Erika, brilliant. That's just amazing.

I believe the council, or giles, or someone said that was the reason the council was so cold, the deaths of the slayers, but I wasn't sold on it. It wasn't a good enough explanation for their actions, and it's not now, but... it's a lot more believable now.

You liked the Briscoe take on the destiny thing.

This:

But he’d fought a lot of good fights and lost. And thanks to sobriety, he could remember them all. Ain’t clean living grand?

My favorite line. I was nodding along with him.

Thanks. Dude,I'm thirty and all ready to shake my head and say "Kids. They just don't know." This is wrong, on some level.

Hee! and I'm 40, so I'm shaking my head at you and saying... Okay, not really *g*

Somehow I missed a step. And the memo that I'm not homicide. Or Jewish. Isn't there supposed to be some optimistic youthful phase in here, someplace, you know? Between insecure teenager and beat-up and jaded? And the voices in my head say "Yeah. My first marriage."

I don't think some of us get optimistic and youthful. I think the ones who do get it require extra, so they suck it out of those of us who didn't hold on to it when there was a chance...or something.

Could be a conspiracy...

Mmmmkay, here it is: Oz/Ethan for the Ozficathon. (One way I've found to participate in challenges I've missed the deadline for is to offer my services as a backup writer. I've never cared much about the stories written for me end; these challenges were always about me writing.)

Failed Names

It is a strange thing, to walk into the hallway of your hotel room at half-past midnight and see the mirrored image of another figure with shadowed eyes. He tips his head at you and pushes into his room, and you blink for a moment before doing the same.

At six in the morning you wake up, the warm crest of fear rising in you like it hadn't in years, and you slide from your uncomfortable bed to crouch at the door, listening to the muffled shouts and loud noises coming from down the hall. Your curiosity wins over your instinct for self-preservation, and truth be told you've been far less cautious with your own life since you lost a concrete reason to keep it from harm.

The door swings open with a low creak, and you peer around the corner: you can see a dark sliver of something that has the distinct odor of inhumanity, and the clear profile of the man you encountered earlier in the hall. He is harsh and angular, his pale face drawn even more in the flickering light of the fluorescent bulbs, and a twisted smirk crosses his face in a bare parody of a smile. You cannot remember the last time you smiled.

It is seven when the thing finally leaves, delivering a sharp blow to the side of the man's head before he turns and exits into something with a vague whooshing noise. The man falls to the floor, his hand uselessly cradling his head, and you wrench yourself from your crouch against the door to help him up.

His eyes are glazed when they fall on you, rolling backwards as you heft him up with strength that does not now wane with your fickle mistress, and your keen ears hear "I know your face," even between the thick mumble of inelegant lips.

The thought makes you shudder with fear; you have spent years of your life ensuring that no one might say that. But your desire to help others is well ingrained upon you now, and you pull him into his hotel room. When you shove him onto the bed, his shirt rides up and you remember there was a time when you would have recoiled at the sight of deep, solid scars marking lines across his torso. He is older than you by many, many years, and you wonder how he could have survived such treatment. You remember the marks on your own body, though, and it becomes less of a question.

As he rolls over and buries his head in a scratchy pillow, you think there must be a sign on your shirt saying, "Sunnydale Refugee." Running from there for so long has made it even moreso a part of your identity, as if fleeing has made it more omnipresent than living there ever was. You think there must be a look about certain people, something that identifies them as changed by the nature of the small town, something that only others who've lived there can recognize.

When you think that, you ease yourself into the bulky chair by the man's head. In the morning, there will be questions.

It’s Only Rock ‘N’ Roll, Part One

Hamburg, Germany, 1960—“You’re a dead man walking, mate,” said the drunken Englishman on the opposite side of the table.

Mere hours ago, Spike had shadowed a young German girl and her lover into a deserted alleyway. The pair was stumbling pissed, and brimming to overflowing with a passion invoked by…something. He watched in fascination as the girl fumbled for the drunk bloke’s belt, their lips pressed hungrily against each other’s, his hands pawing clumsily beneath her blouse.

It was breathtaking, and their quick, brutal death made it art.

He wiped the blood from his face, and turned his attention to the clanging din erupting from the club. Silently, he slid in the front door, tossing a fiver nicked from the dead boy’s pocket at the doorman. No one stopped him. No one ever did.

“The best things in life are free…but you can save it for the birds and bees… I want mo-oo-oo-ney. That’s what I want.”

Spike snickered at that, and signaled the barkeep for a beer. When the band finished, he ordered them a round.

“Thanks, mate” said one, an intense young man named John—from Liverpool, by the accent.

“All right, then,” said Spike. “Good to hear the Queen’s bloody English. But what was that you were playing?”

Another lad—name of Stu, and genial enough—gave Spike a quizzical look.

“That was rock ‘n’ roll, mate,” he said. “Where’ve you been?”

Spike wondered the same.

“Asia, Russia. All over, really,” he said. “Haven’t been back in Western Europe for…well, awhile. Place has changed.”

“Bloody right,” said Stu. “Look at ‘em,” he said, pointing to the dwindling crowd. “Some of them, you’d think they’d never been alive until the music started playing.”

John huffed and rolled his eyes.

“They bloody well weren’t,” he said. “Not a one of them. And now they’re going home to their coffins, and in the morning they’ll shake off their hangovers and go back to their quiet little zombie lives.”

“Ease off,” said one of the lads—a boyish looking one named Paul. “You’re too hard on people, sometimes, John.”

“The Hell I am,” said John. “They’re the living dead, every one of ‘em.” He turned toward Spike. “You, too, mate. I can see it on your face. You’re a dead man walking, mate.

“You need music to fill that hole in your soul, man. I can see it.”

Spike sipped his beer, and pondered.