Amy's mother was named Catherine Madison.

Catherine Madison. Got it.

Will tackle this one later on. I'm thinking, short, mean and (as Fay would put) darker than the inside of a cat.

This doesn't make me want to write a conversation with a dead person -- it makes me want to write a G/X/A threesome. Really.

I'd enjoy reading that. Really. So you go right ahead with that. Really.

Have we seen vampires shed tears?

Spike has cried.

Was that KRZY!Spike this season? Why can't I remember?

He cried during Lover's Walk and again during The Gift. How could you forget his precious, precious tears in that scene?

I only remember his body language from The Gift. I will rewatch Lover's Walk, though, to re-familiarise myself with them.

There were tears in The Gift and I'm quite sure that he cried with Joyce during Lover's Walk.

And did he cry when he staked his mother?

Here we go. Turned out I didn't need her name after all.

--- Trophy

They say a prisoner loses track of their time in the cage.

They say wrong. I know how long I've been here, down to the second.

Too many days, too many moments broken down into sharp bright sections of images, passing through the halls of the high school. I used to stalk these halls; I used to own them. I was all leg and flash, all pompoms and killer quads and a dark smile. I was a lateen sail of a girl, moving down the river of team chants. I was the base of the pyramid, and its crown.

They say a prisoner forgets the faces of those who locked them up.

They say wrong. I could never forget those faces, especially the one: Amy. Starved and sweated for her existence, gave up my power and my health, for that puling, crying, milky bundle of need and lassitude. She was lazy, sloppy, no power and no kinetics. She took my youth, my strength, my movement. All she wanted was Daddy, and brownies.

And how could I forget, when I see a hundred imprints of her, passing by this glass case? A hundred imprints, a thousand, a bunch of Amys, all of them.

Once, the world was mine. Then I was imprisoned, doomed to dance in place, shrivelled tight and small and hungry, dear Hecate I'm so hungry, for blood and vigour and a moment, just one single damned moment, of having my youth and power back again. What I wouldn't give to have air in my lungs, to draw in my breath, and cheer.

They say you only die once. They're idiots.

I died once, when Buffy gave my spell back at me, and pushed me into this tiny moulded body. I died twice, when the school was destroyed, again by Buffy - she used explosives that time. The pain was unimaginable; it left me deaf, my tiny shrunken eardrums burst, and I screamed, but there was no one to hear me.

I'm about to die again. Again, this is Buffy doing it. The Slayer, slaying me, over and over and over.

There is sun coming through, not sunlight but solar power, the energy of the star, burning flesh, scouring life away. I was deaf; now I'll be blind. I wonder if I'll actually die this time, my own curse broken, free of this statue, this trophy case, free to pop out into some howling void of nonexistence, like a dead light bulb?

They say no one really wants to die.

They say wrong.

• * *

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