybe a little colder. He stepped back a few paces and gave himself a more critical inspection. The black wool uniform fit like a second skin, the tunic collar hiding the shirt underneath. He hoped it was magically unwrinkly. Silver piping and buttons and belt buckle, stiff shoulderboards showing off his rank, snazzy collar tabs and trim red arm band...yeah, he'd been fitted pretty. The tailor extended the cap to him and Spike put it on with both hands, adjusting it to shade his eyes. Their arctic blue glinted out from the mirror.

It was hard to tear his gaze away. He rested his hand on the holstered gun at his hip, smiled as he relished the effect, and for the first time in over a century truly understood why he frightened the horses. "Make a right precious Nazi, don't I?"

"Yes, sir."

The mirror scowled. "Hated those buggers with a passion."

"Of course, sir."

The door of the office opened and Colonel Liyoge walked in. "Spectacular," he said, looking Spike over from cap to boots. "Men will cower before you, women swoon. I expect you're eager to get started. We've certainly got plenty for you to do. Let's not waste any time, shall we?" He turned and snapped his fingers, and two guards came in, dragging a woman between them.

Girl, really, thought Spike. Just some anonymous terrified co-ed with rumpled hair and a gag in her mouth, wearing fuzzy UC Sunnydale sweats. Spike swallowed, captivated by her fear and becoming aware of what it meant for him.

"We'll forego the usual rigmarole," said Liyoge, drawing a small black book from his pocket. "Come." Spike moved closer and the demon took his hand and placed it on the book, covering it with his own. "Empowered by Sytos and the Imperial Lords of Grauth, I hereby appoint you a captain in service of the Reich. You are charged to execute the duties of that position until such a time as your usefulness ends. Do you give your oath to serve?"

Spike hesitated, stealing a tense glance at the girl, who was watching the ceremony with spaniel-eyed incomprehension. There was no way this ended well for her. Of course, if he said no, there was no way it ended well for him. Not a hard choice. So he wasn't sure why it was. "I give my oath," he said at last, doing no such thing. But cheating the Grauth of his honor brought little joy. He watched in silence, a dreadful darkness rising inside him as a guard yanked off the girl's gag. She whimpered and began begging in a dry voice for her life. Nothing new or special. Nothing he hadn't heard before.

"A celebratory drink," said Liyoge, watching him as closely as he was watching the girl. "In honor of your appointment." Spike felt the demon's gaze trying to drill inside his head. Clearly the oath meant nothing until he'd proved himself callous of human life. He'd palled around with a slayer and her friends for years, and every snitch in town knew it. Bloody amazing he'd been trusted this far. At his slow nod of acquiescence, the guard repositioned the captive.

Spike closed his eyes briefly as the girl's neck was cracked. The sound went straight to his fangs and he could feel his body flood with liquid fire, that was how bad he wanted it. Stony-faced, he accepted the dead weight of her body, turned himself inside out, and drank.

Wasn't my kill, he told himself, as her hot blood filled his mouth and roared through him. Words of reason tried to surface above the waves of pleasure crashing inside his skull, scouring him out: I didn't kill her, Buffy. He groaned into the nameless neck, feeding with a hunger so violent it felt like a higher power ripping through his body, taking him over from within. Nothing I could have done for her, Slayer. But haunted by the loathing on her face he tore his mouth away with a growl and dropped the corpse, appetite more whetted than sated. It wasn't his fucking kill and his pleasure already tasted sour and cheap. He'd done what he had to, that's all. He was a soldier now, wasn't he. And this was war.

Spike opened his eyes and saw himself in the mirror, a monster dressed to kill in the parody of humanity's own greatest evil. His face slipped away to leave an angelic, more familiar mask. The demon in him loathed its softness, and he was that demon.

But mirrors never did tell the truth.

Tara had been handed a gun, expected to carry it. And she was. She cradled it awkwardly, like a swaddled baby or a pig, and tramped through the tall grass behind the others. Xander was the only one behind her, and she imagined she could feel his eyes lasering the back of her neck. She wasn't sure she wanted him behind her with a gun right now. It was a shameful thought, but he'd shot the demon soldiers the way her cousins used to shoot snakes, as if it were an act you didn't have to think about or question. She'd gotten used to fighting monsters that went grr arrgh and attacked. This was different. She knew the soldiers had intended to kill them. But humans were better than demons, they had to be--so why was their retribution no better? They'd exacted the same kind of cold, easy murder the demons meant to inflict, using men's weapons.

Tara had spent most of her life believing she had demon in her, a bone-deep sickness waiting to come out, and she'd always feared she might someday go so rotten she'd have to take her dad's gun and end it. Even now it gave her the chills to think...things she shouldn't be thinking. Xander, though--he could get so ferociously worked up. How would he react when he found out about Willow's visions, that they'd known what was coming? Would it even matter now?

A sadness closer to anguish gripped her, and a simmering anger that she resisted; and fear and confusion and fear again and great Gaia, she was going to be so useless now that everything had changed. The gun was so cold and wrong in her arms.

Defying the single-file line they'd somehow fallen into, she moved up next to Willow, who gave her a tiny, crooked smile. Her eyes asked how you doin' and Tara gave a weak smile back. It was still dark, but their vision had adjusted. Ahead, Tara could see lights from town growing brighter as they neared. "I keep thinking we should have--" Tara hesitated, aware Xander might be listening. "--maybe we should have taken one of the guards with us, to question." It was the closest she could come to verbal defiance under the circumstances.

"I have a feeling we'll find more," said Willow tightly. And Tara understood that her lover's anger wasn't exactly like her own. She was nursing a savage, more righteous anger, like Xander. She wouldn't sympathize over dead demons; she wouldn't lose sleep over it. Tara dropped her gaze briefly and swallowed other words she'd nearly been about to say. "We probably should have taken the uniforms though," Willow continued with a note of regret.

"I don't think we can pass for demons," Tara said, staring ahead. "Though I suppose a glamour would be easier with uniforms. Still, we'll find more, won't we." The strained note in her voice turned bitter, and she felt rather than saw Willow look her way.

"Guys," called back Buffy. She was waving them forward; they'd reached the edge of the field. Tara stumbled a little as she stepped out, her foot dragging in a muddy rut. A good, clean smell of turned earth, reminding her of home, the way that smell always did; then she was standing on asphalt, on the service road behind some store or warehouse. She could have walked through those fields forever, let them take her right out of Sunnydale.

She was beginning to actively hate this town.

"Where are we?" asked Dawn.

"Behind the Carpet Hutch," Xander said, looking around. "We used to ride our bikes back here when we were...much younger." An odd note was in his voice. Loss of innocence.

"We were pirates," Willow confirmed. "This whole area used to be under the rule of Captain Black Jack."

"And her loyal first mate, Armando."

Uninterested in the banter, Tara took a moment to check out the condition of their tag-alongs. The five people who'd elected to come with them wore almost identical bewildered expressions. She didn't blame them. They were like primitives waking up into a city they'd never seen before, one full of monsters. Bleakly humorous by-play probably just underscored the surreality.

"What...what do we do now?" asked one of the women.

Next to her, a man kept nervously scouting the sky. Noticing, Buffy craned her head to mirror his searching gaze. "What are we looking for?" she asked.

"The aliens."

"Oh." Buffy lowered her head and rubbed her neck. "They didn't come from up there. You want to be looking south," she said helpfully.

The man blinked in confusion. "Mexico?"

"No, Hell. They're demons, not aliens. They usually do this whole voyage-from-the-center-of-the-earth thing." She paused with a frown, chasing down a stray thought. "They had to come from some hell dimension, anyway. Which is usually downward in the great cosmetic scheme of things." Her tone held no levity despite her words, and she immediately turned to Xander and Willow to add, "We should find out how they got in. If there's a portal, it might still be open."

"Don't you think we should try to get help first?" Willow said. Tara tried to hear the manipulation merely as caution. "I mean, you wanted to get Dawn out of town, Angel in."

"I'm not going," Dawn said coldly, folding her arms in a stubborn pose that any friend of Buffy's recognized all too well as a hand-me-down.

"Right," Buffy said, ignoring her. "We should find a car."

"Yeah, and someone who knows how to hotwire one." Xander looked around the group. "Anyone here spend time in juvie? 'Fess up now."

"Hey," said Willow, raising her hand. "Magic girl here."
 
Tara's eyes dropped, lip twisted, but she resolutely said nothing. There was nothing she could say without earning everyone's resentment, couldn't raise her own hand and remind them all of Willow's tendencies and eagerness to exploit any situation where her gifts could be used; how if they weren't careful this could be the moment when her bad habit began snowballing downhill again. And she couldn't say: save it for when you really need it, sweetie. Because Willow would just argue back: this is when we need it, Tara.

"Let's go," said Buffy.

"Aren't we going to look a bit conspicuous?" Tara spoke up dryly, picturing them trailing along the street after Buffy like a paddle of ducklings.

"Good point. Willow and I will go. You guys wait here."

Like they had anywhere else to be.

"We need to find something racy," said Buffy, scanning the street.

Willow glanced at her. "You mean, like, red and sporty? I'm not sure we should be trying to attract attention."

"I mean like fast."

"Oh, right."

"Actually, we should probably get two," Buffy added, thinking of the motley crew they'd picked up. "We don't have room for any refugees. They'll have to hoe their own row, or row their own boat. Or car. Whatever. "

"It must be so weird for them. To wake up to all this. At least we had the chance to, you know, acclimatize. Start off small, a few vamps here, a few demons there, a minor apocalypse--"

"In which I died," Buffy said, looking askance at her.

"Oh. Right." Willow's brow wrinkled, then cleared. "Hey, car. And it's a Ford."

Though subdued, she sounded weirdly pleased and Buffy raised her brows ironically. "Because invasion or no invasion, buy American."

"Well, steal American anyway."

"There's another," Buffy said, nodding in the direction of an unwashed sedan. She took careful looks around while Willow worked her magicks. A chopper passed by somewhere overhead, but no demon soldiers appeared, and they quickly returned to the others, driving their battered cars around the deserted block, headlights off.

"A 1972 Gran Torino," Xander breathed when he saw what Buffy was driving. "You guys are the best car thieves ever!"

"Did he just go Y-chromosome on us?" she asked her fellow females, then turned to a haggard, quiet man she'd pegged as the natural leader for their refugees; he'd walked beside her through the fields for a stretch and asked good questions. He met her eyes now as if he'd been waiting for it.

"Parting of the ways," Buffy said more seriously, racking her brain for fresh words of wisdom. "Remember what I said: stay away from pale, bumpy people in passe clothes. Best not to pick anyone up. Just head out of town and keep driving. If you hit L.A., look up Angel Investigations." She managed a wry smile. "They help the helpless."

He shifted with his gun and nodded, his old blue eyes holding hers. "Take it easy...Slayer."

Unaccountably, Buffy felt her cheeks flush. It was a first; she'd shared her secret identity with a random Joe Citizen, and it had been acknowledged without any doubts. Guess there wasn't a lot of room for doubt now in Sunnydale. Unnerving, though, that acceptance and trust; and she began worrying and second-guessing herself as he drove away with his carload of charges. She hoped she'd done right by them; done enough.

Xander clearly intended to be manly driving-man for their own car, and Buffy piled in with the others, taking the front seat next to Anya and wishing she had more space around her to think. She still didn't have a plan, but she needed to make one fast. Phone lines down, and cable and TV and--

She leaned across Anya to switch on the radio, twirled the knob to hear the squeaks and purrs of nothingness. "Static, static, and the mellow strains of more static," said Xander, eyes flicking left and right on the road. "And I need a direction here--46 or 1?"

"Low profile."

"Gotcha. The scenic route it is."

Buffy turned in her seat, looking into the back. A stripe of light brushed through the car, painting their faces and passing away again. "I can't go with you guys. But I won't ask anyone to stay."

"So, what," asked Anya, "We're just dropping you by the side of the road? Where will you go? The town is overrun."

"We're not dropping her," Willow said testily. "I'm staying. We're all staying except you. You're going to L.A. with Dawn."

"I never agreed to that," Anya said. Buffy groaned inwardly. "I want to stay. I need to get to the store. It's my responsibility. I'm not abandoning it." She sounded admirably serious, but it didn't help the situation.

"An. You can't--"

"I'm staying too," Dawn interrupted. "Besides, what if they've invaded L.A.?"

There was a dense, weighted silence in which Xander looked anxiously Buffy's way and Buffy looked back, then turned her gaze toward Willow, who was exchanging a sidelong glance with Tara, their expressions uncertain. Willow shook her head a little, caught Buffy's eye, swallowed.

"Nobody thought of that, did they?" Dawn crossed her arms with cold satisfaction.

"It seems...unlikely," Buffy hedged, trying not to think of the vague prophecy that had started this all, because she so badly needed for Angel to be there for them. For her. He wasn't with them now though. It was just her, and she couldn't be--wasn't--enough. "Look, I don't know what to do here. I don't know what to do next. I need some help on this, guys. I need--"
 
"Holy mother of crap!" Xander yelped and the car swerved with a screech and Buffy was thrown against the door, and Anya thrown against her, and startled noises spilled from the back seat. "Hold on, hold on!"

Buffy shifted Anya's elbow from her gut and looked frantically out the rear-view mirror to see an Army Jeep loaded with demons gaining on them. Xander accelerated and turned the wheel hard and suddenly they were cornering lopsidedly with squeals of rubber, everyone bracing as they were thrown left and right, but god, it was like the damn car was standing still, and Buffy's chest was sticky with breaths she couldn't quite get out.

A gunshot thunked against metal, and another and another.

"Get down!" she cried over the back seat, terror swamping her as headlights brightened through the dusty glass of the rear window, backing the shadowy curve of Dawn's skull. Willow palmed Dawn's head and they slid down the seats as Buffy pulled Anya close, moments before the back window exploded, followed a split-second later by the front. In Buffy's arms, Anya squirmed and gasped like a fish, but Buffy held tight. "Don't, Anya, don't," she said, dislodging a mouthful of permed hair to get the words out.

"I can't see!" yelled Xander with a note of panic. The front safety window hung in a mosaic of fractured glass, and Buffy leaned forward and punched repeatedly until with a ripping sound the window loosened from its frame and skidded across the hood to disappear.

Another turn, one set of wheels jouncing them over a curb, Xander cursing. Buffy tried to look everywhere at once, ahead and behind. They were speeding crazily along, cool wind rushing in and whipping their hair around. "Oh my god," she said, tensing, rabbit-eyed. "Is that--"

"Roadblock." Xander sounded terribly calm, the kind of calm you might cultivate when you're trying not to hurl, and there was no way they could logically be aiming themselves at the Jeeps parked nose to nose across the road, but they were getting nearer and nearer, just like in the movies.

"Crevi, uh, uh--diremi!" A boom filled the car like a suddenly cranked stereo as a bolt of magic whooshed past Buffy's head through the broken window. The Jeeps in front of them were flung apart to land topsy-turvy on their metal asses. Crashing metal outside mixed with a strange smell in the car of singed hair and sulfur. Her ears rang. "Sorry, sorry," Willow chanted breathlessly, but the wind whirled her apology away and Buffy braced her hand on the dash and they sped through the wreckage.

Colorfully lit strip malls flashed past them on either side of a widening road. She rarely visited this outlying land of fabric stores and garden centers and sales lots of shiny trucks. This far from the center of town, no soldiers were in sight, but a few cars passed them going in the wrongest possible direction. Others clustered in the parking lot around an open doughnut shop, and Buffy glimpsed a blur of people sitting at the counter with their coffees before they were left behind.

"Are they still chasing us?" Dawn began to peep up over the seat, then gave an unhappy ow as she brushed against a cascade of glass on the upholstery.

"They're gone," Buffy said, checking behind them to confirm the empty road. She loosened her armful of Anya and faced into the sharp wind, squinting as they flew into a tunnel of trees dotted with trailers and small, half-hidden houses. "Does this take us out of town?"

Xander had become a one-track-mind driver again. "Yeah. A few miles and we can cut over to Route 1."

"It's weird that they just...let us go," said Tara dubiously.

Buffy had no response to that, but the rushing wind erased her silence along with everyone else's. The road ahead, that was what she needed to focus on now. They'd get to L.A., bring back Angel and import Giles, make a plan. Then they'd come back, fight the fight.

No matter that with the wind in her face, it felt like running.

They'd given him the works: a Jeep, an aide, a driver, and a map marked with strategic points of deployment. Take a tour of the town, they'd said; lend a hand where needed. Sending him off, Liyoge had clapped him on the shoulder: "What do humans say--get your feet wet?"

Spike squinted at the map he was holding, tracing his way from point to point with one gloved finger. The uncovered Jeep rolled through the empty streets and a cold breeze kissed his face, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd been so favored by the Powers That Be. Usually he found himself paddling through a river of shit toward steep falls.

This was a hoot.

"We're operating on a 'Five Rings' strategic targeting model," the aide said, leaning forward at Spike's shoulder to be heard. "We've had to adapt it a bit. Leadership first, then local military and infrastructure. General population control is the next level of attainment."

"Uh huh," Spike said indifferently, not looking up from his map. "Dandy."

"We accomplished all our first-strike target goals within eight hours," the aide wittered. "Building on months of penetrative infiltration and intelligence, of course."

"Penetrative," Spike echoed absently, looking up from the map to orient himself. "Sounds like good clean fun."

"Well, I'm sure...I wasn't involved at that stage. I just arrived. Came up through the gate with the first wave of forces."

Spike turned his head. "The gate?"

"The portal."

"Portal."

"From down under," the aide said helpfully.

"Australia?" Spike asked, brows knitting in bemusement.

The aide was staring at him as if he couldn't quite accept Spike's ignorance. "Grauth. The thirty-third dimension of the Plentiful Elder Hells. Our Imperial State. Grauth."

"Course. How could I forget? Lovely place. Vacationed there last summer. Sun and surf, charming native girls, abundant...pineapples."

"Actually, sir, Grauth has been closed to interdimensional travel for over fifty years." The aide sounded cautious and apologetic. "Many of our kind have been stranded here since that time, salving their homesickness in service to the state. It is our lonely kinsmen who have helped bring about the new era of Grauth rule here on Earth."

"Quite inspiring," Spike said dismissively. "One for the history books." He peered ahead at a familiar building cordoned off and illuminated by spotlights. "What's that up there? Y.M.C.A., innit?" He'd showered and shagged there once in a while years back, before he'd rigged piping to his crypt and nabbed himself the affections of a slayer.

"Detention station," said the driver and aide in unison.

"Don't need it in stereo, thanks. Pull over."

The Jeep drew up to the curb next and Spike swung over the door, receiving smart salutes from the demons guarding the entrance. Disconcerted--why hadn't they taught him the bloody secret hand signals?--he thumped arm to chest in a negligent mirror of protocol.

"Here to have a look-see," he ventured, masking wariness under a layer of attitude but more or less expecting the guards to chase him off. He didn't trust his authority yet, felt like he should be braced for the punchline.

"Sir!" barked the guard on the left, and pulled open the door for him.

Trying not to show any surprise, Spike straightened his shoulders. "Right...spot inspection." As he passed by the guard, he smirked to himself, savoring the sudden rush of power.

"What would you like to see, sir?" asked the aide tagging at his shoulder. "Is there anything I can get you?"

Before he could answer they turned a juncture in the corridor and an officer trotted up to join them, eagerly snapping a salute. "Sir! It's an honor to have you here. We haven't had much time, but we've accomplished a lot, I think. If there's anything I can do, anything."

Spike paused, considering him. "Do you even know who I am," he glanced at the chevrons on the man's shoulders and took a guess, "Lieutenant?"

"Lieutenant Cenebe, sir. At your service. And of course, Captain, er--" He clearly couldn't fill in the blank. "That is, I, I--" The Grauth stammered to a halt.

"Never mind."

"This is Captain Aurelius, sir," his aide said in a reproving tone.

"An honor," murmured Cenebe, flanking him deferentially. "May I offer you anything? Blood? Pretzels?"

Wandering past glowing soda and snack machines and into a lofty gymnasium, Spike didn't answer, too caught up in marveling at the scene before him. The perimeter and central aisle of the room were patrolled by armed soldiers attentively monitoring an interior campground of humans and demons, arrayed on mats and sleeping bags and mattresses. The humans huddled in pathetic, vigilant groups away from their fellow prisoners, women clutching their brats close like teddy bears, men glowering protectively over their women. The demons were rowdier, playing dice and drinking from flasks as they defiantly jeered at their captors.

As Spike paced the middle of the room surveying the organized chaos, the crowd quieted. Demons turned their heads to stare at him with recognition and baleful rage. The humans simply looked terrified. And why not? He cut a dashing figure. Cloaked in uniform black, strolling like a prince among peasants, not one of the increasingly familiar demons but something new--he was nightmare material that even their dulled human instincts couldn't write off. In moments, his boot steps were echoing on the floorboards in the silence of the room. Spike slid his arms behind his back, carrying himself in the official way of brass wankers the world over.

"Why are they here?" he asked his aide, affecting a bored, casual tone. What the hell was his name anyway? Something skittery and verminy. Roach? Mouse? Oh, yeah. Raus. "Enemies of the state?"

"No, sir. Enemies of the state are to be, er, neutralized. These are simply detainees who have failed to observe the laws of the New Grauth Reich."

"Laws," Spike repeated in a dry, inquisitive voice.

"Oh, yes, sir," said Raus earnestly. "For example, driving without a notarized Imperial license is in defiance of the Transportation Code of Indentured Citizens, section three."

"Ri-i-i-i-ight. And they know this how? You lot got here, what--ten, twelve hours ago?"

Raus gave a tight smile as he met Spike's eyes. "Ignorance of the law is no excuse, sir."

"What's going to happen to them?"

"Work camps for most," Lieutenant Cenebe offered with a degree of enthusiasm that made Spike eye him speculatively. "The more useful ones will be released with a warning, assuming that the severity of the crime is not...."

He continued talking. Distracted and not really listening, Spike stared at a woman curled with protective tenderness around her whimpering child. Common enough bint. Thirtyish; dyed hair and cheap jewelry; jumper, jeans and trainers. She was staring at him with venomous, sullen hatred as if she knew him. He didn't know her, though, and didn't think he'd killed any relatives back in the day. And it dawned on him that her hatred was simply for what he represented. He was a high-ranking toff in a fancy uniform, holding her and the rug-rat against their wills. Damn right she should hate him.

"What'd she do?" he asked, interrupting the lieutenant's drone to nod toward the woman.

Cenebe cleared his throat. "I, I don't know precisely, sir. But you can be assured the guardsmen would not have brought her here if--"

Spike stepped off the aisle and crouched near the woman. She hugged her child tighter, stiff and brimming with fear, miserably defiant. "Why are you here, love? Hmm?"

The woman's throat worked speechlessly, and then she gathered herself to reply, "I went to the store for breakfast. Cereal. These...things...stopped me. I ran."

"Smart girl," Spike said softly and approvingly. The woman stared at him, hand splayed around her child's small burrowed head, nothing on her face that he could truly comprehend. He stood. "Let her go," he said, voice loud enough to carry. "All charges dropped." Turning to Cenebe, he added: "See that she gets home safe."

"Of course, sir," said Cenebe, beckoning imperiously to a guard to escort the woman off.

Watching her and her little one be led away, Spike felt a small glow of satisfaction. Noble, that was him. An officer and a gentleman. No thanks needed; the gesture its only reward. But on the heels of that thought came a dry cynicism as he acknowledged his action for what it was: empty, symbolic, inadequate.

Oh, what the hell. Did it even bloody matter? This was the day of reckoning for most of these poor sods. Humans were about to find out that dominant species was a relative term. He'd do what he could. And what he could do...wasn't entirely clear yet. But it would be. He'd make a point of finding out. Soon. No point in having rank and privilege if you couldn't have fun with it.

Besides, he was doing this for Buffy. Everything he did, he did for her. He'd be useful to her, a man of power in the new world order. At least, he could be. If she played her cards right. If she made certain concessions. Admissions. If she stopped being such a bloody bitch.

"So what's next, then?" he asked, turning to his escorts. "Say--they still got jacuzzis in this place?"

"We should be nearing the edge of town," said Xander, peering through the car's gutted front window. "I think the sky's getting lighter."

Buffy eyed the road ahead. There was certainly something in the air, a kind of diffused glow sifting through the trees. Next to her, Anya sat facing straight forward, profile resolutely defining whatever private thoughts she held, arms wrapped around herself to stave off the chill. The wind smelled of pine. Everyone in the car was quiet, but the tension gathered as they turned a curve in the road.

"That must be the sign," said Buffy, spotting a roadside board ahead of them, vividly white in the lifting dusk. "City limits."

"What is that?" asked Anya, unpeeling one hand from herself to point.

"It's daylight," Willow said, leaning forward over the seat, her head near Buffy's.

It took a slightly longer moment for Buffy's eyes to understand what they were seeing, and then it clarified with a snap, like a picture on a TV screen growing larger, a square of sunshiny color surrounded by darkness. "I think maybe we should slow down," she said carefully, and then her eyes widened a moment later as she recalculated velocity and distance. "Xander! Stop the car!" She twisted against the seat, bracing herself and throwing one arm across Anya. Xander hit the brakes and the car skidded with a screech of rubber toward the sunlight and crashed into it.

The world around them flared into a brilliant, electric shade of blue that shoved them back into their seats and sent the car bouncing back several yards, then slowly ebbed.

"What the hell was that?" Xander gasped.

Buffy touched her forehead, but it was reflex; she was looking for an injury that wasn't there. They should have been thrown forward from the car, but they'd been thrown back. The hood was up, obscuring their view. She opened the car door and got out, walking up to the barrier. The brilliant light had faded and the air was clear again; nothing showed where the town ended and the outside world began except a line dividing light from darkness. But when she touched her fingers to the empty air, blue waves of magical energy rippled out. The harder she pushed, the brighter the glow, and the stronger the answering pressure against her hand. She leaned into the wall with slayer force, but it felt like iron, and when she hauled off and kicked it, it kicked back, sending her flying down the road. She landed hard on the black-top, groaning as the others cried out her name and rushed to her side.

"Was kicking it really necessary?" Dawn asked wryly, kneeling next to Buffy as she sat up. "'Cause when you were doing that whole mime leaning-into-the-wind routine, it was kinda obvious we weren't getting out."

"Right," Buffy sighed, letting Dawn help her stand up. "Thanks."

"This is good news," said Tara. Everyone turned her way. "Well, sort of. I mean, we know now that the invasion is confined to Sunnydale."

They walked back to the barrier, lining up along its surface to look out. On the other side, the trees continued down the road, dappled by ordinary sunlight, and a tiny two-pump gas station was visible in a nearby clearing. Ice chest, Coke machine, pay phone. It looked like heaven and was as unreachable as the moon.

"So, Will." Xander glanced her way. "Care to do the honors and state the obvious?"

Willow touched her hand to the air. Blue circles rippled out as if a stone had been dropped into a lake. "Magical barrier."

"Can we punch a hole through it?" Buffy asked.

"I don't know." She looked over at Tara. "We can try."

She left them conferring over spells and turned away, feeling inadequate to face what lay ahead. This was big. Maybe too big for her to handle. But what if it was too big for all of them? Angel, Giles, Willow. They weren't an army; not even Riley's people could have gone up against this.

"I'm going to push the car off the road," said Xander, and Buffy nodded absently.

Murmurs and a sharp staticky sound caught her attention, and she turned again to watch Willow and Tara attacking the barrier. Gold light poured from their outstretched hands into a blue lake that was growing larger by the second.

"Buffy." It was Dawn at her shoulder, watching along with her. "What's going to happen?"

Buffy swallowed her first impulse to say, like Willow, I don't know. "We're going to get out of here, head to L.A. Round up Angel and the others. And we'll call Giles. And together we'll figure out what to do."

"No." The subdued tone of Dawn's voice made Buffy look her way. "I don't mean what's going to happen to us. We know what's going on. And we have you, and two witches. We're getting by. But what's going to happen to everyone else? To Kerry and the Martinsons and Mister Dern." Mister Dern? Oh, her English teacher. "They don't know what to do. They don't even know what demons are."

"Dawn, I don't think they're in any immediate danger." Buffy touched her arm, rubbed it with as much reassurance as she could manage. "You saw what was happening. They picked us out for a reason. We're the troublemakers. Think about it. They could have opened fire on everyone in town if they'd wanted to. They didn't."

"What do they want, then?"

Buffy shook her head wordlessly.

"General Nilec, sir: the mayor of Sunnydale."

The general looked up from his new desk, disgruntled. The offices of the mayor weren't nearly as grand as he'd expected. He'd been given to understand that the mayor was the ranking leader of the town. But the manacled man standing before him was as unimpressive as his puny, wood-paneled office. "You are responsible for this," Nilec said.

The mayor raised an eyebrow. "For Sunnydale? Yes, sir."

"For this," Nilec snarled in disgust, sweeping out one arm to take in the room. "This poverty of civic decor, this drab, homely excuse for a leader's headquarters. Your carpeting is too short, your drapes too long--you don't even have a fireplace."

"We could have one installed."

Nilec cut short his rant and stared coldly at the human, trying to decide if this was mockery or respect.

"We want you to be comfortable, General." The mayor reached up, manacle chains clanking, to shove his glasses a millimeter further along the slope of his nose. The gesture was a pointed one, but Nilec didn't order the chains removed yet, waiting to hear more. "As the chief representative of the City of Sunnydale, I know I speak for our entire town when I say that we recognize the supremacy of the Imperial State of Grauth." He smiled. "And the benefits of doing business."

"We are not here to do 'business'." Nilec leaned back in his chair, an ergonomic nightmare he intended to have replaced as soon as his own was delivered through the portal. The upholstery wasn't even leather. "Nor do we need your assistance."

"Of course not. But Sunnydale has never been an easy town to...manage."

"Rule."

"Or rule," the mayor went on smoothly, with a polite nod. "The make-up of our population has always presented unique challenges. There are troublesome elements, you might say."

Nilec picked up a cheap letter-opener, considered it, then began digging a thin crust of dirt out from under one manicured nail. "We are aware of that. We are aware of everything," he said meaningfully.

"Then you know that during my tenure in office I've made a point of building relationships with the disenfranchised. The indigenous peoples, as it were." He tilted his head. "May I sit?" After a pause--death or diplomacy?--Nilec nodded, and the mayor sat in one of the guest chairs. "And may I speak frankly?"

"There is perhaps a slightly greater risk of death." Nilec laced his fingers together. "That is your decision."

The mayor's eyes narrowed. "You don't need my assistance, but I could make things easier for you. Control the people--ease their fears. Smooth the way for Grauth rule. Propaganda works better when you use the right mouthpiece."

"What makes you think our mouths are insufficient?"

"People fear what they don't know. And they rebel." The mayor leaned back a bit and laced his hands almost imitatively, Nilec noticed. He sniffed. The human smelled powerfully of a synthetic cologne, its musk apparent even across the width of the desk. An attractive scent. Humans did some things well.

"Your cologne," he said. "What is it?"

"Er...it's called Galvano."

"You can arrange to have a case of this delivered?"

The mayor's smile widened. "Of course, General."

And the human was right, of course. He could be useful.

Fifteen minutes, thirty--Buffy had lost track, but it felt like forever passed by the time Willow and Tara finished their spell. The air sizzled as if a thundershower had just rolled by.

"It's no use," said Willow. Her face was pale and shiny with exertion, and she was breathless, like she'd been running for miles. "We tried to concentrate on one spot to punch a hole through the barrier, but it just soaks up our energies."

Tara was swaying a little, one hand resting on Willow's shoulder, her own shoulders slumped with tiredness. "It's strong magic," she said. "And it's not an isolate."

"An isolate?"

"A free-standing spell, one that's been crafted and cut loose. This is constantly replenishing itself, drawing on a power source somewhere."

"Somewhere deep," Willow added.

When Buffy met her gaze, Willow's eyes dropped. More guilt. More failure. But it wasn't her fault. She and Tara had done their best, and Buffy forced her disappointment down. Raking one hand through her hair and thinking, she asked, "Is there anything else we can try? Any way we can get a message to them?"

"Not now." Willow looked miserable. "We've depleted our powers. We'll need some time to recharge."

"We can't stay here while we're waiting," said Buffy. "That spell might have brought us some unwanted attention."

"The car isn't working," Xander reminded them. "It's about ten miles back into town on foot. And if anything's heading for us, there's a good chance it's taking this road."

"What's through these woods?" Buffy asked, looking into the underbrush.

"Woods. And then, after a while, we should reach some more woods."

"Hey," said Dawn, tugging Buffy's sleeve.

"We'll just have to hike, then," Buffy said firmly. "We don't have a choice if we--"

"Hey!" Dawn's voice rose in urgency. "Look!"

Heads turned to where she pointed. On the other side of the barrier a truck was coming their way, a big rig that showed no intentions of stopping at the dinky gas station.

"Oh man," Xander said, horrified. "If it hits the barrier at that speed--"

Infected with his alarm, Buffy began waving her arms at the oncoming truck. The others quickly joined in, shouting out warnings that there was little chance the driver could hear. But he had to see them.

"He has to see us," said Buffy as Dawn hopped up and down anxiously at her side, arms flailing like a demented cheerleader. "Why the hell isn't he stopping?"

Anya clutched her hands to her chest. "I think we should--"

"--get off the road," Buffy finished.

They scrambled and broke apart like waves before the onrushing rig, and the noise of its engine and their yells merged together with the sensation of tumbling into damp shrubbery, and as Buffy whirled for one last try to hail the driver, she saw the truck slam into the barrier, its front half vanishing, followed quickly by the rest. No blue fire appeared, no boom of impact; not even a whoosh of air kicked up the dust around them--it was just a big nothing.

Xander staggered back onto the road. "There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man," he said with wigged emphasis, staring wide-eyed at the barrier.

"It's called Sunnydale," Tara said dryly.

"Where'd it go?" Dawn looked around.

"Oh!" said Willow, "The barrier--it's, it's bendy!" At Buffy's raised brow, she continued with hand gestures. "Like, time or space. Or space-time. The truck must have passed through to..." She hesitated.

"To where?"

"Well, best-case scenario? The other side of town. Worst case, I'm thinking the depths of hell."

"No," said Xander, "That's where we are, and the truck's not here."

"Xander." Buffy gave him a meaningful look, tipping her head subtly toward Dawn. "We should probably get going. We can follow the barrier. Maybe we'll find a door or...something."

There was nothing from the car to salvage except the guns, and right now Buffy would have traded her own weapon for a breath-mint and a can of grape soda. As she took one last look at the gas station sitting peacefully in the sunlight, she found herself thinking of the doughnut shop they'd passed miles back. Crullers and hot coffee and brightly lit warmth. In one direction was freedom, in the other lay merely the illusion of comfort, miles closer to an army of pesky demons and the radical deconstruction of her life.

"Do you think we'll really find a way out?" Dawn asked, softly enough that the others couldn't hear.

"Well, even if we don't, someone will find a way in. It won't take long for them to realize what's happened." She rested her hand on Dawn's back and began guiding her into the woods. They fell into step and disappeared into the treeline while on the other side of the barrier, in the sunlit sky, a bird flew past the gas station, past a sign from which the words "Welcome to Sunnydale" were fading. As it glided forward, for a moment its tiny bird mind sensed something, an invisible shimmer in the sunny air, and it almost flew aside. But animal momentum carried it through, and it continued down the road in the sunshine, a road suddenly bare of trees and surrounded by desert, and in its flight it noticed nothing missing. Nothing...

...and the bird lifted its wings, tipping and veering. Sunlight flared, and out of the corner of his eye, Giles saw feathers flash and then heard a sickening smack as a body hit the common room window.

"Good lord," said Quentin Travers, mildly startled enough to spare a glance from the tea he was pouring.

For a moment Giles was in shock, but the bird dropped away, and he was left looking only at its absence and a crack in the window and the dark rain-stricken sky beyond. Eyes closed, he took off his glasses and touched his temple, wincing almost as if the poor animal's pain were his own. He must be getting a migraine. He thought he'd seen a burst of sunlight just before the bird hit. And now Travers was saying something.

"...don't think I've ever seen a falcon in London."

"What?" said Giles, reassuming his glasses. "Oh. I, I've heard they're nesting here now. In, er, greater numbers." He frowned and tried to pin-point what he'd been doing just a minute earlier. There were papers scattered on the study table, and heavy books he couldn't remember taking from the shelves. "What were we discussing?"

Travers returned to the table and sat down with his tea. His frown matched Giles's own. "You know...I don't recall."

Sinking down in his own chair, Giles picked up a piece of paper and scanned it. The writing was a language he hadn't seen in years. "How odd. This is in Naciran."

"Naciran?" Travers pursed his lips. "Obscure language. Not much call for it these days." He sipped his tea and took on a musing expression. "Though we did have a young apprentice watcher who dabbled in Naciran. Havisham, that was."

"Havisham," Giles chuckled lightly, then caught Travers' eye. "Sorry, yes. Funny name. Well, perhaps he left his books here."

"No," Travers said in cool dismissal of the idea. "Lost his marbles a few months ago, poor chap. We had to put the fellow away."

"Amazing you didn't put him down," Giles muttered sourly to himself.

"What's that?"

"Oh, nothing. It's...Sunnydale." Giles blinked at the scrap of writing paper he'd been about to tuck away in a book. An odd spasm of memory or imagination crossed his mind, blooming in the sharp crease of his brows, then vanished as suddenly.

Travers shifted in his chair with an impatient twitch of tweed. "Sunnyvale?"

"What?"

"What?" Travers lifted his brows and lowered his tea-cup.

Giles directed his eyes to the other man, bewildered. "You said 'Sunnyvale'."

"I was merely repeating you."

"I never said any such thing. Sunnyvale. Isn't that in California?" Absently, Giles continued tidying the tableful of books. Quite a mess. The young really had no sense of decorum any more.

"How would I know?" Travers seemed offended by the very idea. "I've never been to the god-forsaken place."

It was a bright, bright sunshiny day, but Cordelia felt restless and sad. She stood just inside the shade of the hotel, looking out over the courtyard where Fred's roses were blooming like crazy for the second straight year. She heard a deliberate footstep next to her. He didn't have to make a sound, so she knew he was being polite.

"What's up?" Angel asked, voice low as if he were afraid of disturbing something, when in fact it was, it was--

"A big bunch of nothing," she said rather grimly.

Angel glanced out at the flower bed. "Looks more like a big bunch of roses."

"Yeah.... They seem happy, don't they?"

"American Beauties," he said in his oblique way.

Cordelia gave him a suspicious look. "Isn't that a porn film?"

"The roses."

"Oh."

"How did you know that was a porn film?"

"How do you know it is?"

"Never mind."

"Ditto." She folded her arms across her chest and resumed staring at the flowers. "Bees buzzing, the sun shining, roses rosing."

Angel seemed to think this needed commentary. "It's a beautiful day."

"It's horrible," Cordelia burst out. Anxiety gripped her convulsively as she gave voice to what she'd been trying to ignore.

"Okay."

She turned to him. "Angel, I was up and down all night. Terrible nightmares, and headaches. It was like the way the visions used to be."