FicWad

- Prelude To War -

--The Way Of The Slayer--

26

'Captain's log, Stardate 53892.9:

It is with a deep sense of foreboding that we are now in pursuit of Lieutenant Commander Data, with the assistance of the U.S.S. Rutherford. We have increased our velocity to warp two to match the speed of the enemy fleet - now a relative point-one light years ahead.

We have little more than forty-eight hours until Data reaches the Epsilon Ursae system. There he will be intercepted by the Klingon attack-ship /gHin-TAQ/. Their aim is to create a blockade of mines to lure him through the star system in which they lay in wait.

We shall maintain our present distance until the trap is a confirmed success, then increase to maximum warp to assist. We hope to reach the gHin-TAQ within an hour of them initiating combat.

Tomorrow I shall be meeting with Captain Freeman and Chancellor Martok to discuss our strategy for the forthcoming conflict. A conflict that now seems inevitable.

As much as it is my belief that no amount of war can create peace - as peace is a state that can only be reached with communication, negotiation, and compromise - at times such as these, when there is no hope of negotiation, war is regrettably the only remaining chance of achieving an outcome that is peaceful for the inhabitants of this galaxy.

It is clear to me now, as we approach the dawn of what may prove to be a terrible battle, that war is no way to reach peace. It is the act of eliminating those who do not agree with our own way of life. I ask myself: 'Are we justified in our actions because of the fact that our enemies have no soul? Because their actions are ruthless, evil, and single-mindedly deadly?'

Some would argue not. However, when their aims do threaten the very fabric of our existence, and all life within, what more justification is needed?

And, so, we plan our war. We expect this assault to be a short one, but with a high number of casualties. In that respect, every crewmember will make use of the next two days to make ship and shuttles as safe and as strong as possible. There is a great deal of work to do.

In the meantime, however, I have laid down a strict order that all crew make the most of a good nights' sleep so they may approach the coming days' preparations with a fresh-face and a keener focus. While I am certain there are some onboard who have disregarded those orders and are already preparing the ship for combat, some of our guests are making preparations of another kind...'

*

Black.

Dark.

Quiet.

Breathing.

Focus.

"When you fight, the warrior is in your fists..." Worf slipped through the darkness, moving slowly around her in a predatory manner. "...And it is in your thoughts. It drives you in conflict."

His voice was barely above a whisper as she caught site of his face passing briefly out of the shadow.

"You must learn to let the warrior into your heart. Become the predator."

She shifted uneasily, finding it difficult to interpret the meaning of his words.

"You are a creature of actions." His speech was slow and precise. "Actions are not enough for one to win victory; you must become the fight."

Her nose creased up to meet the furrow of her puzzled brow.

"The way you fight is unnatural. Your style gives the impression of a series of ill-connecting manoeuvres juxtaposed with little or no consideration. Whereas the Klingon art of combat is a fluid, living thing."

She squinted in the dark to search for his face, and for any telltale signs that he was not entirely serious.

"You must learn to fight with your /heart/. Not with your hands."

Buffy frowned and quietly muttered: "Sure. I'll just rip it beating from my chest and throw it at 'em."

Worf's head appeared looking questioningly at her. "Did you address me?"

She bit her lip. "Nope. But, now you mention it, I do have one question..."

He listened.

"...Is it /totally/ necessary for all the dark we're in?"

Worf sighed. "When your senses are deprived, you will learn to focus all of your concentration with greater-"

She waggled her fingers in front of her face. "'Cos I can't even see my hands unless they're right in front of my face. And then I can't see anything else but my hands." She realised that she'd cut him off. "Sorry. You were saying?"

He stepped back from her and let out a deeper huff. "Computer! Increase lighting to fifty percent!"

As the shadows melted away and their location appeared around them, Buffy looked about for the first time feeling suddenly tiny and overwhelmed at the site of her surroundings.

This was the Enterprise' exercise hall - much larger than the gymnasium she'd seen on one of her own unscheduled tours. Apparently, the Klingons had commandeered it on their arrival to use as a training and sparring room. Buffy examined the hall in amazement. It made her own training room back in the Magic Box look like a punch-bag in a closet. The walls were high, and on each was hung a series of Klingon tapestries; many bearing the symbol of the Klingon race.

She found herself standing in some kind of dojo section with padded flooring, looking out on an intricate and elaborate collection of framing and platforms - like some form of combat scaffolding. One part of it reminded her of the Duel podiums from the Gladiator TV show. It was, without a doubt, quite a sight.

When she finally turned back to face Worf, he grumbled: "If you are ready to continue?"

"Sorry," she said again, flipping a thumb back at the scaffolding. "Big climbing frame."

Worf let her flippancy pass by him without responding. She saw now that he was wearing the same white Karate-gi uniform that he'd asked her to come in, and his hair was tied back.

"I observed you in combat at Sal Fusia-Six," he said to her. "Though you were successful, you leave yourself open to attack. You must never invite an opponent to take advantage of such a weakness. Even brief pauses between blows will leave your offensive vulnerable. I will teach you how to fight like a Klingon - in the ancient and traditional way." Worf pulled at his sleeves and made a stance.

Buffy matched him by readying herself - putting her weight on her forward foot, as she tended to do - unsure as to what was going to happen next.

"No," Worf snapped at her. "Do not place the weight of your attack on one foot. Your balance must remain even, or you will limit your ability to manoeuvre effectively."

She rolled her eyes and did as he instructed by spreading her weight across both feet.

Worf continued: "Remember that the First Level deals mainly with defensive posturing, and in anticipating an enemy's attack through the way in which he positions his body in relation to his centre of gravity, and by which of his muscles become rigid in preparation for movement."

Buffy was about to let out a frank and heartfelt 'Huh?' when-

He attacked!

Buffy dropped low, spinning, and bringing up her right leg to kick him. Worf caught her right ankle, gripped her collar, and kicked away her other foot, slamming her to the mat. She gasped.

"Are you aware of your error?" he asked with a sickening degree of smugness.

"Shoulda took out your legs."

He released her. "You must first sever my attack before initiating your own!" he warned firmly.

Buffy picked herself up from the mat and stretched her bruised muscles. She could do little, however, for her bruised ego.

Worf tugged once more at his sleeves and prepared. "Again."

He attacked.

Following his instructions, she attempted to counter, but her misjudgement took her in the wrong direction. She froze with Worf's knuckles an inch from her face. He would have hit her with the back of his fist, just as he had during their first encounter in the corridor 3 days ago! She made the same damn mistake!

"No!" he grunted at her. "You must observe my body - interpret my intentions."

She got it wrong a couple more times before Worf rambled on about how his weight was leaning in the direction his mind was thinking of going - subconscious movement. Blah, blah.

"Again!" he ordered much more fiercely.

This time, when Worf made his move she watched for the subtleties in his initial movement. Out of either skill or luck, she succeeded in stopping him from both grabbing her face and sweeping her legs.

Without pause, he informed her that she must be prepared to follow through with her own attack.

He moved over to her to position her in what he called a "traditional Klingon pose" that would be most effective in defending and attacking 90% of an enemy's strikes. He turned her body slightly and began positioning her arms.

She observed the concentration on the Klingon's face, and recalled something that was preying on her mind from the Zombiefest on the science station. "Someone told me Klingons were a brotherhood of warriors."

Worf stopped to listen to her.

"So, ...why didn't you give your friend a funeral fit for a warrior?"

He grimaced.

"Instead you just left him there on that Zombie-Station. Cut off his head, took his weapon and just...discarded him... like he wasn't even worth trash."

Worf shifted uncomfortably. "When a warrior dies, his spirit joins those of his ancestors' in the great hall of Sto-Vo-Kor. The body that remains becomes an empty shell - cold and without life. Its use is at an end. It is no longer relevant. That is the Klingon belief."

"But...the body makes up half the person," Buffy argued. "After all; what's a spirit without a body? Our bodies give us form. Make us real."

"Yet they have no bearing on who we are inside. Do you believe that you would be a different person if you had the body of another?"

"Well..." she considered, "if it was the body of a guy..." She looked downward toward her crotch with the hint of a smile.

Worf was not tickled by her rudeness.

"I guess not," Buffy admitted, adding: "I mean; no." She went on to explain: "I've actually been there. In someone else's body. But I was still me. Trouble is ... so was she."

The warrior did not need further details to give his Klingon perspective. "Honour your spirit always. And remain true to yourself." He made certain she was in the correct position for/ Ghul-boq/. "Do not allow anyone else to change you."

The contradictory nature of his advice was immediately apparent when he stepped away, leaving Buffy in a pose that he had placed her in. One not at all natural to her. So much for being true to myself.

Worf took his place again, explaining: "Each posture you take must allow the possibility of choice in your following movement. This is the ideal position to take when defending my previous attack. From this, you will find a greater number of counter-measures available to you."

This time, he instructed her to block his attack as before, but to then allow her posture and balance to lead her immediately into a counter-attack.

She blocked perfectly a second time, but the strike she made after was met with a painful defence expertly delivered by the Klingon.

"Yet another error," he said, shaking his head. "You made the mistake of initiating an attack that my body was positioned to defend. Observe my balance to use it against me as I did. You must use your skills of observation, and think ahead at all times."

She shrugged off her growing annoyance at being repeatedly chastised so harshly, and tried to take his advice. /Be ahead of the game, /she told herself. I can do that. I've got Slayer-sense.

But, when she did try again, she found herself thrown to the mat once more.

Worf let out a roar. "You are NOT concentrating!" he spat. "I am WASTING my time!"

That was it! She'd had enough! ...Ranting on about 'Don't let anyone change you'! Yes, it was true: she wasn't giving it her all. But she had damn good reasons!

Everything built up to a crescendo, and the volcano of torment deep within the pit of her began to bubble.

Whenever there was a Big Bad to tackle, Buffy was the sort who needed to get stuck in and go at it like a bull. But she was stuck here in this flying space-bucket - trapped, claustrophobic - wasting her time trying to learn how to fight like an alien for no clear reason she could gather, and feeling helpless on 2 fronts:

Firstly, she still felt the responsibility to protect Dawn. And her Mom was unwell. But there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.

Second, they were chasing Data. And when they catch up, whatever happens, there was a good chance she wouldn't be able to do squat to help. And there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it!

She was a Fist of Fury with nothing she could fight, and no one else understood how frustrating that was. And now, here was this Klingon freak telling her to be true to her spirit one second and the next telling her 'Do this, do that. Not that way, THIS way!" It was all just too MUCH!!!

Worf was observing Buffy's face as she seemed to be hitting boiling point. It appeared to him that she was about to do what most human females tended to do in this situation - cry like a child.

He was mistaken.

Buffy shot forward into him. Unprepared for such a sudden display of aggression, Worf misjudged her intentions and she managed to slip through his misplaced defence, buckling his knee with a sharp jab, and flipping him over onto his ass. The Klingon grunted and held his burning kneecap.

Buffy allowed herself a small amount of pleasure by standing over his toppled frame. "Guess you didn't see that coming, huh?" she asked sarcastically.

Worf spoke through clenched teeth: "That was not the lesson."

"Just being true to myself," she replied. She looked him in the eye one last time, just so they were both clear she'd won this little battle, before walking away.

She was tired. Tired of this crap and just generally tired. It was late, and she felt her bed calling to her. Stopping at the doors as they parted for her, Buffy decided to give Worf a piece of advice. "By the way - about observation - you might wanna think about teaching /yourself/."

By the time Worf pulled himself up to respond, she was gone.

*

The hour was late, and the lounge of Picard's quarters was lit more dimly than usual. Perhaps, Beverly considered, it was a reflection of the dark nature of the topic they were about to discuss. They sat, not quite opposite each other, at his dining table, each halfway through a bowl of La Creperie - French onion soup.

"It just occurred to me, Jean-Luc... we've had breakfast here almost every morning for twelve years... I think this is the first time we've ever had supper."

Picard gave her a warm smile. "Four years."

She frowned a moment, looking around the room and realising this was not the Enterprise-D. She smiled back and nodded. "I still forget sometimes. It feels like we've always been here."

"I think we all do on occasion."

Beverly realised her appetite had departed her, and put down the spoon. She gave the room another gaze. War was imminent. To think that they may lose all this - their home - a second time...

"I don't think I could go through that again," she confessed.

Picard gave her a long and solemn glare as he searched for a way to express his feeling about that thought. He seemed to wrestle with it for a good time and his face saddened. He was about to speak when the door chimed. Picard embraced the distraction eagerly, setting his soup aside and making his way to the seated area with his tea. "Come."

Tweed-clad, as ever, Giles stepped into Captain Picard's quarters.

"Thankyou for coming so late," Picard acknowledged, offering him a seat.

"Not at all," he replied, parking himself on a couch. "I'm eager to assist in any way I can."

"Tea?" offered the Captain.

"Please," Giles answered, quickly wiping and replacing his spectacles. "That would be most..." he caught sight of Doctor Crusher at that moment as she arrived at the lounge and placed a teapot on the small table in front of him. She gave him a smile. "...delightful," he finished. Giles averted his gaze awkwardly and spotted Picard's epée blade on a display stand nearby. The sword was accompanied by a classic fencing mask. 'A fellow duellist'

"A war is ahead of us, Mr. Giles." The captain sat and poured out a fresh drink for the Watcher. "Anything you can tell us to give us a strategic advantage would be most appreciated. For instance, what are the battle-tactics of these demons? What can we expect from them?"

Giles slipped into his 'serious Watcher' role. "Demons, even as part of a group or clan, are relatively unorganised. They can be likened to animals. Rather than use tactics as such, they rely more on instinct to fight. But, with Darkness acting as a central 'brain' for the group, who can say?"

"It reminds me of the Borg," Picard noted. "A race of bio-mechanoids with no concept of individuality - acting with one unified mind. They act like a computer system. Very predictable."

"The demons won't be easily predictable. They often surprise."

"I find that extremely disheartening."

"The trick," Beverly added, "will be not to act in a way that Data would predict."

Picard nodded in agreement. He remembered a time when roles were reversed. When he, as Locutus, was beaten by his own crew who used unexpected methods of attack to confuse him.

Beverly turned to Giles. "Are you still trying to find a...less orthodox solution?"

"I'm afraid we're not getting very far," he revealed. "We are attempting to devise a simple way of trapping the Dark Spirit - as he was trapped originally. Unfortunately that would only be a temporary solution." He became aware that he hadn't asked a question that now seemed very pressing. "How are the injured among your crew?"

"Many died," Crusher sadly reported. "We've had to eviscerate a number of bodies. When war starts, sickbay's going to become a madhouse. If you and your group reach a dead-end with your own work, we could use all the acting-medics we can get."

"I'll keep that in mind, Doctor."

"/Beverly/," she insisted. "I'll let you gentlemen continue in peace. I'm going for a night-cap." She began to leave them before, on second thought, she turned back to Giles, tossing her hair back. "I'll be in Ten-Forward if you care to join me when you're done here." Crusher gave Picard a nod. "Goodnight, Captain." And then Giles. "Rupert."

The ex-Watcher watched her go. He was struck by how exceptionally well shaped she was for a woman her age. Not to mention attractive.

Picard sighed.

Ripper snapped out of his reverie. "Is something else troubling you, Captain?"

"I find myself struggling to reconcile our intentions," he explained. "To set out to eradicate every last demon that has crossed over into our reality...an entire species...it is nothing short of genocide. I wonder; will our conscience weigh too heavy with sin?"

"It may console you to know they are beings of evil. Pure evil. In the clear pantomime sense."

"Evil?" Picard considered. "Such a simple, unquestionable word. It leaves no room for doubt. Unfortunately, pantomime villains are two-dimensional characters that lack such complex emotions and motivations that are found in reality." He paused for a breath. "Evil. ...I'm afraid it isn't a word I can associate with. I don't subscribe to the meaning it represents. Nothing is ever so black and white. Only varying shades of grey. In every man there is the capacity for virtue or injustice. In every race there are those who seek to aspire for a better future, and those who wish to fulfil selfish needs with disregard for the consequences to others. The Romulans, for example." He took a sip of tea. "If I were a lesser-educated man I might, superficially, say that Romulans are an untrustworthy, xenophobic race with no other desire than to rule over our galaxy. However, that's certainly not true for all Romulans."

Giles contended: "But Romulans, no matter how villainous they are, are still people. People with souls and the ability to distinguish right from wrong. What of this 'Borg' race?"

Captain Picard contemplated the Borg for a beat. It was true that Starfleet, and himself, were prepared to remove all trace of them from the galaxy. But that was an exceptional circumstance. The demons were not the Borg Collective. "How can you say with certainty that every demon in the enemy's army is wholly evil?" he asked Giles. "How can you label a race that is made up of unique beings? If each individual has a singular personality? Especially after you yourself have acknowledged that they may in fact be committing these atrocities while under the influence of one malevolent entity."

"Spike," Giles clarified, "is a vampire. A monster. The fact that you can have any kind of conversation with him is entirely down to the machinery in his head. Without that chip, he would kill every man and woman on this ship. Your entire crew. He would feed until his veins threatened to burst, and worse - he would turn half your crew into creatures as deadly as himself who will then go on to feed on more innocent victims. ...He would do it in order to survive. In that respect he has no choice. Mostly, he would do it for pleasure." He tried to find a way to leave Picard in no doubt as to the nature of demons. "Captain, if knowledge and the exploration of the unknown is what gives your life fulfilment, then death is a vampire's gratification. Would it make any significant difference to you if he were either attacking your crew, or being told to attack Earth by someone else?"

Picard took Giles words under advisement. "You can assure me that no demon has ever acted out of kindness? Nor ever committed an act of mercy? That not one of them possesses even the capacity to do anything other than kill?" he pleaded. "Because, if just one of these creatures has shown any sign of compassion or morality... the ramifications of that would cast a shadow of doubt that I cannot easily dismiss."

Giles made a conscious effort to sound sincere in his response. "I can assure you that no demon can ever possess the capability to be anything other than evil," he lied. "They're born from evil to do evil."

As hard as it was - as treacherous as he felt for betraying Picard's trust - he felt compelled to lie to him. He lied to protect Picard's universe from the demon race. A race that could quickly ruin a galaxy as uninformed and naïve in its view of the paranormal as this reality was.

The captain spent a good time eyeing the inside of his teacup before finally speaking again. "I am still unable to imagine that 'Darkness' is just a being of uncompromising evil. That it aims do destroy all without reason. There must be more to it than that."

Giles nodded his agreement. "My interpretation of our enemy is based both on myth and on the evidence we have gathered over the past three days. But I agree. There will undoubtedly be more to this entity than we know at this moment. I'm sure there is much more we could learn, given the time and the research material."

"So," Picard said, as if admitting defeat in some way, "we cannot be certain what we face?"

"I would prepare for the unexpected."

The captain sighed. "It does beg the question: How does one prepare for the unexpected?"

"Your crew has a wealth of experience at expecting the unexpected. It is a factor in your mission statement. 'To Go Where No Man Has Gone Before'?"

Picard nodded with a smile.

"Try not to judge this enemy in the way you may judge one of your 'Borg' or 'Romulan' armies," Giles went on. "You have such amazing weaponry and personnel in this one ship alone. I would say we can be no more fortunate."

Picard's mood became suddenly a measure graver. "I must impress upon you how important it is that we not allow the enemy to reach our solar system."

"I can assure you I, and my companions, fully understand."

"In war, we all become expendable, Mr. Giles."

He gave a simple nod. "Rupert, please."

Satisfied now that all parties involved would give whatever was required to succeed in their mission, Picard finished: "We may be required to board his ship. I'll let you and your team know more once I have spoken with the captain of the Rutherford and the Klingon chancellor."

"Very well," Giles noted. He stood, and began to depart. He finished his last sip of tea and handed the cup to the captain.

Picard took the mug from Giles and said: "The unexpected awaits us. We must resign ourselves to do our utmost, which may indeed be all we can do. My hope is that we will at least outnumber the enemy once we join with the Klingon attack-ship."

Giles acknowledged that. "Until tomorrow, Captain."

Picard did not offer his forename as Rupert left the room. He decided to tidy and take rest once that was done. As this may prove to be his last night of sleep, he wished to make it a good long night.

*

Standing in her quarters alone, Buffy spent long minutes staring into the mirror. Not so much looking at her own reflection as that of her mind, and how tangled it was becoming in this place so far from home.

She was also aware how her treatment of the Klingon earlier had been seriously out of line. As tedious and arrogant as he was, he had, after all, given of his own time to try to teach her something. Even if she didn't benefit from his training, how often in her life would she get the chance to learn martial arts from an alien?

Blowing out air in a childish huff, she put it down to a bad day that a good night of rest would fix. Gathering some motivation, she moved to the washroom, undressed, and stepped into the sonic shower. The high-frequency sweep passed over her, cleansing her instantly. She stepped back out a moment later and was met by her reflection again, this time from the small mirror above the washbasin. She stared at her own dry, clean, naked flesh.

It felt to her that even the most mundane experiences in this world lacked any essence. Lacked feeling. She wasn't left with that warm tingly relaxation of a bath, or the fresh feeling of a real shower. She felt...deadened. A victim of a hollow experience.

She hated it here. Not because of the people - she could easily live with people being so good-natured back home. There was just no real substance in anything here. Even the food was synthetic.

In the sleeping area, her eyes crossed the room and fell upon the bed - not her own - and not some holiday suite either. It represented the cage that the Enterprise had become for her. She was trapped here, a prisoner, and the thought that it may be forever was hell to her.

Indeed, she was troubled. But, more so, she was tired.

She prepared for bed; slipping into a set of pink pyjamas she'd laid over her bed sheet, which she now pulled back. Once she'd asked the computer to wake her in the morning - though it always made her feel foolish to speak to a machine - she lay back, slid under the covers and forced her eyes to close.

"Lights off," she called, bringing darkness to her room, save for the light twinkling of stars out in the beyond. Thankfully, she soon found peaceful sleep.

It didn't last.

A stark screeching rattled her ears and tore her away from blessed sleep. It was her alarm clock. 'Dammit'

She couldn't be bothered with it now; she was far too tired. Besides, she was sure she didn't need to be up so soon. With eyes closed tight as she clung to the tattered rim of sleep that still held sway over her, feeling for the clock that lay on her bedside table, she found nothing in her reach.

The alarm continued to buzz.

The same old alarm clock that had been waking her for over a year - usually with the odious intention of getting her up for college. This was one wake-up call she had no desire to rise to on this particular occasion. Especially as it seemed that sleep had only come to her a moment ago. She opened her eyes and saw nothing. Nothing but black. Like the sun had not risen on this day. She clawed for her lamp and began to panic when it couldn't be found. Was she at home? Was she in her dorm room? She was about to call out to her mom, or Willow, when she suddenly sensed the sterility of the room she was in, and the realisation came to her that she was not in her own bed at all. She knew where she was.

"Lights."

Her quarters exploded to full colour and burned her eyes.

"Half-lights!"

Seconds later, she peeled her lids back and ambled through the gloom into her lounge. She pricked up her ears. There seemed to be a great hullabaloo right outside her room with a clatter of movement, screeching and shouting. She still felt terribly groggy, but decided never the less to go investigate this fracas.

Throwing on a silky lilac gown from her complementary dresser, she toddled over to the doors, barefoot, and poked the release for the lock. Though she feared, from the clatter, that the ship had fallen into panic, she felt an odd sensation of calm unease.

What she found when the doors drew apart, however, she did not expect. She was hit suddenly by the still silence of the empty corridor outside. It was so quiet, in fact, that her ears hummed. Buffy first tentatively peeped her head out from the doorway to check for any signs of a crowd along the length of the passage. Not a thing stirred. 'Not even a mouse'

She stepped out. It was a sudden move and she wasn't quite sure why she'd done it. She would have been more than happy to return to her soft, warm bed. But, recalling that it was her alarm clock that had woken her, she decided she must have somewhere she needed to be. So, she made a start down the Enterprise' corridor; heading for nowhere in particular, and for no particular reason. As she made her first steps, Buffy fancied she could hear a faint sound somewhere far off. She stopped. Listened.

She listened for a good long while - at least until she was satisfied she'd heard nothing - and chose to carry on. Before she managed to take a step, she heard it again - much more clearly. It was a person. Some kind of desperate cry. She didn't have to puzzle over it for long as her ears were struck by a distinct plea in a voice she recognised all too well...

"BUFFY!"

She gasped and felt her heart miss a beat. "Angel?"

Angel called to her again - weak and needy. His voice drifted and reverberated around her. She spun about, listening in vain to pinpoint his direction.

"BUFFY!"

She slammed against the corridor and clawed at the bulkhead to find a way to him. He was behind the walls and all around. But the walls were thick and no matter how she pounded, smashed, dented and bled, she could not reach him.

"ANGEL?" She panicked and ran barrelling through the corridors; feeling along the walls for a way behind them; trying every door she met to no avail. Still he called to her, and still she ran and ran.

Buffy halted abruptly. She wasn't alone in the corridor anymore. Data was there. Wearing tattered cloth as a garment, he knelt in the corridor with a wooden shoe-shine stand laid out before him. The chair was vacant, or so it seemed; yet a pair of old boots stood empty where a client's feet would rest, and Data polished and buffed then vigorously.

The android spotted her hovering over him. He turned to her, his face clear of emotion, and offered his rag. "Would you care for a shoe-shine, ma'am?"

Buffy frowned and studied her bare feet. "No. Thanks. They're all clean."

"Oh, well," he said to her. "I do not eat much, you know." Then he turned back to the stand and continued the polishing as he said to the invisible no-one sat before him: "But I love cheese. I never eat enough cheese!"

A mildly disturbed Buffy began to slip past him cautiously. "I-I have to go. Someone needs me."

She soon resumed her frantic search through the halls of the Enterprise.

"ANGEL? ...ANGEL?" Her calls went unanswered, which propelled her to run faster.

She ran...

And ran...

And ran...

...Right into the strong arms of a tall man. She gasped and began to say Angel's name...

But a glance upward revealed not Angel, but agent Riley Finn.

Riley cast a suspicious eye down upon her. "Who are you looking for?"

"You," she replied automatically. "Always you."

Riley put his arms around her and the warmth of his body filled her and comforted her. It was a feeling that gave her security. It was a warmth she could never feel with a dead thing such as Angel. She found it easy in that moment to put all thoughts of Angel's plight to one side and to walk away with her living love, arm in arm. "Agent Riley Finn," she uttered lovingly.

"That's me, Baby," he returned with a wink. "I just had the most amazing shoe-shine."

"Really?"

"Uh-huh. The guy who did it was really friendly. He can kill a man with a single encrypted thought process."

Buffy's eyes widened with awe. "Wow. That is swell."

A set of doors opened up before them to the beauty of the arboretum, where a dainty young girl stood alone by the pond.

Dawn.

Concern overcame Buffy. "What are you doing here? Where's Mom?"

When Dawn turned, her eyes were filled with pain. "That isn't funny."

"It wasn't supposed to be," Buffy retorted, becoming worried. What had Dawn meant?

"You know she isn't here," the younger Summers stated.

Buffy felt a wave of fear and worry stifle her. But those fears paled when her eyes were drawn to a new arrival.

The Demon-Bitch! Her blonde frizzy hair flowing over her slender shoulders, wearing the same red dress she'd worn on their first encounter. She appeared behind Dawn with a wrapped gift. "Here, Dawny," she said with a caring tone. Turning to Buffy, the Bitch explained: "Something she can wear on the special day."

Overcome by both fear for Dawn's safety, and anger toward the demon woman, she shifted into Slayer-speak: "You stay the hell away from my sister."

"Pff. Sister?" Riley scoffed at the Slayer with disdain. "At least she brought Dawn a present."

Buffy frowned and turned to find him holding a gift of his own for Dawn.

"It's not even her birthday until-" She stopped when she remembered that her 'sister' had never really been born.

"She didn't forget like /you/," Dawn spat at her.

"Yeah," Riley added. "You didn't get her anything. Or were you just gonna get her killed?"

The Slayer felt increasingly disturbed as these three people closed in on her. She shut her eyes to encourage them all to disappear like a bad dream. When she looked back, Dawn was still there. And there was a single tear of blood rolling down her pale cheek.

"Now look what you did," Glory hissed, handing Dawn a tissue.

Dawn dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief, and glared unwavering toward her big sister. "You may as well go, Buffy. That is what you're good at, after all." She handed Buffy the tissue and Riley began to laugh a roaring laugh that mocked the Slayer.

Buffy's own eyes welled. The cloth in her hand felt moist, then wet. She glanced down to see that the white tissue had grown sodden with blood! She looked up. Dawns eyes were filling with dark red blood until that became all there was inside her. Then she too began to laugh at Buffy. Soon they all laughed at the horrified Slayer as she backed away from their macabre strangeness.

When a hard lump caught in Buffy's throat, she realised she needed desperately to escape this place. Dropping the tissue, she turned and fled just as fast as she could...

Into the corridor she sped, until it came to an end. There a door opened and Buffy, daring not to stop, charged right through it - into space.

She gasped, writhed, prepared herself for pain and death as she fell spiralling and spinning... Then...

...Buffy broke through pure white cloud, wind flowing over her - ruffling her feathers.

She flew - an eagle - free and glorious, over moors and marshes and plains, and back into cloud again. Pain and fear gave way to euphoria as she soared over the world alone and at peace.

The clouds, of the purest white, began to grow dull and grey as she travelled. Soon they began to break up, darkening more and more. She passed headlong through a wall of the blackest cloud she'd ever seen...

...Only to be caught up in a flurry of noise and movement.

Cries of fury and pain. Clashing of swords and shields. Stampeding, running, falling and fighting.

The Slayer was swept along in some terrible battle. Swept along amidst ancient warriors both human and demon locked in combat.

She felt herself struck from behind, and fell crashing finally to earth with the shedding of tail-feathers. One monstrous demon came charging at her, a sharp tool held aloft as it came roaring like a banshee. It's blood-stained face a petrified, distorted mass of gore and saliva. The Slayer flapped her wings in a futile effort to react as it reached her with its weapon swinging wildly. The blade arced down with one final movement, and struck her in the chest!

Buffy woke suddenly, sweating and clutching at her tight chest.

She remained that way for almost an hour before daring to lay herself back down in the bed. But her eyes did not dare to close for much, much longer.

*

Spike woke suddenly, sweating and clutching at his tight crotch.

Images of Buffy with her naked thighs wrapped tightly around his face still flashed through his foggy mind.

He cursed and smothered his face in his hands, shaking his head.

'/Not again/.'