by Rob Sorenson

The first hint of daylight was making it's way across the city as Buffy, Dawn, and Faith quickly made their way out of the stadium. Buffy had spoken with Willow after she'd left with Xander; their next stop was Lincoln Hospital in the South Bronx.

Faith stopped abruptly. "I have to go to the bathroom. You guys want to wait? I might be couple of minutes. The Warwick serves great burritos, but, you know..."

Dawn raised a hand. "Too much information. We got it."

She looked to her sister and back to Faith. "I really feel the need to get to the hospital."

Buffy nodded and addressed Faith.

"We're going to go ahead. You know the name of the place?"

"Yeah. I'll be right behind you."

They traded a long look. Faith broke the stare, turning on her heel and walking quickly back into the stadium.

Buffy continued to stare at her retreating form as Dawn spoke softly.

"Do you think she's going to kill them?"

"Very possibly."

Silence reigned between the Summers sisters.

After a long moment, both turned simultaneously and raised their hands, seeking out yet another early morning taxi.

***************************************************************

Spike was lost in thought, staring into the eyes of the man who led the Watcher's Council. It helped him focus on the tasks that would soon be at hand.

He overheard a footfall making it's way past the doorway and went to check for intruders.

He spotted Faith's dark-clad form making her way into Xander's torture chamber. Sighing inwardly, he followed.

***************************************************************

"Are you family?"

Dawn and Buffy responded to the admitting nurse as one:

"Yes."

"He's in surgery. Waiting room is Level 4, left hand side."

They thanked her and made their way up, running into Willow as the doors slid open. She'd decided to come looking for them.

Buffy reached for her, and Willow finally released the emotion that she'd held down for Xander's sake. After a few minutes, they went to the empty waiting room to talk. Willow began her update.

"All I really know is they're doing exploratory surgery. He has internal bleeding, and the idea is to find the source. The broken leg has been set; Spike and I actually did most of the work for them. That splint works great when the break is so clean."

Dawn spoke up. "They were using something to send electrical charges into him. Could that have some sort of long term effect?"

"I don't really know, Dawn. As far as the people here know, this is a particularly brutal mugging. How would we go about explaining electric shocks?"

No one spoke as they worriedly considered their options.

*****************************************************************

Pierre was weeping disconsolately when Faith entered the room and stood over him silently. She'd surveyed the room, spatters of blood on the walls providing graphic evidence of Xander's ordeal.

An ordeal that the little weasel on the floor had helped to perpetrate. He was pulling lamely at the shackle Dawn had hurriedly attached to his wrist earlier that night.

"Please....please don't kill me."

"Give me a reason not to."

"It was not personal. Just a job."

Faith leaned in close with dangerous eyes.

"A job? You consider this a JOB? You tortured someone I love in this room. If you wanna live, you better give me something better than that."

Pierre was trembling with fear, tears flowing freely. "I have money. How much do you want? I have unlimited access to Council accoun-"

He was cut off by Faith clamping her hand around his windpipe.

"Don't even dream of offering me money again, you son of a bitch."

She released him and he retched. Faith moved back with a disgusted look.

"Please understand...I was simply following orders."

"Heard that song before, mate." Faith turned to face the voice that had come from behind and addressed him.

"Hey."

"What do you want to do?"

Faith realized that Spike was offering her the choice. She stared at Pierre pensively; it was as if she was considering the possibility for the first time.

At last she shook her head slightly.

He gave an almost imperceptible nod, and they both moved toward Pierre. He wailed in terror.

"Please! I'll do anything! Please don't kill me!"

Faith rolled her eyes. "God, he's too pathetic to kill."

Spike's hand reached into his pocket, producing duct tape he'd grabbed from the desk before he left to join her. He tossed it to Faith. She eyed it gratefully and quickly clamped a strip over the keening Watcher's mouth.

"Thank God."

"So now what, Faith?"

She looked at him again. "I'm not sure, exactly."

He gestured to the slumped form of the man Xander had known as Jeeves.

She shrugged. "I don't know what to do with him, either."

His eyes narrowed. She looked confused at his _expression.

"What?"

"You didn't do it?"

"Do what? I just got here."

Spike was rubbing his forehead. "Oh, God."

"Spike, what's the what? We'll interrogate him, I guess."

He stared at her with no _expression.

"Take another look."

She glanced more closely, and froze as realization came upon her. The bridge of his nose was indented at the center of his skull.

Dawn's headbutt had killed him instantly.

Faith slumped against the wall in exhaustion, exchanging helpless expressions with William before speaking in a weary voice.

"Do we tell her?"

"I don't know. It won't be up to us. I can't keep this from Buffy."

Again they exchanged pained expressions.

"Spike, Buffy knows that Dawn did what she had to do. Xander might've been dead right now otherwise."

He simply nodded. "Kill or be killed, take your bloody pick."

She nodded a little too hard in agreement. "Exactly."

Again they shared a long look, as if they were coming to a mutual conclusion.

Pierre was yanking at his chains now, making a panicky effort to break out.

Spike brought his thoughts back to the live prisoner. "I think we should let Froggy go."

He explained what remained of his idea, and he and Faith set to work.

******************************************************************

"Xander Harris?"

The three women stood as one in the waiting room at the mention of his name.

"I'm Dr. Tranh. I operated on Mr. Harris."

As always, Buffy spoke for them.

"Is he going to be ok?"

"We think so, but it's complicated. Come with me, please."

They followed him into the hospital personnel only section, into a spacious room decorated with plaques and a bookcase with more golf trophies than actual reading material. He sat in the executive chair behind the desk and motioned for the three girls to do the same in the comfortable chairs across from him. He steepled his fingers and began to speak.

"There were several internal injuries, but they were relatively minor. He had a laceration in his kidney, and contusions virtually everywhere. He has a mild concussion, a broken leg, and a three cracked ribs. Most curious to me is the aftereffects of massive electric shock. In other words--forgive my language here--'mugging' my ass. "

"Ladies, I was born and raised in Cambodia. Do any of you know who Pol Pot was?"

Willow nodded as the other two shook their heads.

"He was the dictator of my country for many years. His gang--I choose to call them that rather than political party--was known as the Khmer Rouge. On the surface they painted themselves as Communist sympathizers, but in reality they were addicts. Power was all that truly mattered to them, and human suffering was a fix. They murdered thousands and terrorized millions."

"You're looking at one of the very few people who openly criticized the regime and lived to tell about it. Still.....I rarely do. Tell anyone about it, that is. The past belongs where it is. I was interrogated repeatedly by the Santebal--the Khmer's secret police--and remarkably escaped with my life and all my extremities. I think I was considered of use to them because of my medical skills. "

"I was a practicing physician over there during the Vietnam War. After the fall of Saigon, I moved home to Phnom Penh in 1975. In the next four years Pot's regime systematically murdered almost two million people in the name of ideology and racial hatred. It's fair to say that I saw some things that you never want to write your mother about."

He leaned forward as he continued. "I can tell you in no uncertain terms that the poor young man in that recovery room has been systematically tortured. If I may repeat myself: mugged, my ass." He slumped back into his chair and sighed, rubbing his eyes.

"I look at the three of you and see injuries on you all. I walked by the waiting room ten minutes ago and saw a laceration on your cheek"--he nodded toward Buffy--"and I was on the verge of telling the nurse to get you to emergency to stitch it up. I went back to bring you here now and discover that your cut has nearly closed. I've seen a few things in my time regarding fast healing, but never anything resembling that."

His eyes were steady on Buffy's as he finished. "I must know this. Are you going to tell me what really happened here?"

Buffy returned his stare. "No. I'm sorry, but no. Is he going to be ok?"

The doctor lingered on her sad hazel eyes a bit longer before answering.

"Physically, yes. No question. He's a very strong young man. It will take time, of course. Judging by what I've seen, though, I'd call myself cautiously optimistic that he'll be out of here within a week as long as he doesn't push himself too hard. He's been through a lot physically before this happened if his scars are any indication."

"This leads me to my biggest concern: his state of mind. He's in a coma-like state, and I'm not sure why."

You could have heard a pin drop in the office. Buffy found her voice.

"A coma?" The doctor nodded, eyebrows knitted in thought.

"This is merely an educated guess on my part, but as I've said, torture victims aren't new to me. I've treated many....including myself. His concussion is too mild for him to be this far gone. Whatever is causing his state is mental. Note I said coma-like...in fact he's awake in physical terms. I think he registers my presence, but he shows no reaction no matter what I say or do. He simply stares straight ahead.

"This is well beyond any standard case of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. I've never seen anything quite like this state of catatonia."

"Are you sure there's nothing you can tell me?"

Buffy again shook her head. The doctor nodded in defeat, motioning to them in polite dismissal.

"Ok, so we wait and hope."

Dawn turned back to him as they filed out.

"Are you sure there's nothing we can do?"

The doctor smiled sympathetically. "No, I'm sorry. Unless you have some sort of magical way to get inside his head, there's nothing any of us can do until he chooses to come back to us."

Neither Dawn nor the surgeon saw Buffy and Willow's eyes meet.

***************************************************************

Faith emerged from the side door of the stadium, turning to Spike, who had walked with her as far as the doorway, but no further. No need to pointlessly combust.

"You gonna be ok?"

"Yeah, I got it."

"Get some sleep; Pierre's long gone and Travers is secured. Ok?"

"Yes, mother."

She embraced him, squeezing him tightly for a moment before pulling away.

"I'm serious about you sleeping."

He shrugged. "I'll try. No guarantees."

Faith left without another word and caught a cab to Xander.

***************************************************************

Buffy, Dawn and Willow quietly made their way back to the waiting room, relieved and frightened all at once. Xander would live, that much was obvious.

What sort of Xander would meet them once he came out from the other side of his experience? None of them wanted to contemplate life without the man they'd come to depend on so much for so many little things.

Again, they were alone in the room, leaving Dawn free to ask Buffy what had been plaguing her mind from the moment they walked out of the perceptive physician's office.

"If he's conscious, you should feel something right? Or sense, or whatever it is you guys do."

The Slayer shook her head; a dazed _expression crossed over her face.

"I feel nothing. It's as if he's asleep, or knocked out. Well, that or out of range, like when he was first--"

The ringing of Willow's cell phone caused them all to start slightly. Frowning, she checked the caller ID and looked at the others apologetically.

"Guys, I have to take this. I'll be right back."

Buffy watched her leave for a moment, then turned back to Dawn to finish her thought.

"What was I saying?"

"Out of range."

"Right. The thing is, he's right down the hall. I'd know if he were upset or hurt. It's hard enough to describe this link we developed when it's normal--if I can ever call it that. Now, though, all I pick up from him is--"

She paused, trying to find the words.

"You know what the TV looks like when the cable is out? What is that called?"

"White noise?"

"That's it. At least, that's the best way I can convey it."

"Can we help get him back?"

Buffy stared at her for a moment, and finally simply shrugged.

"I don't know."

Willow came back inside.

"Look who I found."

Faith came in behind her, clearly more exhausted from the strain of the last twenty-four hours than anyone, Slayer strength or not.

Buffy addressed the dark headed Slayer as she slumped onto a couch.

"How are things over there?"

"Pretty much taken care of. I told Spike to get some sleep. Travers isn't going anywhere anyway."

"What about those other guys?"

"You mean the bastards that put Xander in here?"

Buffy took a deep breath.

"Those would be the ones."

"Does it matter?"

Silence.

It was Dawn who finally spoke.

"Not to me."

Faith looked carefully at Dawn, wondering just how certain the girl actually was. After a long moment between them, Faith changed the subject to the one that mattered to her most.

"How is he?"

They began to talk, first about Xander's condition, then eventually filling each other in completely regarding the events of the seemingly endless night before, each leaving out certain facts that they felt were best kept to themselves.

Or so they thought.

At last they sat in silence, each coming to a fateful decision.

A decision a certain blonde vampire had come to several hours before.

***************************************************************

It was chilly. Quentin Travers shivered involuntarily from his wheelchair as a brisk wind bit into his face.

Spike stood next to him, looking out into the darkness. Neither had spoken a word in the daylight hours. Now, at the stroke of midnight, he spoke to the Watcher for the first time.

"Mind if I smoke?"

Travers simply stared blankly in response.

"I'll take that as a yes."

The vampire hadn't lit one up in eight months, but he always kept a pack nearby, just in case.

The tobacco shop on River Avenue had provided him with some unfiltered Camels. He took a long, satisfying drag, nearly moaning at the sensation.

Some bad things were just so good. He turned to face Travers and began to speak.

"I've been thinking a lot. All day long actually. I've seen a lot of things in my time. Done a lot of things I'll never be proud of. Still, in the grand scheme of things, I'm really not terribly significant, am I?"

"I'm no mover and shaker. When my demon side was in control of me I rarely had any grand schemes for world domination. I just wanted to live. I wanted to feel that rush vampires get when they snuff out the lives of others. "

"That was my purpose. For the better part of a century, me and Dru went from place to place and took whatever we wanted whenever we pleased. It was a good time. No, scratch that...it was a marvelous time. Feeding on pain is the easiest thing one can do. God knows the world provides plenty of that. In that sense, demons have it easy."

He paused, taking another deep drag and pacing slowly behind his prisoner as he went on, smiling slightly as he warmed to his subject.

"Then I came to Sunnydale. My, how things change. That town was the worst thing that ever happened to me as a demon. Buffy and her friends found ways to torment me time and time again, no matter what I tried. They put me at the end of my rope, and I swung on it for a time until Dru cut me loose."

"I went back to where things started going badly, trying to piece my unlife together by destroying the people who had started the ball rolling downhill. Instead, after a time, something remarkable happened to me. I'm not going to waste breath I don't need trying to explain it to you. Let's leave it like this: Buffy Summers caused me to reject the purpose for which I was sired. No small thing, that."

"So here we stand, a vampire who retrieved his soul of his own accord and a human. I've pretty much laid out the things I've done. So now, I've just gotta know."

He ripped the duct tape of Travers's mouth.

"What's your excuse?"

Travers's eyes flashed in fury.

"Who are you to question me, vampire? My life, and the lives on thousands before me, has been dedicated to the war against your species, and other species like you. Without us, demons would rule the Earth. Do with me what you will, but know this: there were 45 generations of the Travers clan before me in the Council, and that doesn't stop here."

Spike looked at him incredulously, shaking his head.

"Am I supposed to be impressed by that? How many years is 45 generations, about 900 or so? That sounds about right, give or take. That tells me that your clan has hidden behind the skirts of one teenage girl after another for nine centuries. "

"Did the Watcher's Almighty Charter ever allow for those children to be treated with decency and sensitivity? Of course not; why should they? Slayers were a means to an end; thinking of them as living breathing people only makes things more difficult. Best to leave that conscience thing alone and keep our eyes on the prize."

He lit another cigarette with the one he'd just finished and continued in a conversational tone.

"It puts me in mind of the Crusades. Some member of your precious clan must have been around when they happened. At one point, after exhausting able bodied forces, those in charge sent children to fight. Naturally, they did. It was their duty to their God to battle the Evil forces. Children were systematically slaughtered because the leaders desperately wanted to recover a piece of land. A bloody....piece....of ground. "

"Why would these children do this? Why would any surviving parents allow such a thing? Quite simple, really. They were indoctrinated from birth by their leaders. They simply knew no other way to behave. Innocent children died because leaders couldn't stand the fact that the land that they once owned had been taken from them."

"Did anyone bother to ask whether or not their God would be pleased with the slaughter of children? If he was the kind, just God that their Holy Book would have us believe, why would his purported representatives on Earth send his mystical creations to pointless, painful deaths?"

"I'll tell you why. They didn't represent justice of any kind. They represented a need to control those beneath them and reveled in the power of it. Those children--and their parents before them--were told what the consequences would be if they did not willingly give up their lives for their God, and they were promised them a reward in the next life if they did what the church told them to do--or the most dire of consequences if they didn't."

Spike leaned in closer to Travers, pointing to the south.

"A few miles from here a few young men were promised a reward in the next life if they killed thousands of innocents along with themselves. They did this for precisely the same reason that those children did what they did all those years ago. They were indoctrinated. The more things change...."

He lit yet another Camel and continued.

"That is what your precious Council represents to me. You represent the corruption of something that was meant to be noble. You indoctrinated one young girl after another into your belief that they were disposable. If one dies, there will always be another."

"Then one remarkable day in Sunnydale, a few extraordinary people came together and proceeded to change everything."

"Rupert Giles wasn't cut from the same cloth from the rest of you. He resisted his calling; got into some dark mojo that was best avoided. It made him fundamentally different than your average Watcher. When it got down to brass tacks, the traditions and policies that had stood for a thousand years were rubbish to him. What mattered was the mission."

"Buffy could never have been indoctrinated in the way that you wanted her to because Xander and Willow were there. For the first time a Slayer had friends who had the courage to fight with her, and a Watcher who allowed it."

"Evil never had a chance when the good guys stopped following the rules the Council put before them. Instead of an endless cycle of death, we now have the two longest living Slayers in recorded history."

"The power of what they have done brought me into the fold, and I'm proud to be a part of it. Buffy goes a long way toward redeeming my past with one look from those eyes. That's not to say I have an easy time with the things I've done....but then I'm not supposed to. I was given a precious gift to help me along, and that's all I can ask."

Spike had stopped pacing. He now stood in front of a deathly quiet Quentin Travers.

"You can't say we didn't get results. We kicked the everlovin' ass of whatever was put before us, finally driving back Evil itself."

"We know it's not forever, but it will be a long time before forces can be martialed again. Most likely, by that time, everyone in our group will be dead except me."

He paused a moment at that, as if he'd just realized the implications of his statement...and forged on.

"For us--and by extension the world--it meant that we'd done our jobs. It was time for us to go about our lives like normal people, and slay whatever minor evil pops up in the meantime. For all intents and purposes, we'd won. "

"It was long past time for the Scooby Gang to have a season of rest. By God, they'd earned it. Even I'd earned it by then. We had no quarrel with you, though we certainly didn't like what you stood for. Still, though, we planned to go our way while you went yours."

Spike squatted down to eye level with his enemy, eyes every bit as cold as his flesh.

"You couldn't stand it, could you Quentin? You couldn't deal with the fact that your Council was no longer relevant in any real sense. When your purpose was gone, you reacted by trying to destroy those who won your war for you."

"We'd kicked your asses out of the way so we could get on with it, and that was too much for you pompous asses to bear."

"Winning the war never really mattered. Feeling powerful while you watched others fight at your command did."

Spike stood, turning away from Travers and staring into the night, speaking softly.

"All these deep thoughts have been runnin' through me head today. Usually I don't express them this much, but I'm inspired I suppose. "

"When it comes down to it, I'm a simple sort of fellow, really. There is little black and white in this life, but thankfully there are still a few fundamental truths out there. These are mine."

"Growing up, I was deeply attached to my mother."

"As a vampire I was deeply attached to Angelus, Darla and Dru. When the first two left us, I still had Dru to sustain me."

"I've told you already what happened after she went out of the picture; but to reiterate, the people with me now mean more to me than anyone else I've ever known."

He turned and formally addressed Travers.

"My name is Spike. I am a vampire."

"My name is also William. I am a man with a family for whom I would gladly die to protect."

"That is the unvarnished truth."

He again squatted and leaned in close, his face inches apart from the Watcher's scarred face.

"Your people tried to kill my family. You wanted to continue waging your war? All right then, you bloody bastard. You've got one. We've had enough of being attacked. It's your turn to be afraid of us. In the final analysis, Quent, you're a bunch of wealthy humans who haven't a clue what real war is. Compared to the two greatest Slayers of all time, a vampire with a soul, and the world's most powerful Wiccan, you don't have the primeval balls to stand a chance."

Travers found a quavering voice with which to speak.

"You won't do this...not here. There are witnesses everywhere you look. More importantly, if you're truly a follower of Buffy Summers you're quite aware of her annoying moral code involving the killing of human beings."

Spike pulled back a bit; Travers breath was foul. He remained on his haunches and grinned, the smile not reaching his eyes.

"Interesting points. Allow me to respond. Indeed you are correct, this is a most public place."

Spike made a show of looking left to right, nodding at the large numbers of people.

"I have a neat little secret for you about that. I've never been a big fan of magic, but in your case I made an exception. I had a couple of conversations with Willow yesterday, once as I was taking Xander to the car, and once more over her cellphone. She was a little hesitant at first, but when she saw Xander's eyes looking back at her without the slightest hint of recognition, that was enough. You can't possibly conceive of the importance of Xander to us, can you? Well, no matter."

"You and I are only visible and audible to each other right now. To everyone else on this Earth, you and I don't exist. The only witnesses are the Powers That Be, and us. Scream all you like if you don't believe me."

Travers had nothing to say.

"As for your second point about our moral code.....well, there you go putting rules in our mouths again."

Once more Spike moved close.

"I have an announcement to make. The rules about killing humans are temporarily suspended until we track down every last Watcher on this Earth who supported the idea of killing us. Once we do, we will eradicate them all--not out of vengeance, mind you. We kill out of necessity."

"At some point Buffy and Faith will leave this world, and another Slayer--or Slayers, frankly I'm confused about that point--will be called. "

"When this happens, we will have made certain that this poor girl will be greeted by me, and me only."

"We have all the time in the world now, and we will use it wisely. We will use it to make certain that Evil won't get the chances that your corruption allowed."

Spike rose and made his way around to the back of the wheelchair.

"When I was a boy, my Mum used to make me read scriptures. I memorized certain sections. Good thing, too: for the last century or so it's been a bit dodgy to pick a Bible up with all the crucifixes on them."

"The book of Revelations fascinated me. So much is literal in the Bible, but that particular area is terrifying. The visions are poetic in their terrible beauty. A favorite verse of mine goes something like this."

He leaned in and whispered into Travers's ear from behind.

"And when he had opened the fourth seal I heard the voice of the fourth beast say ''Come and see!' And I looked and behold! A Pale Horse, and the name that sat on him was Death."

He leaned over so that Travers could look into his eyes.

"Tell me, Travers. Do I look pale to you?"

He snapped his neck with one fluid motion of his arms, quickly following up by lifting the weighted-down wheelchair and flinging it over the side.

Travers sailed into the night, down to the river beneath the Triborough Bridge.

The dead Watcher's face was facing up toward Spike, cold blue eyes opened and mildly accusatory.

Spike took one final drag on his cigarette and flipped it toward the first vanquished enemy in the Scooby Gang's new war.

He stood staring for a moment as Travers's body slipped out of sight into the dark water. He nodded to himself and started the long walk back to the Bronx, tattered black duster billowing gently behind him in the cool New York breeze.

************************* The End **************************