Maybe Wesley....glasses....but it feels Calebish to me.

Hmmm.

Too bad that Dru couldn't have done the same.

My gut suspicion is that any potential that was already dead and vamped din't get activated. But still.... Hmmm....

It's funny, everyone's speculating about one thing, when I can see at least two other equally pressing questions to be asking. Hmmm. Maybe I need to expand in some areas...

I think it's the mayor.

bounces

Is it? Is it? But I hope Faith isn't really Bad Girl all over again, because I enjoyed her character arc in the show and making her bad again...well, we'll see. I trust Victor. Yes.

Fay!

t tracking Fay through the threads is fun!

Maybe Wesley

This was my first thought.

Hey, Fay, how *you* doin'.

Part Fifteen: Dreams of cities

Justine stirred for a moment, and pulled her lover close to her. He seemed so fragile laying there, his brow furrowed, as though dreaming. She kissed him lightly, pulled him close, and then, she too fell asleep.

In her dream, she was in the shadows of the city again, the night bathing everything as time stood still for her, her senses extending outward for her prey, stirring in the darkness below. She swooped downward when she saw it move, it’s monstrous form buckling under the weight of her attack. When time snapped back into place, she could see the monster’s slight frame, and without mercy, she slit its throat. Somewhere, in the distance, she heard a baby cry, but she couldn’t see from where.

Oz slept fitfully, the beast digging its way through his skin, placated briefly by the touch of the woman beside him. In her arms, he dreamed of dense woods in winter, of running for miles after the scent of blood drifting on the breeze. The moon cast a dim blue light across the forest. He felt the power of his muscles unrestrained in the wild. The blood smelled familiar.

In her dream, Amy was in the center of an alien city that seemed to stretch for infinity in all directions, as lifeless as pebbles. There was no breeze against her skin, and what light there was seemed to come from nowhere in particular. No orb shined in the sky. No stars.

“Choose a side,” said a voice, in almost polite whispers. She’d heard that voice before, and like she’d done before, she ran until her body forced her to stop.

And Ethan didn’t sleep. Instead, he stared at the leaves at the bottom of his teacup. The soldiers above permitted him no weapons, but then, he didn’t need them. He blew out the candle on his night stand, closed his eyes and folded his legs, his fingers resting on his knees. He watched time bend and stretch, like putty. He watched the beast emerge from frail flesh. He heard the voice of evil whisper on the wind, and then his eyes snapped open, and at last he understood.

“For these things only die in flesh,” he said, in a voice that was not his own, and no reckoning by man shall bind them to the shadow realms”

“And what was sundered by the swords of heroes,” said another voice, across the darkness from him, “must be bound by unclean hands.”

Ethan skittered away from the voice, desperately seeking to reach the lamp.

A thin, dark man emerged from the shadows. Ethan didn’t recognize him.

“Hello, Ethan,” said the man, his voice low and lilting. “It’s time we two spoke.”

Ahhhhh!

Thin, dark, unknown to Ethan--Wesley?

Thin, dark, unknown to Ethan--Wesley?

Not saying.

In the City
Part Sixteen: The kindness of monsters

Rupert Giles sat behind his oaken desk piled with papers and nursed a glass of Scotch. It killed him to turn a deaf ear to Riley Finn’s troubles—he had issues with the lad, certainly, but he still quite cared about him, as he cared about all of the young people who’d come under his watch over the years. So many gone now: Cordelia Chase, Tara Maclay, Anya Jenkins.

He smiled a bit as that last name crossed his thoughts … he’d gotten rather adjusted to thinking of her as a young woman. But then, none of the monsters he dealt with regularly seemed so … monstrous … when you spoke to them nearly every day. Not even Angel. Not even Spike.

Buffy knew he was hiding something, but then, he made little effort to hide that fact. He knew that she knew that he was no longer of the habit of concealing things without reason. Still, she was anxious about what was happening in Los Angeles, and Faith and Willow were missing. He had every resource at his disposal searching for them, but he knew that he’d not find them without turning his eye toward Los Angeles. And what then? Did he dare to break his word?

“It’s hard, ain’t it?” said a woman’s voice. Startled, Giles looked up to see Samantha Finn standing in his office. Her face worn with care, but still looking every inch the secret agent she had in their earlier meetings. “I didn’t hear you enter,” said Giles, pouring Samantha a glass. She smiled a worn smile and accepted, sipping lightly.

“No one ever does,” she said. “This must be Hell for her,” Giles thought. She was a lot like Buffy, actually. That didn’t surprise him.

“Yes, well, I’m glad you’re here. Have you had any contact with your husband’s team?”

“None. Have you found your missing people?”

“No.”

The two sipped in silence. If he let himself, it was easy for him to write off most of those in the most direct way of harm—Ethan Rayne, particularly, had caused him no end of trouble over the years. But Samantha Finn’s presence here in London, her forced exile away from her husband, served as a grim reminder of the stakes in front of them, and that their futures rested on the shoulders of Riley Finn, Daniel Osbourne, and a hastily assembled group of people who, mostly, had spent time trying to kill either himself or people he cared about.

“To monsters,” he toasted, Samantha clinking his glass cautiously. “They say God has a reason for everything under the sun. Perhaps then monsters, too, have their place.”

Let’s hope,” said Samantha. “Let’s hope.”

You know, this thing is shaping up to be longer than I'd planned.