by Rob Sorenson

New York City was more than just a city; it was a world unto itself in an area of a few mere square miles. Nowhere else on the planet could compare with the sheer majesty of it's diversity. People had emigrated from all corners of the globe to these five boroughs, and by doing so had played a major part in carving out the tortured, imperfect, yet somehow still beautiful soul that was America. For all its enormity, Manhattan was but a microcosm of everything good and bad about the United States. Cultures blended throughout, for the most part unconsciously; Italians, Jews, African-Americans, Irish, Arabs, Russians, Puerto Ricans, Chinese...they worked together in widely varied occupations, had sent their children to the same schools. They catered to one another's desires, providing gloriously different things to nourish the body and soul: music, art, food, theatre, sports, fashion...all of which gave, to the unjaundiced eye, an appearance of the ideal society: a cohesive whole, accepting and embracing one another's unique qualities while providing insight into each other's similarities. Unfortunately the reality was sobering.

To a great degree, once it was time to go to the comfort and stability of their own personal space, the people of this huge city retreated to their own racially divided neighborhoods. The bloodiest moments in this city's history were a result of pointless hatred between people who were destined to live together. Therefore, instead of having the courage to overcome the doubts instilled by centuries of ancestral fear and ignorance they simply separated, with clear demarcation lines between blocks. They walked amongst each other, but they went home apart. It's a cruel fact of life that the best traits of humanity only tend to show themselves in the worst of circumstances...and then only for a brief, shining moment amid tears of grief. The most jaded of humans let down their emotional guard and allow themselves to see one another at their core, and something approaching mutual understanding is reached, if only temporarily.

New York City is many different things to many different people, but if there is one unifying quality, one shared ray of hope for the world, it's their sense of truth. Those born and raised in the city share a bond, a sense of survival that outsiders perceive as arrogance. Native New Yorkers almost invariably speak their minds, walking (often straddling) that thin line between refreshing honesty and outright rudeness, though to each other it's simply recognized as normal discourse. Put in another way, they speak the truth as they see it without regard to consequences. No one is required to agree--in fact loud disagreement is expected. If humanity is destined to share a peaceful future, it must be accompanied by truth, no matter how painful it is to hear it.

Quentin Travers hated the place and much of what it represented. Order was his passion and this monstrosity of a city was anything but orderly. He'd barely managed to survive the explosion of the Watcher's Council headquarters in London, and would forever bear the physical scars. His face had been severely burned, and though a tremendous amount of skin grafting had saved him, it couldn't prevent the scar tissue on his cheeks and forehead, and it gave his face a misshapen quality. He no longer had use of his left hand due to its irreparable damage due to flying shrapnel, and his hip had been shattered by a bookcase that had nearly crushed him. Interestingly this bookcase was also responsible for saving his life, shielding him just enough from the intense heat to survive and be pulled from the wreckage once the fire was under control. He'd never felt such pain in his life, and the psychological ramifications of his ordeal we're minor in comparison; still they were critical to what was to come.

There is a fine line between ruthless arrogance and madness, and Travers had made his way across it on that fateful day. The Watcher's Council of Elders had all been killed instantly, with the sole exception of Travers himself. This left the still enormously wealthy and powerful group under the sole direction of a brilliant and dangerous psychotic. He'd come to a decision in his hospital bed, suffering in a morphine-induced haze. That decision was to dedicate his life to restoring order, restoring balance between the forces of Evil and the Council, by any means necessary. The moral compass of Travers was never pointing anywhere near north as it was, and his injuries and resulting sense of impotent rage had, in effect, caused him to throw it out of his life altogether.

He'd had several preferable choices to relocate the Council's headquarters, but he'd chosen New York for it's cosmopolitan nature and reasonably easy access to rather unsavory groups who had dealt with the Council previously. As an added attraction the Council had long owned property in the city and was easily converted. Travers stepped out of the Manhattan evening chill and into the lobby of the Chrysler building. He entered the elevator and pulled out a device that had the look of a television remote control. He pressed a button, and simply said "Travers." Immediately the specially designed voice-recognition unit responded and the elevator moved down, below all other known parking garages and basements. If one didn't possess the unit with the corresponding voice of the Watcher assigned to that unit, a fatal level of voltage was generated through the device, immediately electrocuting anyone attempting to subvert Council security.

The lone remaining Elder took a deep breath, preparing himself for the meeting to come as the elevator slid to a stop. He stepped into a massive conference room that had the look of an underground bunker, which is precisely what it had been. The Cold War had resulted in some fascinating new uses for the taxpayer dollars of the U.S., and one of the lesser known projects was the secret placement of bunkers beneath buildings in major cities to protect the most important of officials in the event of a nuclear strike. It had been a simple matter for Travers to procure it; he simply made reference to a report in his possession that confirmed the presence of the Initiative in Sunnydale in the years 1999-2001. His informational kidnapping had a simple ransom demand: unlimited usage of this space free of charge and immune from scrutiny, which from the government's perspective was a small price to pay.

He walked past the assembled surviving Watchers. They were a diverse group ethnically, befitting both the international nature of the organization and the city above, which they now claimed as their headquarters. Travers cleared his throat and limped to the front of the room, ignoring the internal screaming of his still mending hip.

"Gentlemen, we are just minutes away from beginning phase one of our plan to restore the balance of the earth. Details had not been shared with you as of yet due to security precautions, but I'd assume you were aware of our targets. Please allow me to give you a brief overview of them individually. Lights, please?" The room immediately dimmed as he motioned to the rear of them room toward the slide projector. "Robson, if you please."

A photo of a beautiful blonde lit up half of the far wall of the room. "Subject: Buffy Summers. One of two Slayers currently called, operating in the city of Sunnydale. I'm sure she requires no lengthy introduction, but I want to reinforce the fact that she is now officially the longest lived Slayer in the Watcher's Council recorded history...even when her brief period of death is factored into the equation. She is the unquestioned leader of our target group. He motioned to Robson to continue, and the slide changed.

"Subject Number 2: Faith. There is no recorded last name for this Slayer due to her questionable background. She is as unique as Summers, but in an entirely different way. We observed her earliest teenage years when she was a simple street urchin, performing...ahem...carnal acts, often for nothing more than a bowl of soup. She is therefore equal parts dangerous and unpredictable."

Robson shook his head. Not for the first time he wondered what sort of people watched someone destined to be chosen debase herself without doing the proper thing and helping her. Considering her vital importance to the world one would think she should get a decent education and home-life.

"Robson, are you with us?"

He looked up at the cold blue eyes of Travers. "Sorry sir," he mumbled and moved on to the next slide.

"Subject 3: Willow Rosenberg. This is a fascinating case. A girl with intelligence that rivals the world's finest scientists. We have researched her very carefully and have discovered that she has been secretly approached by the federal government to work in their technological weaponry division. She speaks seven languages fluently, holds three bachelor's degrees and is a member of the Mensa board of directors. She is also one of the most powerful Wiccans on the planet, and is a dedicated friend and follower of Buffy Summers. It goes without saying that this young woman is a priceless asset to that team, and when you combine her fierce intelligence with her natural magical skills she is in fact the most dangerous." He nodded once again to Robson.

"Subject 4: William the Bloody, aka Spike. Another character who requires no lengthy introduction. 121 years of sadistic destruction of lives, 2 years of inability to hurt humans and, most recently, 18 months in a romantic entanglement with Buffy Summers. Thanks to the efforts of our African contingent," he said as he nodded to the Nigerian and Kenyan Watchers present, "we have become aware that he has restored his soul. Prior to his siring he was known as--please forgive the rather uncouth term--something of a poofter. It is unknown whether or not the restoration of his human feeling has made him as weak and ineffectual as his human self, but at this stage it's dangerous to assume. His reputation precedes him and we must proceed with cautious optimism."

Travers motioned one last time. When the picture appeared he shook his head slightly and sighed. It wasn't the greatest pictorial day of Xander's life; they were using his goofy high school yearbook picture taken during Homecoming week. "Lastly we come to subject 5: Alexander Harris, known to his few friends as Xander. Frankly, there are no qualities that we have discovered that make him of any value. Clearly, however, he is important to them, and intelligence reports confirm that he currently lives in the Summer's home and is romantically linked to Faith. This is the focus of our plan, and he represents the Achilles heel of this group." He motioned for the lights to be turned back on. Robson was raising his hand. Travers didn't care for the interruption, but decided to appear magnanimous before the assembly. "Yes, Robson?"

"Sir, I'm clear on the general aspects of the plan. We want to lure the team out of Sunnydale into unfamiliar territory and neutralize them. With all due respect, this group is the most impressive team I've ever witnessed. They've defeated Master Vampires, Hell-Gods, Pure Demons, and they've even beaten back the First Evil itself. What can we possibly do to achieve our goal that hasn't been tried?" Travers appeared to be contemplating how to respond, and finally smiled benevolently.

"Allow me to show you."

The false bookcase along the side of the conference room swung in, and Travers' handpicked destroyers walked into the room. Robson's face paled; his mouth hung open, completely slack. He found his voice.

"Dear Lord, sir. What have you done?"

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

Xander and Buffy stood at the open door of their house as Willow seethed at them from outside. After a long pause Xander spoke. "Willow, there was never a good time to talk about this with you, and I confess I was a little afraid."

The wicca's eyes were slits. "I'll just bet, Xander. I mean, how were you going to tell me?" She mimicked Xander's voice. "Oh, by the way Wills, I'm boffing somebody you hate. Ho ho ho. Have a Twinkie."

Buffy timidly spoke up. "Willow--"

"You shut up. I'll deal with you later." Buffy blinked in surprise. Xander's eyes flashed.

"You don't have to talk to Buffy that way. It's not her fault."

Willow laughed. "Oh, Xander, I know that. It's definitely your fault. Hey, it's your history. You only go to bed with freaks and ex-demons." No one spoke for a moment, but Buffy was feeling a heavy wave of emotion from Xander, and it made her feel slightly woozy. Xander himself was showing no visible facial _expression at all. <God, he's tough,> Buffy thought. Still, she was worried.

Xander spoke in a low, controlled voice. "Wills, I know you're upset and I don't blame you, so I'm going to ignore the fact that you just attacked Anya. All I ask is that you let me explain. Faith has changed and she means a lot to me." Willow snorted.

"She's a killer, Xander. She tried to kill all of us. Now a couple of years down the road she's suddenly the girl for you? God, you men are so weak. She probably gives it up so easily you don't even have to treat her nicely." Buffy backed into the wall and braced herself there. Xander's emotions were rapidly approaching tsunami range, and Buffy, strong as she was physically, had never felt this overwhelmed inside herself. She was loath to admit it, but the Slayer was scared right now.

Xander continued speaking calmly. "Willow, it means so much more to me than that. Please come in and sit down and we can talk about this."

Faith popped her head into the room from around the corner. "Baby, your lasagna's getting...cold..." she looked around and saw three intense faces, especially from outside. "Red, I didn't know you were coming." Willow lost it.

"My name is Willow. W-I-L-L-O-W!! Get it right! Now get out of here!"

Buffy desperately spoke up. "Willow, that's enough! Stop this."

Willow's eyes darted wildly from Faith to Xander. "So Xander, let's analyze this for a moment, shall we? It seems your problems with women are getting worse and worse. First, you fell in love with Buffy, who didn't even remotely return your feelings. Then you started dating Cordy, who was the most selfish snot on the planet. Then you fooled with me for a few minutes. Next, you hooked up with a vengeance demon that you didn't have the guts to marry, so...why not shoot the moon? Just go as far down the line as you can and start sleeping with a WHORE!!"

Silence reigned. Buffy slowly slid down the wall against the stairs. Xander's eyes were inhuman as he advanced toward Willow. The red-headed Wiccan could've set fire to Xander if she wanted to, but when she looked in his eyes at this moment she involuntarily backed up two steps. He got within 3 feet of her and raised his hand to strike her...and stopped. Memories of his father's beatings flashed through his mind as they often had over the years. In this split second of rage, he saw his own face superimposed over his father in his mind's eye. It appeared he'd become his father's son after all. He redirected his fist into Buffy's wall, making an indentation. He stared down at the floor, breathing hard. He finally broke into a run past Willow and down the street. Faith moved as if to run after him, but Buffy was able to rise up and stop her. "Now isn't the time Faith. He has to calm down a little."

She turned to Willow, eyes cold. "You need to go home. It's not safe for you here at the moment...from either of us. I'll talk to you later, ok?" Willow turned and walked dazedly into the night.

- End Chapter Five -