FicWad

- Prelude To War -

--Answers--

27

Eight hours later it was the dawn of a thirty-hour day for the crew of the U.S.S. Enterprise. This day would be the most crucial of the coming conflict. How well they prepared on this day may determine their success in the next. Unfortunately for the Scooby-Gang, there seemed to be very little they could contribute to this important task.

Willow Rosenberg, sat at the oval breakfast table in Rupert Giles' quarters, observed under heavy eyelids as he milled about, replicating the breakfast and laying it out. Soup, baguette, fruit and tea in a pot... with waffles and tall lattés for her and Buffy. He was just placing the syrup down on the table to accompany the hot waffles as she watched him.

'Watchin' the Watcher,' she jokey-thought. He seemed troubled this morning. Oddly quiet.

The doorbell rang.

"I expect that's Buffy now," Giles surmised, turning to the doors. "Come in. You're la-"

However, when they parted, it was not Buffy standing in the doorway. It was Spike.

"Hey, Giles," said the dead man as he entered and made himself comfortable. He gave the young Wiccan a nod. "Willow."

She smiled back awkwardly.

On seeing Giles was not wearing his usual clothes, Spike stood aghast. "Good God. What happened to your tweed?!"

Rupert, wearing a casual Technicolor number, found himself somewhat baffled. "Um...I-I..." He looked at Willow briefly.

Spike guessed she'd already said something similar to him.

"I don't always wear tweed," he finished. "If you must know, ...it's being cleaned."

"Cleaned?" Willow puzzled. "They have machines...in the restroom...that can do it in seconds!"

Giles grimaced strenuously. "All these machines doing peoples' work... it's just so...so...so..."

Willow puzzled again. "Giles...you own a washing machine."

"I believe you know perfectly well what I mean," he replied a little impatiently. "I find much of this advanced technology so...demeaning. It-it...undermines the entire human element. Besides," he went on, trying to make a firmer point, "tweed can be extremely delicate..." He stopped then and shook his head. "And there are more critical matters to discuss at this time. ...Certainly more critical than my choice of wardrobe. Although," he continued, checking the garish top he wore, "choice is perhaps too strong a word."

"I'm not complaining," Willow stated. " I think it's nice to see you in regular, if a little /Doctor/ /Who/vian, apparel."

Spike looked him up and down, "Yeah. Nice togs."

Willow nodded. "It's better than the tweed."

Giles, itching at the lining around his neck, replied: "It certainly isn't. There's something to be said for a finely crafted suit of tweed."

"Well," Spike assured him, "I for one look forward to its dramatic return. A man's just not a Watcher without his tweed."

"Thank you, Spike." ...Giles caught himself... "Spike? Why are you here?"

"Breakfast." He looked about the room and saw the absence of Buffy. "Where's the Slayer?"

"She's..." The door opened. "...Late."

"Sorry guys," Buffy offered as she entered, looking slightly worse for wear. "What's /he/ doing here?" she added on seeing Spike sat nearby.

From Will and Giles she received nothing more than shrugs of uncertainty.

Spike was left to make his own defence. His mouth opened. "...Breakfast," he muttered. That fell flat with the Slayer...so he added: "Meeting. Breakfast meeting. Just seein' what's the what."

Buffy reluctantly accepted that and went to take her seat. "He better not be planning on eating with us," she said to Giles. "Last thing I need this morning is him slurping blood over the breakfast table." She addressed Spike himself and finished: "You have your own room for that."

"Yes," Giles agreed. "I'm still trying to lose the memory of it." Yes, that terrible annus horribilis the year before when poor Rupert was made to take Spike in as a prisoner-cum-lodger could not easily be forgotten.

Somewhat grieved by their attitude, yet not wanting to leave Buffy's company, Spike held his grumbling stomach and lied to them: "Good thing I've already had mine, then, eh?" He remained sat to one side, and said no more.

They ate, and Spike watched. He noted the subdued air that lay over the Scoobs this morning. Things were not well. Not with Buffy, and not with Red. Soon, he learned, things were not well with Rupert either.

Once the table was cleared, and the Gang had moved to the lounge, Giles reported his grave meeting with Picard the night before. They were going to war. He explained that they might be required to board the enemy's ship. This gave Buffy some hope - some chance to fight. But she said nothing of the disturbing dream that still haunted her from the previous night. She said nothing because it seemed to hold little relevance to the here-and-now. Because it frightened her too damn much to even dwell on it. Mainly, she said nothing because, if it was a prophetic Slayer 'vision', there was nothing they could do to help the people back home. Not when they were stuck here. So, she convinced herself it was just a nightmare. The war, however, was quite real. Quite here-and-now.

Willow, for her part, found it was times like these she missed Xander. No doubt, were he here and confronted with a space-battle, he would be making some humorous Star Wars comparison to break the gloom of the moment.

It went down badly when Giles mentioned the opening for their assistance in sickbay.

Buffy took serious offence at the very suggestion of it. "You gotta be kidding me?"

"Now don't be so harsh, Buffy. Doctor Crusher will need our help," said Giles in defence.

"I'm sorry," she retorted, "but I'm not playing nurse-maid when there's a war on. I'm the Slayer; I should be-"

"Slayin'," Spike finished on her behalf from his corner. "She should be Slayin' ...and fightin' evil n' all that. S'what she's built for."

Buffy wasn't impressed. "Nobody asked your opinion, Spike."

His arms went up. What did he have to /do/?!

"I just can't do it, Giles," she explained. "I need to be part of the fight."

"I recall a time when you were much less enthusiastic about your calling."

"Things change."

"Buffy." Giles spoke now most earnestly and, even though he had not been her official Watcher for almost two years, it was a voice that still held the power to command her respect. "Not everyone who has a part to play in the coming war will be satisfied with the role they must take. We're no longer in an environment that is within our control. You may find that your feeling of duty must step aside. That your own ego must yield and...and accept that there are others who's place it is to take on the most vital roles."

She did not reply and neither did she meet his gaze. Giles thought it best to give her some space for a moment, and went to get more drinks.

Willow, still sat across from Buffy, observed her friend's silent stupor. The war, coupled with what Giles had just said certainly had got to her. But, to Will, her anxiety seemed to run deeper than that. "Buffy? You okay? You look kinda...zoned-out."

Buffy slowly drifted back and acknowledged her, eventually replying: "No...I mean yeah. I'm...I'm fine." She saw the disbelief in Willow's eyes. "Honest. I'm just... I just had a bad night is all. No big."

Willow would have liked to challenge that, were it not for Giles returning.

"There is one other thing," Giles revealed. "The captain asked for my advice as to what action he should take against the demons in the enemy's army."

"You told him, right?" the Slayer beseeched. "You told him 'shoot-to-kill - take no prisoners'?"

Spike felt compelled to get up from his chair and oppose the former Watcher and his impulsive Slayer. "Hold up, you know damn well they're not in control of themselves. Some of 'em are probably harmless as puppies."

"They're /demons/!" she insisted.

"With no free-will!" Spike countered.

"Yeah?" she asked. "What about Swiss-Army-Hands on the space-station? His will to send us all to hell seemed pretty free to me. We're not in a position to be choosy, Spike. We're going to war!"

"Oh, well then!" Spike lifted his arms and slapped them down to his sides again. She was too narrow-minded to even see his point.

Willow approached the fray from the sidelines. "Guys, wait," she begged, not wanting to see an inner struggle before they even knew all the facts. "Giles? What did you tell him? You told him the truth, right? ...Giles?"

He was unable to look her in the eye, "I-I-I-"

"Giles?" besieged Spike.

"Th-These people have no understanding of the demon world," he argued. "Demons would ruin this entire galaxy. Their power and evil would go unchallenged."

"So you lied?" Spike lashed.

"I told him what I had to."

Willow was more shocked than anyone. "Giles... these demons don't have command of their own minds. ...You're talking about wiping out an entire species. I don't think Captain Picard is the kind of man who'd want that on his hands. It's...racism."

Giles seemed a little confused by how serious she was taking this. "Willow, I understand, but they'll taint this world with their demonic ways. It's in their very nature. We don't want their blood polluting this reality."

"There you go again," she said. "You sound like a Neo-Nazi. These demons haven't wronged us, yet you wanna line 'em up and send 'em all to the gas chamber anyway." There was a brief silence. Even Spike frowned at her intensity. "...And I realise I'm channelling my mother again, so I'm a little disorientated by that - but I know there was a point in there somewhere."

Spike stepped to her side. "She does have a point... in amongst all that. ...'Wrong us, shall we not revenge', Giles? Well we haven't been wronged by these people."

"They're /demons/, Spike, not people!" Buffy corrected. "If anyone has a point, it's Giles. How can they fight these monsters when they don't even believe in the supernatural? Everyone we've encountered here - even the captain - are blind to what demons are capable of. Evil is evil. There's no question of what we have to do." The Slayer had spoken, and none dared challenge her at this time. This left a dead space of silence where no one spoke or even moved.

After a beat, Buffy turned to Will. "Any luck with the magic?"

"I think I've got the protection pouch mastered," she replied. "But there's no way to test it until Darkness tries to body-snatch again."

Buffy wasn't her enthusiastic self. "That's less than encouraging."

"And I've been trying to mix together a binding spell," she said. "I'd like to try it out on Spike."

"Bollocks!"

"I doubt that would help us," Giles rebuffed. "Spike bears little resemblance to Darkness."

He nodded expressively. "Yeah - that's right. Rupert's right. I'm just a vampire."

Giles put out a reassuring hand. "Relax, Spike, no one's going to bind you."

"But if it helps Willow's spell," argued the Slayer.

Spike would have gasped if he had any use for air. "Again - /bollocks/," he yelled, before heading right out the door. Who was he kidding? To hell with Buffy! He didn't belong here with these freaks at all.

No sooner had the doors slid shut behind him, than Buffy followed on his heels. The doors closed a second time and all was quiet and restful at last in Rupert's quarters. At that moment, it occurred to him to regard his clothes. "Doctor Whovian?"

Willow gave a definite nod. "Tom Baker."

Giles raised an eyebrow in a sign of agreeable gratitude. Being compared to Tom Baker's Who... He liked the sound of that.

*

"Spike, wait!" Buffy called as she caught up with him in the corridor.

"Why?" he turned and spat. "So that second-rate witch can run her tests on me? Huh? Maybe liquefy my insides while she's at it?"

"What?" She dismissed his attitude. "Don't be melodramatic."

"I'm not one of yer poncy groupies, Slayer," he slammed. "I'm not here to help the witch turn a spell, and I'm certainly not your obedient sidekick. Never been much of a team player. You ask yer ex-honey Angel about that if you ever see the pastey nonce again. Assumin' you're not stuck here for the rest of your life. Or, in my case, for all eternity! Which reminds me; I didn't ask to come here! So don't look so shocked that I'm a tad pissed off. I'd much rather have missed this little Slayer-family outin'."

There came a long beat in which she glared at him, just so he knew not to push it. Once that was clear to him, she went on: "None of us asked to be here, Spike. And the rest of us don't have eternity to find a way back to the only place we belong. ...So get over yourself."

She could stare him down all she liked, even kick his ass all over the ship for all he cared, but he wasn't taking any more of her crap. "Get over myself? Do you even hear what your sayin'? Get over myself? ...Tell me; this war we're headin' for... When you've finished annihilatin' all my demon cousins... am I next on your hit-list?" He stuck his finger right in her face. "You people are no better than this 'Darkness' git. Either he kills all you, or you kill all them... It's bloody genocide however it ends."

Yet again, she found herself dumbstruck.

Genocide. That was a serious concept. After all, wasn't that what she and Giles had promoted back in the room? The outright murder of an entire race with no consideration of each being as an individual. Perhaps they were no better than 'Darkness'. Spike may actually have made a profound point. So profound to her that she may have left it there and watched him walk away had she not made a sudden recollection. "Why did you turn back?" she asked, drawing his attention. "Back on that market planet...You wouldn't follow us into town. You turned back."

"What of it?" he dismissed.

She chose to come right out with her suspicions. "You can feel it, can't you? The Darkness. You can sense when he's close?"

"Oh. Right. After information as usual. There's a shock."

She ignored his nonsense. "You were afraid? ...Of his power?"

"I wasn't afraid! ...Just...didn't care to meet him up-close is all."

"But you knew he was near? You could sense where he was?"

The penny dropped in his mind. "You...wanna use me as a bloody compass?"

"I'm just trying to establish the strength of our hand, Spike," she explained.

Spike inwardly shook his head. He fancied it actually hurt him to think she only ever wanted him for his slaying abilities. "You're only bein' civil to me now 'cos you need me," he pointed out.

"This is about teamwork, and beating the enemy," Buffy said. "Would you rather I twisted your arm?" she asked, threatening violence.

"I know I'm not part of yer group, Buffy," Spike acknowledged. "And at least when you talk with your fists I know your bein' honest."

This time he did walk away. She didn't call after him, and a good thing too as it would have been pointless. He didn't much care what happened from hereon in. Because, as much as his help was required, he would never be /wanted/. Also, there was something else that interested him. Something he'd realised when the Slayer reminded him of that dust planet. A very peculiar incident that he wanted to understand as soon as possible, because the answers might well change things for him. He passed by the turning to his quarters and carried on to the elevator. He wasn't going to sulk in his room anymore. Not now. First, he would have to pay someone a visit.

*

Ten-Forward seemed much like the breakfast fast-lane that morning. The entire crew were facing such a busy day, people were literally flying in from the corridor, snatching up food and devouring it in seconds, before speeding away again. Many didn't even stay to eat - taking their morning meals away with them. It gave a whole new meaning to the concept of 'fast-food'.

Two individuals who had stayed to eat a light breakfast, and were still sat with their drinks, were the Federation ambassador to Qo'nos, and the ships' counsellor.

Worf, for his part, was eager to get to business. But Deanna had kept him from leaving, keen instead to discuss a matter she believed to be far more pressing...

"Maybe you're going about it all wrong, Worf," she said, taking a sip of hot chocolate.

Worf, in full Klingon garb and sat with a tankard of prune juice at hand, puzzled. "In what way, Counsellor?"

"Well, Buffy is...fairly unique," she explained. "Rather than trying to change her into a Klingon, think about how you might help her to develop her own natural abilities. Introduce her to the spirit of your beliefs and history, and open her mind to new possibilities while allowing her to find her own method."

Worf, as ever, had trouble admitting he was entirely at fault. "But her style is..."

Deanna observed him with a cynical yet mocking expression.

"But she is..."

Still Troi gave him that sarcastic look.

"She is...unfocused and..."

Troi shifted her head expectantly. How it annoyed him when she did that. How she could always diminish all of his strength and make him feel completely foolish.

Eventually, Worf simply stated: "...She is a bad student."

Deanna smiled and picked up her mug again. "You're resourceful, Ambassador. I'm sure you'll come up with something." She took a drink as Worf's face contorted. She added: "I suppose it's a good thing for her that Klingons don't shy away from a challenge. Isn't that right?"

Worf grumbled.

Troi finished her beverage then, and prepared to leave. "Look, Worf, I need a word with Beverly, and I know you have a great deal to do, so I wont keep you." She decided to simplify what she was trying to tell him, in the hope he would understand more clearly. "Just...teach her something she doesn't already know."

She began to go, but Worf stopped her with a gentle hand. "She made a comment about my lack of observation," he revealed. "I am beginning to wonder whether I misunderstood her meaning."

The counsellor sighed and rested a caring hand on his arm. "Not all observation is physical, Worf. Sometimes you need to be observant of people's emotional wellbeing."

He watched Troi go thoughtfully, and suspected she had a better understanding of the Slayer than she had let on.

*

Spike pulled into sickbay and strode right by two medics who tried to ask him his business, but seemed too afraid to try and stop him. Another jumped out of his way as he made for the doc's private office.

He was about to enter, when the guard who had been trailing him since he stepped off the elevator now took hold of his arm and forced him to a stop.

The vampire snapped his head around with full monster features and gave the frightened man a thunderous growl. The guard shuddered and recoiled from the platinum-haired beast.

Doctor Crusher appeared in the opening to her office to investigate the disturbance. "Can I help you?" she enquired, unaware Spike was in vamp-mode.

Spike set aside the guard and focused on the doc, suddenly relaxing his demon face. "Hi, Doc. Er...was wonderin' if we could have a private chat?" he asked sheepishly. "If ya got a minute?"

Doctor Crusher frowned, stepped aside, and allowed him to enter. "I suppose I could spare a moment. Please; take a seat."

Spike did, the feeling he had of being out of his environment clear by the way he sat with his knees together, rubbing his hands awkwardly.

The doctor's office occupied a small semi-circular space in the corner of sickbay, just to the left of the doors. The office itself had a wide entranceway and a large window which looked out on main sickbay. By the window, the doc had a curved grey desk with a high-backed chair, and behind this was her own computer wall panel. At the rear of the office was a free-standing workstation. The walls were of the same dull beige and grey of the rest of sickbay, with the same red carpet edged in grey/brown.

Crusher accessed her medical database, and brought over a PADD. She took her seat. "How can I help you, Mr..." She discretely perused over the PADD she held. The silence stretched a little far.

"Spike," he informed her at last. "Just Spike."

She smiled. "How can I be of assistance, Spike?"

He took a deep breath - for its symbolic purpose, rather than the oxygen. "It's about this chip I've got in my head."

Crusher eyed the PADD again. "Yes. It did show up on your medical scan. Though I wasn't sure what to make of it. Initially, I didn't realise it served any purpose. Your brain seems to be dead, after all. But I did catch a rumour that it somehow prevents you from killing people?"

"What you don't know is it's a nasty little bugger," he explained. "Goes off like a bottle rocket if ever I try to hurt anyone. So, ...I was wonderin', y'know, with all these gadgets and technology you've got ... don't suppose you could just ... pop it out of there?"

"Aaah." The doctor discarded the PADD. "Well, ...I'm afraid not. You see, Spike, it would be against all that I stand for. We have certain directives of non-interference. You yourself don't belong in this universe; therefore, I can't use our technology to cure your existing long-term medical problems. It's just not an option."

"I see."

"I'm sorry."

"Bloody ditto." Spike sat there a while, his hopes dashed. He'd truly thought he was finally rid of the damn thing. The idea of forcing her to take it out crossed his mind briefly, before he remembered that he couldn't hurt her. He couldn't hurt /her/.

Suddenly his mind was brought around to the reason he came to see her to begin with. Answers.

"Is there anything else I can help you with while you're here?" she asked sympathetically.

"Now that you mention it," he replied, "there is something I've been tryin' to figure. ...This chip ...it stops me from harmin' people. The non-demon variety. But demons; I can hurt demons. I can bloody-well pulverise demons. Just not regular people."

Crusher nodded, a little uncertainly.

"But, back on that sandpit planet, I kinda...got into a fight."

"I heard about that," she recalled.

"Wasn't my fault," he assured her. "I didn't start it."

"I'm sure."

Spike continued: "Like I said, it was a fight. Not a getting-my-ass-kicked. A /fight/. ...I didn't even think about it, I just went in all fists and fangs like."

Crusher frowned heavy. "Really? And the chip?"

"Not even a tremor," he answered. "Don't get me wrong, they were bloody ugly, but demons they weren't."

"That does raise an interesting point," Crusher said, suddenly making notes on her PADD. "Perhaps the chip is only able to determine between just the two options: 'human' or 'demon'. If so, it may be that it doesn't recognise aliens as human, instead assuming they are demon."

"Yeah, well, that's what I was thinkin' myself," he fibbed. "But the chip doesn't work like that." He searched his memory, and recalled the recent incident with Tara and her family. "It's like last week - this girl, she looked human. Thought she was part demon - that's what her dear-old-Dad told her anyway. So I smacked her one."

Crusher grimaced.

"Turns out she was clean. She looked human, and she was/. But some demons look like regular people. My chip can tell if someone has demon /in them, or not. So... why can I hurt aliens?" he begged. "They're just people, aren't they? Born on diff'rent planets, but still with a soul."

The doctor made the most obvious hypothesis: "The chip might not be able to make that distinction."

"So...what you're saying is... as far as my chip's concerned... all aliens are demons?"

"I can't give you an answer to that without running some detailed tests."

At that moment, Deanna Troi poked her head through the doors. "Beverly? ...This a bad time?"

Crusher looked to Spike and he gave a wave of his hand to signal he didn't mind.

Doctor Crusher invited Troi in and, as the two women discussed their own matters, Spike watched them closely. Specifically the counsellor.

Deanna trailed off slowly as she realised the vampire was eyeing her most oddly.

"You," he said simply with that hunger in his eye.

Troi could not judge the dead man's feelings, but her own told her to be wary. "Me?"

"You're... You're a...a ... What are you?"

"A Betazoid," she replied, feeling more uncomfortable by the second.

Spike's eyes burned for her now. "Right. An /alien/. Not human."

Deanna unconsciously stepped back to the wall. "That's right."

There was a pause. She felt desperate to know his intentions.

Spike sprang from his chair and lunged at Troi viciously. He pinned her to the wall; fangs released, and went in for the kill.

His head exploded with pain. Spike stepped back, clutching his sore skull, turning to Crusher with only desperate pleading now in his eyes.

Deanna, still pinned by a fear and confusion she'd never encountered before, managed to turn her eyes to her so-called friend and squeak: "...Beverly?"

Crusher, fascinated, replied: "It's alright, Deanna." To Spike she said: "Maybe we should take a closer look at that chip?"

He scoffed, still holding his head together. "Y'think?"

*

The bridge of the USS Rutherford was already a flurry of activity when Captain Dave Freeman arrived in the turbolift. Before he even reached his chair, seven people had stopped him for his opinion on various subjects.

He put up his hands and gathered everyone's attention. "First thing's first. Let's get all shuttles with weapons capability prepped for deployment," he instructed. "We're gonna skin them to the bone and remove anything that's not essential for fighting. We need them as light as possible. Any extra speed and manoeuvrability we can get is an improvement." He pointed to his second officer. "Sass - sort out the best pilots we have. I'll need one for every shuttle."

Lt. Swift spun in his seat at Conn. "I'm da best pilot onboard, Cap'n."

"I can't argue with that, Chevva," Dave replied. "That's why I need you steering the Rutherford. This'll be a tight fight and she's a bulky and awkward ship. I need the best at her helm."

Chevva nodded happily.

"Taana," Dave went on, addressing the furry security chief, "pick out your best tactical sharpshooters. I want a top gunner on each shuttle. And I want the shuttles ready to fly within twelve hours."

Lt.Cmdr. Dan Oom, the part-Vulcan Betazoid with a head of styled blond hair and beard, reported: "I've been thinking of a way to boost the Rutherford's shields for greater protection."

Trill first officer, Cmdr. Vaun, observed from his command seat: "If we're stripping the shuttles innards, can't we fit some kind of secondary shield generator?"

Dave considered it. "Sounds plausible," he noted. "Dan?"

The Vulcazoid replied: "Well, I'm sure it can be done. But with the time we have, and without weighing the shuttles down again... the secondary generator would be very small...with limited usage. I couldn't say it would offer much protection. It might stop a phaser blast or two at best."

"Anything's something," the captain concluded. "I'll take whatever's on offer. Dan, Taana - get on that for me. You'll need to construct enough for the Enterprise' shuttles as well as our own."

Gataana and Danil made immediately for the turbolift.

"Dan, soon as you build five, send them right to the Enterprise. They can begin fitting them while you make more. You've got-"

"Less than thirty hours," Dan finished. "I know"

"Everyone," Dave said, regaining their attention. "In the meantime, do what you can to oil the cogs." He moved to the lift and waited a moment for another carriage to arrive.

Commander Vaun frowned. "Where are you going?"

Dave tapped his badge. "Captain to engineering. If you can spare a team, Hoop, have them meet me in my yacht." He entered the lift and stated: "Captain's yacht." He gave Vaun a wink. "The bridge is yours."

Vaun looked about the bridge and came to rest on Commander Romani. "He enjoys this far too much," he said.

*

Onboard both the Rutherford and the Enterprise, crews from every department set to work.

On the latter, La Forge oversaw the prepping of their first shuttlecraft. It was stripped of all scientific equipment but that required for tactical purposes. The transporter was left in place for emergency purposes, yet some redundant systems - long-range molecular imaging sensor clusters, secondary pattern buffer, long-range targeting scanners and the biofilters - were removed for their weight and bulk. Though this diminished its capability and safety, it did leave it functioning. Once the fat was carved from its bones, all remaining systems on the shuttle were re-calibrated to give maximum immediate efficiency. Either these shuttles weren't expected to last very long, or the war was expected to be over swiftly.

Geordi also oversaw the installation of the first of the Rutherford's secondary shield generators. It was a small, lightweight, simple device and, once it was fitted and tested, proved to create only a slight protective field. It was enough to offer a degree of additional shielding, however, if the main generator of the shuttle was damaged.

Once he'd set his crew about preparing the other Enterprise' shuttles and captain's yacht in the same way, he returned to engineering where the remainder of his time would be spent perfecting the performance of the starship engines and devising the greatest level of protection he could apply to the warp core of the Enterprise. He worked closely with Cmdr. Hooper on the Rutherford and, together, they came to some inspiring theories, though half turned out to be impractical or impossible.

As for tactical, with the aid of Ambassador Worf and Chancellor Martok, weapons and shields were boosted to their most effective.

And medical had only to gather the sum of their resources and await the flood of patients.

*

In sickbay, Dr. Crusher was explaining: "It's a very simple device connected to key neural systems by these root-like pathways."

On the main medical viewer, they were looking at a computer image of Spike's 'dead' brain. Nested within the grey matter cells at the heart of it, lay a small piece of technology from which long tentacles reached out into the depths of his cerebrum.

Present were Picard, Troi, Buffy, Willow, Crusher, and Spike.

Beverly pointed out another section of the scan. "It has optical sensors connected to the lateral geniculate nucleus of your thalamus, and a second sensor scanning for a frequency not on any scale I can identify."

"Ooh," said Willow, "spooky-sensor."

The doctor smiled before continuing: "In short; it appears to be receiving mixed messages. Or, in other words, it's confused."

"It's not alone," Buffy complained. "What are you saying?"

"This is a twentieth century device functioning in a twenty-fourth century environment," Crusher outlined. "It pre-dates first contact with alien life. Because most aliens don't look human, the visual sensor is being told 'demon', but the... 'spooky sensor' is recording human - due either to the lack of a 'demon spirit' or the presence of a living soul. ...With only a fraction of a second to make a determination, the chip seems to be...making a guess. Or an informed choice. The chances are; aliens who look human will be judged as human, and those who have a more non-human appearance may be judged as 'demon'."

Deanna, now much calmer, addressed them all: "In my case, the chip functioned perfectly; I don't look like a demon and I have a soul. Therefore I must be human."

The doctor nodded. "I would guess that, the less human an alien appears, the greater the chance that the chip will allow Spike to hurt them."

Spike forgot himself and smiled.

Buffy gave him the Eyes of Death.

"I mean...that's a bad thing," he assured them.

But, as the others put his moment of darkness to one side and moved off, Picard was left with a deep suspicion.

Shortly after, he and Beverly were alone with Spike's brain scan before them.

But Beverly was scanning her captain's face. It bore his introspective expression. "Concerned?" she asked.

Picard thought long and hard before replying. "No. Not anymore."

She gave him a frown.

"Soon I'll be faced with a choice," He explained. "If we succeed in our mission, do I destroy all trace of these 'demon' creatures?"

"A moral dilemma."

"It /was/," he said. "I had my doubts even when Mr. Giles assured me of their inability to renounce their evil ways..."

"But now?"

"I saw the look in his eyes just a moment ago, Beverly." He visibly shivered. "I've never seen anything so disturbing in all my years. I saw the thirst of a soulless monster. And now... now I'm beginning to wonder if my reservations were unfounded."

*

Buffy, in the meantime, had found herself out in the hallway, confronted by the Psychic Shrink.

"Buffy?" Deanna sensed immediately the apprehension the young woman felt. It seemed to her that Buffy was uncomfortable with both her empathic and psychological abilities.

"I have things to do." Buffy hesitated, aware that the counsellor probably knew she was lying. "Actually, that's not true. But... I have things not to do. Excuse me." Buffy's current fear was that Troi could pick up on her fears regarding home, Dawn, her Mom. And she really didn't want to go into that.

"I hear you and Worf had a disagreement over your training," Troi remarked.

"Oh," Buffy said, having expected her to bring up a different topic altogether. "Yeah. The Klingon stuff. I guess it's just not my thing. I mean; what's the point in using mats when they feel like concrete?" she quipped.

Deanna stifled a laugh. That sounded like Worf all right. "Klingons are thick-skinned. In many ways. Maybe that's what's so challenging about them."

"Challenging?" pondered Buffy. "I wouldn't say that. They're just barbarians after all."

"Oh, no. They're certainly not barbarians," Troi assured. "They have incredible depth. For example; honour, duty, truth, loyalty, .../family/... are all foundations of the Klingon code."

'Family?' ...Buffy opened her mouth... "I didn't know that."

Picard exited sickbay and signalled Troi to join him.

"Really?" she replied to the Slayer. "A pity. There's much that can be learned from them. It's a shame you have other things not to do." She smiled and left with the captain, knowing full-well she'd said just the right thing to give Buffy a nudge in the right direction. She wasn't certain why, but she felt compelled to bring the two of them together. Perhaps it was the fire she sensed in them both. The unrelenting warrior spirit. Either that or their damn stubborn arrogance.

*

With a little help from the Enterprise' computer, Buffy found Worf in astrometrics with his Klingon party and a number of security officers. They were gathered around a large table before a huge wall-screen that bore a virtual image of the battlefield ahead. They were plotting tactics and planning strategy in a frenzy when she arrived.

She'd gone against her first instinct and decided to ask Worf for a second chance as a student of Klingon martial arts - chiefly because she needed to occupy herself, and partly because she wanted to learn if the counsellor was right about Klingons.

Buffy entered the room and waited. The assembly seemed so busy, and for the longest time her presence went unnoticed. When she was finally spotted, it was first by the Starfleets. People started looking her way until the Klingons noticed their sudden stillness and turned to see her. The warriors visibly tensed when they saw the Slayer standing by the door.

The room fell quiet.

Buffy felt every eyeball in the room probing her most uncomfortably. "...Hi."

Worf set them all back to work and made his way over to her. "Are you lost?"

"No," replied Buffy, "I...I wanted to ask you a favour. But you seem kinda busy. I'll go."

"That would be wise," he coldly agreed.

She realised she'd done the wrong thing by going there and, rather embarrassed, she decided to return to her room and mope. She paused halfway out. "Actually...I wanted to...apologies. For last night. I...I-"

"Your apology is unnecessary," he replied; her admission of fault giving him cause to acknowledge he was also to blame for that disaster. He had to respect her for that. And for her abilities. Her emotions were so powerful that they had enabled her to slip past his defences so easily on their previous training session. He may very well be able to teach her something about his own path to being a warrior. But, at the same time, he may be able to learn what it is to be a 'Slayer'.

"Wait," he said before she disappeared. "If you wish to meet me in the hall again...in one hour...I would be happy to attempt our training a second time."

Buffy showed a hint of a smile. "One hour," she acknowledged before letting him get back to his work.

*

One hour later, the Slayer was in the exercise hall as planned waiting for the Klingon. She hadn't changed into the sparring uniform as last time. She hoped it wouldn't set them off on the wrong foot, but she preferred her own clothes. She still wore her own black vest and trousers she'd arrived in - cleaned for the fifth time since then.

Worf arrived a few minutes later, also not in the white Karate-gi. Instead he wore his traditional Klingon ambassadorial uniform. Black with grey padding and silver sash; adorned with Klingon symbols. It was almost the same as the uniform all the other Klingons she'd seen were wearing. He was also holding one of those unusual swords she'd seen on the station.

He stepped over to her and presented her with it. "This...is a /bat'leth/," he said with passion. "It is the Klingon Sword of Honour."

She took it in hand and felt its weight.

"The very first bat'leth was formed more than fifteen hundred years ago by Kahless the Unforgettable," Worf said, recounting the tales of old. " Kahless dropped a lock of his own hair into the lava from the Kri'stak volcano, and then he plunged the fiery lock into the lake of Lursor and twisted it to form a blade. After forging the weapon, he used it to defeat the tyrant /Molor/, and in doing so united the Klingon Homeworld."

"Oh," she responded, impressed yet unsure what to make of such a tall tale.

"Mine has been in my family for ten generations," he explained, drawing his from its sheath on his back.

"That doesn't look like hair," she dared to say.

"No. It is composed of baakonite. I have replicated the one you are holding...for you to train with."

Worf had decided, rather than teaching her how to be a Klingon warrior, he would show her the Klingon path to becoming a warrior. The weapons, and the spirit. Then to let her use that knowledge and those methods in her own way. He showed her how it was held - across the inner arm - and how it was gripped. He began by asking her to block his bat'leth with her own.

He swung, she blocked, and they locked swords.

He asked her then what she would do, and she pushed him back and stood ready for him to attack her again.

"No," he said, this time very softly; more helpful and tolerant than before. "Now you have broken the cycle and left yourself too open to attack. You may wish to remain close to me, disallowing me the opportunity to observe your movement clearly. That way I cannot make a passable return strike. Try to change the line of sight - alter your path - confuse your attacker. Make him play by your rules."

She understood. She knew how to do that well enough. So she tried again.

Blocking, she rolled close to him and around until they were back-to-back, and fake-stabbed him.

"Good," he remarked approvingly.

He taught her that, because they were close together, it would be difficult to use powerful blows. "Power does not mean strength," he explained, knowing she had great power for her size. "Strength is a matter of resolve, spirit and will." He taught her where the weak points were found with the blade; the best blows with the least power.

Buffy mentioned that, often, she faces multiple attackers and therefore cannot fight close-range.

Worf growled. "That is when a warrior's skills with a bat'leth shine." He demonstrated how to wield the Sword of Honour - swinging it artfully around in a way to keep multiple opponents at a distance.

She played around with her replicated one. After only a handful of minutes, she was swinging and spinning it wildly, but controlled. Possibly better than Worf. But not correctly.

He was about to complain when he recalled that she must find her own style. So he let it pass.

They sparred with the swords for a long time after.

Eventually they wore each other down. But neither would admit that.

"What about multiple attackers hand-to-hand?" Buffy spurred.

So, he taught her not to simply punch a face here, kick a chest there, but that the most important thing is POWER and ACCURACY. Hit hard in precision spots:

The Klingon /quv bey' 'eDjen/.

NOSE with ball of hand. Between SHOULDERS with axe-handle. FIST, KNEE, KICK right where the base of ribs is - to impact lungs. THROAT.

POWER and ACCURACY.

They practised for hours with and without the blades until they were no longer practising, but truly fighting.

Worf's fist skimmed her ear and she brought up her forearm to push it away. He caught her wrist with the other and made a strike at her gut, but Buffy quickly wrapped her free arm around his. Worf returned the favour, and they were locked.

"You said yesterday that only in battle can you learn who you are," she stated, through pain and clenched teeth.

"In facing death and meeting your end lies honour," he replied, grimacing in her grip. "In facing death and surviving the battle lies both honour AND the enrichment of your spirit."

Buffy broke away, rolled across to her bat'leth, and came up with it resting along her inner arm as Worf had taught her. She raised that arm until one point of the sword was looking to the heavens; her other arm stretched out in a karate pose. "Sounds like a win-win situation." She beckoned him.

"There is no greater honour one can achieve, for oneself or those who follow you, than to die bravely in battle," he said, retrieving his sword and swinging it at her face.

Buffy trapped his blade in the curve of her own. "Slayers are doomed to die fighting."

Worf half-smiled. "Death is your release. Do not fear it; for death in combat is the path to a warrior's afterlife." He tightened their locked swords until they were a hair's breadth apart. "Face it. AIM for it. Take hold of your bat'leth and DRIVE yourself under its wings."

"Actually, that's the part I usually try to avoid." She pushed him back.

Worf steadied himself and came to rest in the pose of the 'Deadly Assassin'. "You fight, yet you fear death. A warrior's heart is at its most resolute when confronting death, and there is no stronger warrior than he who is prepared to die in the fight."

She lowered her weapon. "It's hard...It's /impossible/...not to be afraid. I like living."

"Do not confuse fear with the natural instinct to survive. Ask yourself this: Would you wish to die frail, old; body crippled by age and disease? ...Or with a sword in your hand, and your enemies' blood flowing at your feet?"

"How do you fight the instinct to survive?"

Worf suddenly attacked while her guard was down. She barely blocked in time.

"It is a human instinct. I am KLINGON."

Buffy focused herself again. "So how can I fight my natural instinct to survive?"

She cut into his side, but Worf slid his bat'leth into the path of hers and gripped its handle to halt her.

"Part of you is human, part of you is warrior. Let go of your human principles. Set aside all your preconceptions."

"And then what?"

Worf smiled a rugged snarl. "Let your TRUE nature emerge!"

Worf shoved her back, then tried to kill her.

They fought hard - to the death - but each was too keen of senses to be struck badly. Without pause, they battled.

Worf took a cut to his leg and a smash to his face yet it did not phase him.

Buffy; hair beginning to fall from its tail and pasting against her sweat-covered brow, snarled at him suddenly as she pounded his sword, locked it, and swung it aside - ramming a fierce elbow into his side.

Worf lost his lungs and fell to his knees, gasping. "Yes! ...You are freeing yourself! ...Cast off your insecurities. Release the beast within and FEEL the blood BURN as it flows through your veins."

She then became suddenly self-conscious. The exhaustion hit her then and she was forced to relax.

Worf took advantage of the opening. He gripped his bat'leth and shot it up into her face. She flinched and it missed her nose, catching her in the mouth. She was lifted from her feet and sent slamming into hard floor. The sword flew from her grip. She huffed in exasperation. Feeling with her hand, she found blood on her lips.

Worf stood over her, unapologetic.

"I know," she said. "Let my guard down. My bad." She let out a huff. "But I'm spent."

Secretly, Worf was more than glad to hear that. As soon as he returned to his quarters, he knew he'd collapse in the doorway. To hell with making it to his bed. He found the strength left to help her up. "If I was an enemy, you would be dead," he stated.

She rolled her eyes, then recalled: "Spike once told me that Slayers before me have died because they wanted it."

Worf set his weapon down and relaxed. "You have knowledge of Slayers before you?"

"In books; records. And Spike killed two before I was even born. Back in his chipless days."

"Did they die in battle?"

"They died fighting," Buffy acknowledged, looking at her own hands - her weapons - and how fresh and youthful her skin appeared. "They died young." She tried to look unfazed. "Slayers don't live much passed twenty. Which means my time could be anytime." She thought ahead to the following day's confrontation. "It could be tomorrow."

Then Worf said something that left her mind spinning: "And what tale would you wish to have told about your final actions?"

He left her to gather towels so they could wipe their brows.

*

When Worf returned, he found her standing before one of the great banners that lined the walls. Her eyes were intensely fixed upon it. It was a massive portrait, completely hand-woven; the largest of its kind, bearing the figures of two Klingons locked in combat.

"Is it symbolic?" she asked him. "I mean; does it represent, y'know, the whole 'Klingons are warriors' deal?"

"To some, perhaps," he said. "That is Kahless...and his brother /Morath/. For twelve days and nights they fought each other, because Morath had dishonoured their family. Legend tells us Morath then threw their father's sword into the sea so that Kahless could not claim it. But Kahless was brave and resolute. He held his breath for three days until he found his father's sword. ...When Kahless defeated the tyrant Molor, he founded the Klingon Empire and set the standard for all following generations of Klingons."

"Wow. Your people really do have a rich history. Everything you are... Everything you stand for today... Can be traced right back to that one person. You're part of his warrior lineage." She instantly felt the burden of a great sadness she carried. Even having met the First Slayer, she knew next to nothing about the beginnings of the Slayers. She envied the Klingons to a degree. She too was part of a warrior race - the line of Slayers.

But they had their tales to tell.

She had none.

"You are a warrior," Worf queried. "You must have great stories of your own?"

"I'm the Slayer," she put simply. "I kill monsters. That's why I have these powers."

"But why you? What is your purpose in being... A Slayer?"

She had no answer for him.

"You are THE Slayer? There are no others?"

"'There can be only one'," replied Buffy. "Only there's two," she added. "But that's a whole other piece of the Slayer lineage."

Worf's brow knitted into a frown.

"...It involves me dying and another Slayer being called. Except it wasn't Faith; she's the current Slayer. This one was Kendra, but she was killed; by Spike's ex-squeeze, so now it's just me. Oh, and Faith. But she's a little...cuckoo. Killed a man, serving time in a federal penitentiary. ...And you're stories sound much better than mine."

Worf regarded her for a while, almost attempting a response a couple of times.

Buffy stared at the banner some more. Kahless and his brother. She wondered; would there ever be banners of the Slayer and her sister? ...Her sister. Dawn.

Whenever she thought of Dawn lately, she was filled with a disturbing restlessness. Like Dawn was in desperate need of her protection. Her sister, the Key. But the Key to what? And what kind of trouble could she be in? And what would Buffy need to do to help her? And what about her Mom? Was she really ill? And how bad?... It was beyond frustrating.

If things really were going wrong at home, if she was still there, could she have changed things?

"Do Klingons believe in destiny?"

"A true Klingon will forge his own destiny," he answered.

"That's fine if you know where you want to go."

Worf began to see that Deanna had been correct. Something was certainly troubling the Slayer. "You are tense. Something burdens you."

She shifted but didn't reply.

Worf decided to recount a suitable story to help her uncertainty. "Kahless was burdened deeply by Molor's rule of his people. As one of his faithful Warlords, Kahless was required to collect taxes from them. One fateful morning in the village of M'riiah, he confronted the starving villagers - plagued by years of drought and unable to pay Molor's tax. ...Kahless' orders were strict: Collect the tax or burn the village. ...Kahless could not bring himself to further torture these people and, in a moment of leniency, told the villagers that their tax would be forgotten this time.

It was Molor's son, however, who refused to leave without exacting his father's form of justice. But Kahless' honour would not allow such an atrocity to go unchallenged. The son of Molor was slain at Kahless' hand. In time, so too was the tyrant Molor." He turned to her. "If Kahless had been a weaker man, The Klingon Empire would be nothing more than a dream. In order to progress...burdens must be faced."

Again she shifted, but this time she eventually spoke. "I have dreams sometimes. Prophetic dreams. They usually come true, or help me see what's ahead."

"Indeed this is a great gift. Dreams can be as powerful as a vision. You are lucky to have such a gift. Your Gods have blessed you."

"That's one way to look at it, I guess." She paused, and decided to trust him with some of her thoughts. "Last night was one of the strangest. I remember dreaming I was a bird," she revealed, missing out the Dawn/Riley/Demon-Bitch part. "I think it was an eagle," she said. "It felt like an eagle. Not that I know what it feels like to be an eagle."

"Eagles are a predatory bird," Worf explained with wonder, "honoured in many human religions as a sign of strength and bravery." It was an animal that suited her character, he thought. "It may be your spiritual guide...or your spiritual self."

"I think it was trying to tell me something important. I just can't figure out what." She sighed. "I don't have time to wait for another."

The Klingon considered her plight a moment. "Perhaps you would benefit from a vision quest."

She looked to him hopefully.

"There is a Klingon ritual known as the Rite of MajQa. It takes place in the lava caves of No'Mat. The effect of the intense heat and deep meditation within those caves induces the visions. Often they are profound revelations that effect the path of a Klingon's life." It was his belief that such a quest may help her on her spiritual journey. To learn something about herself, or to learn what course to take.

"I don't suppose this place is on our flight-path?" she jested with defeat.

"It may not have to be," he considered. "Come."

He began to depart the hall and she followed.

"There is time before I must return to planning our attack," he decided.

"Do you think you'll really board his ship?" she asked him.

"We will try."

"I need to be there," she urged, appealing to his sense of honour.

"I will see what can be arranged."

Buffy then asked a question that worried her: "Everything you've been saying about death... You expect to die tomorrow, don't you?"

"We may all die tomorrow."

"I can't accept that."

"And that is your weakness."

The hall was left empty as the doors closed shut.

*

When Cmdr. Riker arrived at the structural integrity field waveguide access hatch on deck 6 to check crew progress, he discovered Lt. Preston and Ensign Logan huddled together at the conduit port talking heatedly under their breath. They were supposed to be creating a temporary junction - connecting to other key systems in case they'd need to instantly route extra power to the integrity field. It was just one of the many shortcuts being built as a back-up.

As Riker approached unseen, however, he caught the Lt. saying:

"You need to stop questioning everything and follow the orders you're set."

"Even when they undermine everything that Starfleet teaches us?" the young ensign quickly responded. "Whoever gave the go-ahead for this 'mission' should be packed-off to Romulus."

"Whoever gave the go-ahead for this mission, Ensign/," Riker boomed sternly, "had a /damn good reason and very little option!"

The young men spun, Ensign Logan almost choking on his tongue at the first instant, before regaining his conviction. "I'm sorry, Commander, if I'm out of line... but I've only been out of the academy for six weeks and I came here to map our galaxy... not to make war. And I can't understand it. ...Just what are we fighting, sir?"

Riker had to admit that the Ensign, barely a man, was only expressing openly what many of the younger officers were feeling. "For all intents and purposes, ...Commander Data - under the influence of a foreign entity," he explained with no further hint of his initial displeasure.

"I read the report, Commander," Logan stated, "but...people are talking...saying crazy things about... about zombies...and monsters. Like the universe has gone mad."

Riker let out a nasal sigh. "First thing I'll say is: I know exactly what you mean. I still have that same confusion. I'm not a believer in the supernatural, Logan, yet I don't know if we'll ever fully explain what we've encountered here. But, what is clear, is that if we fail tomorrow, our time in this universe will end. Our galaxy will cease to exist... and there won't be anyone left to map it."

The young ensign's mouth lay open a while before he added: "Is it true he's got a hundred ships?"

"Almost a hundred shuttles/," Will corrected. "And /one Bird of Prey. Against two Federation starships and a Klingon attack cruiser. We hold the winning hand, Ensign." He laid a firm grip on Logan's shoulder. "Together with the hands of hundreds of expert officers such as yourself...the Enterprise will hold fast."

Ensign Logan nodded his understanding and almost seemed to grow in height. He returned to the conduit with Preston and eagerly got back to work.

Riker, on the other hand, was not so eager. 'The Enterprise will hold fast' he'd said.

He hoped he was not wrong.

*

Buffy arrived at the holodeck on level 8 with Worf, and watched as he set up the necessary program.

When finished, Worf stepped to her side. "It is ready," he told her, and directed the computer: "Computer, run program 'No'Mat'."

The ship's computer chirped. "Program initiated. You may enter when ready."

He offered her the door and, with little idea what she was walking into, she stepped through into the Klingon lava caves of No'Mat.

Buffy found herself in a narrow rocky tunnel. A dull glow from a source deep within the caves lit her surroundings.

Behind them, the doors closed and dissolved. Buffy moved forward, deeper into the passageway. Around them, the rock walls radiated heat, and volcanic ash lay a carpet at her feet and settled on the rock face. She navigated the caves easily, as there was just one possible route to take; leading to the light source, and soon they entered a small area. A circular chamber with Klingon figures circling the walls carved from the rock. Beyond, a red glow could be seen from the lava below and such shocking heat rose from it. In the centre, a fire burned. A fire that was never permitted to die out, burning for hundreds of years in the real caves of No'Mat.

To create the necessary realism for a successful quest, Worf had altered some of the safety levels and instructed the computer to randomly select the time of their session. Therefore, there were already two Klingon figures seated around the fire. One seemed to be coming out of a trance before the other had even got started. They both became aware of Worf's presence. The warriors stood respectfully.

"Ambassador?" said one.

"Leave us, please," Worf instructed. They obeyed and moved off, but Worf stopped the elder Klingon. "See that no one enters here until we are gone."

The old warrior nodded and disappeared into the dark of the tunnel.

Once they were alone, Worf tended to the fire as Buffy circled the chamber, admiring the statues and avoiding the lava pit. Already she was sweating profusely.

"You may wish to change into a MajQa robe," he told her, pointing to a recess by the mouth of the tunnel as he made his way toward it. "This may take some time," he went on, "and there is still much I have to prepare. I will leave you now."

"Wait," she said. "...What do I do?"

"You must sit before the fire," he explained. "Look into it. Search within the flame. Not for answers, but for the /questions/. The heat from below will do the rest. I wish you success." He began to turn...then, as an after-thought, added: "You must watch for your spirit guides. They may take any form. You must heed them and trust them to lead you onto the correct path." With that said, Worf exited the holodeck.

On her own now, Buffy noted her clothes were already soaked with sweat and she did as he had advised and removed them, donning the heavy brown Klingon robe. She sat and, after an awkward few minutes, finally managed to settle and concentrate on the fire as it danced before her.

Minutes passed that seemed to stretch for hours.

Just as everything barring the flame had emptied from her mind, time itself began to stand still. The heat was so overwhelming, her senses had long become numb to it, and sweat had formed a layer of oily skin over her body.

She began to tire. She struggled to keep her eyes from closing and to concentrate. Slowly, dizzy with heat-stroke, unable to resist, she began to drift into sleep...

Then she realised, and snapped her eyes open.

Everything was fire.

It burned before her, around her, into her, through her.

Flashes of déjà vu crossed her vision, like she was experiencing images from her dream. Images blurred by the fire that still burned. Burning into her mind - erupting like a blazing fountain - illuminating her subconscious self - bringing heat and light to the deepest part of her soul - breathing life into it. Life that it rarely experienced so vividly.

Dream flashes hit her again: being in bed, waking to the sound of her alarm, walking out into an empty corridor, the buzzing of the alarm, waking in bed, leaving her room, walking out into an empty corridor-

And suddenly she was there. Back in that corridor. Only; with no idea which section, or even what deck, she was on. She didn't move. She was aware that the door to her right was fixed open. She was also aware that this was her dream, and feared to cast her eyes into that room. But her Slayer curiosity won over, and she did look.

The door led into crew quarters.

Riley was there with a lifeless heart laid in his hand. "I think this is what you want."

Buffy winced, disgusted, but could not turn away. "I don't want that."

Riley still held out the heart. Angel appeared beside him. "It's okay. I said he could take it. I don't need it anymore."

'You saw to that' his voice echoed, though his lips remained still.

Buffy was suddenly aware of Dawn - sitting by the tall curved window - the blonde Demon-Bitch with her - plaiting Dawn's hair!

Buffy couldn't seem to move into the room. "Dawn? What are you-?"

"Shhh," Dawn sounded, a finger to her delicate lips. "Big sis is getting me ready for the special party. Why didn't you tell me it was my birthday?"

Buffy's mouth lay open, her mind racing to fight the confusion of the situation. But there was nothing. No words, and no clear thought. It was a dream. She knew it was a dream, possibly a vision. But it occurred to her that whenever she tried to focus on combating Darkness, she was always distracted by this horror-vision of home. So, she fought her instincts instead... and turned away.

She turned her back on Dawn, on Riley, and on Angel, and left them with that woman.

Her feet led her through the Enterprise, every corridor looking the very copy of the one before.

Until...

She found the android officer.

Data, standing patiently in the corridor wearing his uniform; a black jump-suit with grey ribbed shoulders and yellow ochre polo-neck undershirt.

But she didn't feel fear. Or concern.

"Miss Summers, welcome aboard," offered Data.

"I've been here before," she replied.

"I do not believe so," he assured her, holding a hand out to an adjacent corridor. "Your presence is required in the Between Room immediately."

Buffy wrinkled her nose. "The between room? I've never heard of it. Where is that?"

"Please; allow me to lead the way." And he did.

Buffy following at his heels. "Are you my guide?"

"Only for a moment. We are uncertain as to whether your synaptic relays are sufficiently prepared for certain sensory input at this time," he reported.

"...You're a lot easier to understand when you're evil."

"I am incapable of 'evil', Miss Summers. Though it has been said that my telling of jokes is 'pure hell'." They came to an intersection and Data steered them right. "You must be quite excited."

Buffy struggled to keep to his pace. "Why?"

"Well..." He paused, as though deciding whether to continue. "No one at your level has ever found their way onto this path."

"Are you really the android?"

"Data? No. Only an interpretation."

They reached a locked door.

"Why 'Data'?" she asked.

His reply was cold. "I'm just here to test your resolve, Dear."

'I'm?' Her guard went up. But not soon enough for her. The door opened behind her and Data, dressed now in familiar mining gear, pushed her through with vicious malice.

She fell into dark cloud and passed through it, 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 once again 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 a bone-jarring crunch. Wild figures danced around her, cutting each other down, biting and hacking furiously.

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 tried to move her crippled limbs in a futile effort to react as it reached her with its weapon swinging wildly. The blade arced down with one final movement - about to strike her in the chest.

Then she remembered Worf's words to her: 'A Warrior's heart is at its most resolute when confronting death'. And 'Data's' words: 'I'm just here to test your resolve, Dear'.

"STOP!" she cried aloud with fiery intensity. "My resolve is just fine!"

All about her fell a great silence and stillness. All but for the howl of a distant wind high above the cloud.

She was joined on a cliff-top by a robed man. Or had she joined him? All she knew for sure was that she was now on an outcrop of land high over the ground. To her left, and a little ahead of her, stood a figure in dark robes leaning heavily on a cracked wooden staff.

Buffy turned her attention to the noise of conflict far below her. Even through the heavy winds that shook the ground at her feet, Buffy found herself speaking softly. More amazingly, every word fell clearly on her wind-lashed ears. "What am I seeing?"

"A war," the man's voice echoed. It was a mighty and dignified voice. He did not turn.

Through the mists that veiled the valley below, Buffy could make out very little detail. "A war between who?"

He drew back his hood to reveal an old face; thin featured with deep lines partly hidden by a full beard; his hair long and black with thick streaks of grey. He did not look her way as he spoke: "Do you know whom lay claim to this earth before your species came to be?"

She thought back to Giles' first teachings. "You mean demons?"

"Yes. Demons. The Wild Ones." His solemn face grew yet more overcast. "There came a time when the Lord began to make way in the world for Man. There were many great battles fought between mankind and the demonkind for the world. None more bloody and terrible as those led by /Darkness/."

Buffy's eyes widened as his words, like the high wind, washed over her. She regarded the deep of the gorge below with a new awareness. Words came to her again, as they had on the zombie-station just a day ago. Words that seemed to almost complete a circle of some fouler meaning within her mind.

"Their souls were lost in the mists of malice," she quoted. That, she realised, was what she was seeing below. History. A history that pre-dated all known history. Hundreds of feet below her, below the mists of the valley, men were losing their lives and their very souls to the army of one they knew only as 'Darkness'.

"He's down there?" she asked, knowing the answer. The old man seemed to know her thoughts, as he did not reply to her question.

She studied the man for a moment and realised something. Back when Giles had read the now infamous passage from his old book, she had had a very clear image in her mind of the sorcerer it spoke of. Eerily clear - almost as though she had seen him before - and, although the man before her now had his face turned away from her, he bore that same familiarity. "Are you here to tell me how you stopped him?"

"I am here to help you to understand him," he said simply.

He was the First Sorcerer!

"I'd sooner know how to stop him."

It was then that the Sorcerer turned to her for the first time and locked her in his piercing gaze.

Buffy wanted to look away from him - from eyes that seemed to see right into her - eyes that seemed to understand her, yet punish her unwillingness to understand him. And, for an instant so short Buffy thought her own eyes were playing strange tricks on her, the First Sorcerer flickered almost from sight. In that flicker, she would swear she saw the face of Willow.

"You came here for answers," he stated, gathering her attention once more. "Whether you are ready for them or no, you have a need for them. It is time they were given to you. Though...you have yet to earn the right to bear this knowledge."

"How can I earn the right to knowledge?"

"It is a right you will be expected to achieve before the end."

"Again, I ask; /how/?"

He gave her a faint smile, and looked out across the gorge. He would say no more on whatever feat she must make to earn the rights he has granted her. But he did speak. And she listened to his words with great anticipation.

"This," he cast his hands over the war below, "began in the heavens when the Lord chose to give life to Men. The High-Angel Lucifer did not hold with God's will to hand the world to a new race of mortals. He led an uprising against the Holy Spirit that tore Heaven in two. For his treachery and lack of faith in his God, he was cast into the pits of Hell with much of the demon race and those of the Angels who had followed his revolt."

Buffy frowned, unable to see the connection to present events.

The Sorcerer saw this in her, and went on: "Long before God sent His son unto the world of Man, Lucifer sent forth his own two sons. ...Darkness was one of them. His name ... is /Rhamhal/. Rhamhal of the /Pestihl'nhar/."

At first, she did not ask what that meant. It was shocking enough to finally have a true name for the Evil before them. But, after a time, she could not resist. "Pestihl'nhar?"

"Those whom reside in the Dark Place of Pestilence," he explained.

"Pestilence?" she considered. "As in; they spread disease?"

"No. Pestilence as in; pestilential, troublesome, pestiferous. ...The Hell Dwellers."

She nodded. That made much more sense. "Rhamhal," she uttered thoughtfully.

"With the dark power of Satan within him, his son was free to wreak whatever terror he wished in the name of Hell."

"You said there were two sons," Buffy noted, afraid there was another as evil as Darkness.

"His first son was born to him during his time in Heaven, when his heart was noble and true. The result of his coupling with a beautiful and magical Angel. The Angel of Earth and Nature. But Darkness was conceived in Hell. The result of Satan's union with a spawn of the Underworld. Creating a being of pure evil. ...So strong did his power grow, that he broke free from his physical body to become an Earth-bound spirit."

"You managed to bind him, though? Eventually, I mean."

The Sorcerer's head dropped. "I did bind him. I did not foresee that Man would create a living machine, nor that Man would give human form to an energy as powerful as the Key."

Data and Dawn.

Buffy regarded him for a long while. Something came to mind and she thought again of Satan's other child. "The other son, the one born in Heaven," she asked, remembering the old book described roughly that the Sorcerer was 'A child of Gods that had long since fallen from grace'.

Satan had fallen from grace. "It's you, isn't it? You're the other son?"

He turned to her again, a heavy shadow passed across his aged face.

Yes!

Buffy noted that the men warring below were developed - clothed and armoured, with weapons. She recalled that the First Slayer was not even in possession of language. So she was from long, long before this time. She asked about it: "Where was the current Slayer during all this?"

"Your knowledge of the First Slayer has misled you. She was born in a time far more socially developed than her appearance suggests. The word you would use that best describes the nature of the First in your line would be /Aborigine/."

'Aborigine?' Buffy thought. "I don't think I'd actually use that word."

"She was born not of these lands, but into a tribe of simple people who cared little for technological advancements. She was a predator - hunting with her hands - feasting upon her raw prey. A beast to rival beasts. The embodiment of everything I intended the Slayer to be."

Buffy felt her entire body gasp from her heart to her fingertips. "...Everything you intended the Slayer to be?!"

Their eyes met again. But, this time there was a warmth within his that she had not seen before.

His voice, even in the strong gale, softened. "As I grew old, it became clear to me that my father had discovered a way to ensure that some demons were able to remain in this world. They were feeding on Man. Some mixing blood with their victims."

"Creating vampires," she added.

"Yes. Though the power of magick was beginning to find its way into the hands of some mortals; Wiccans and the like, it was clear that when my death came, there would be no one remaining to guard mankind. I needed to leave behind a legacy. A new breed that would continue on to protect the world from these vampires and their kin. A warrior protector. Where one would fall, another would rise. ...It was with my last breath, and a sense of irony, that I called forth a guardian for the race of Men... in the form of a woman."

"A /girl/," Buffy corrected.

"Yes, well." He seemed to fluster. "It was a difficult spell. And I was dying quite badly at the time."

Buffy found herself stunned. "I can't believe this."

"I do not ask you to," replied the First Sorcerer. "You must trust your own instincts."

Buffy, after a time of deep contemplation, did just that. She trusted what her Slayer-sense told her. "Then it's true. My power is rooted in darkness. In evil."

Oddly, he smiled at her once more. "Not entirely. Do not classify yourself so freely. The power of the Slayers came from /me/. Therefore, it lies in both darkness /and/ in light. You see ...you are the perfect balance between the two. Only that way can you walk in both worlds. Much of your power comes from darkness, but your will to wield it for the good of mankind comes from a place of light and purity."

Buffy felt heartened by that. This man before her - this spirit of old - was the reason she was what she was. He was the answer to it all. He could answer the question she most wanted to know. "Then... you can tell me the meaning of my existence?"

"That has already been made clear to you. Long before now," he said. "You are the protector. Guardian of mortals. To every generation shall be a chosen one. She alone will stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness. She is the Slay-"

"I know what being a Slayer means," She cut in. "...But what about me/? /Buffy/? What's /my purpose? Because I can't believe that my life is just a...a smoke-screen! ...A Clark-Kentish flaky-haircut-and-spectacles disguise to cover up what I am!"

His gaze drifted out to the valley again. "Only you can answer that. Some have lived only to be the Slayer. Such as Kendra, who did not find the need for an identity other than that of the Chosen One: simply 'Kendra'. ...Then there was Faith. One who could find no meaning in her life. Without purpose, she embraced her calling so much so that it consumed her. ...You must determine the meaning to your own existence."

"That doesn't help."

"I know."

Buffy sagged, defeated, yet focused again on the mission. "Why are you telling me all this? So now I know what Darkness is ... Still doesn't help us to stop him."

The Sorcerer flickered again, became Willow, before returning to his solid state. She hadn't imagined it the first time!

"Willow? ...Why do I keep seeing Willow?"

"You have a powerful witch with you. Her strength has been made known to me."

He knew Willow was a Wicca? "You've spoken to the Wiccan Goddess?"

He gave a faint nod. "There has been a communication."

"Willow can help?"

"If she can open the doors, I will find her."

"Doors?" Buffy huffed in frustration. "What doors? Doors to the afterlife? Why do you have to be so metaphorical?"

"That which is taught can be learned, but only by making your own discoveries will you understand."

"Now you're taking the-"

A terrible, piercing scream of unthinkable pain rose from the battlefield and slowly faded along with the life of a mortal man. It gave Buffy a shudder and put a chill in her that the winds had so far not achieved.

Some time passed.

The gale rose and fell.

Buffy finally broke its constant drone: "About how I'm supposed to earn this knowledge again?"

The Sorcerer blinked slowly and replied: "In sharing this knowledge with you, we have shown a great faith in your abilities. This faith must prove justified before the end. I hope you are ready to make the necessary sacrifice."

"Sacrifice?"

The world about her began to lose colour and feeling. She was waking. Quickly, she asked: "If you're both his sons, why are you dead?"

He did not look at her. "I died because I chose to live as a mortal. Without making that choice, I would be forever. As will my brother. His spirit can be bound, but to destroy him he would have to willingly take physical form - to live and die a mortal. He will not make that choice."

"Can't we give him form?"

"There is no power on Earth that can make that choice for him." Now he turned his entire body and faced her completely. His eyes had in them the Devil's darkness. "Be ever careful," he warned. "Understand this: His power is an all-consuming, hypnotic force. There is no one who can resist it. .../No one/."

Buffy felt the vision slipping away from her.

She said one last thing before reality tore her away from that place. Defiantly, she dominated the First Sorcerer within her own gaze. "Yes there /is/."

.../Spike/.

*

Buffy came around to flame dancing before her.

The holo-cave of No'Mat. She was back. She tried to stand, but her body did not respond.

A shuffle sounded close by.

She was not alone.

Her eyes narrowed. Perhaps she was drugged - paralysed. "Who's there?"

A figure appeared beyond the fire. Crouched on hands and knees. Dark-skinned and dirt-covered. Matted hair and painted face...

"The First Slayer?" she gasped.

The ancient spirit mouthed something to her.

"What?...I can't hear-"

"Death is your gift."

...

"...What?" She felt a sudden rush - a pulling sensation - and her eyes opened fast.

Her mind was instantly clear, all weariness and paralysis gone.

The Klingon chamber was quiet and the fire low.

Yet, she was still a tangle of mixed thoughts.

Death is your gift

Her mind threatened to explode, until she found a clear idea to focus on, and she leapt to her feet...

"Willow."