Buffy the Vampire Slayer The Last One By 22 Claws

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January 21, 2013 Cleveland, Ohio Alcoholics Anonymous, Flat Irons Meeting 9:47 AM

Clive Travers surveys the wretchedness. It’s the Monday morning meeting. So, there are several that slipped up over the weekend. Lots of crying. Lots of smoking. Not a spot of proper tea to be had. Crying, cigarettes, and coffee. It’s kind of the theme. The building’s very old and in the poorest part of town. The paint on the cinder block walls is cigarette smoke yellow. The seats are probably from some long ago high school. Almost, but not quite, adult size. They’re arranged in a circle. About thirty. “I’m glad I’m sober." Some of them declare when they finish their words. Clive Travers finds that hard to believe. It’s been forty-two nerve-wracking days since he last took a drink. He can’t imagine being more miserable. Sitting among these poor Americans. Listening to the tawdry details of their train-wrecked lives, he can’t imagine how anyone is helped by this experience. He’s never wanted a drink more. He checks his watch. 9:48. Damn. Before long, it’s Clive’s turn to speak. In a very decent Cleveland, Ohio American accent, he begins: "Um... hello, my name is John, and I’m an alcoholic." The group responds with a chorus of "Hi John." "It’s been six weeks since my last drink." Clive begins. There are mutterings of congratulation and support. Clive continues. "This is my first meeting." He pauses, clears his throat nervously, then continues. "Last night, a friend of mine was attacked in his home. He was beaten. His home was burned down." There is surprise and sympathetic reaction from the group. Clive goes on. "All I wanted to do this morning was run away. Crawl into a bottle. But, goddamn it, the liquor stores weren’t open yet. There’s one down the road, by the way. I was in the parking lot at eight-thirty, waiting for it to open at nine. Then, I noticed the sign outside for this meeting. So, I came here instead. Divine providence, maybe. I don’t know. Anyway, that’s it, I guess. Thanks." Clive returns to his seat awkwardly. "Is your friend okay?" Someone asks. "I wouldn’t say that. But, he didn’t die." Clive answers. Karl, the group leader says: "John, I know this is your first time meeting with us; but, if we can do anything to help, if you or anyone you know is in danger, please let me know. You are not alone. You are not alone. Let me say it a third time, you are not alone." "Thank you." Clive says. "I’ll give you my information. You can call me anytime, day or night. I mean it." Karl says very earnestly. 9:55, other people talk. It feels different now. The meeting’s almost over. They give Clive a white chip. "Keep coming back! Keep coming back!" They chant. Then, suddenly. Clive is all alone. It’s 10:43. What the hell? Clive must’ve spaced out or something. He looks around. The room is empty. He checks the back door. It’s blocked by a kid. A young girl. Maybe nine years old. She smiles. There’s something about her. She is confident beyond her age. And creepy. He checks the main entrance. Blocked. A young girl maybe seven years old. She stands guard. Feet shoulder-length apart. Hands on her hips. A challenge on her face. Clive checks all the exits. Little girls. Every one. Every exit. Something’s wrong. It’s just Clive and these little girls. Then. A woman walks into the room. Slender, very well dressed, very graceful, and holy fucking Christ, she’s got red hair! Clive Travers draws a .32 Beretta from his ankle. He conceals it under the bottom of his shirt. The young watcher knows that if this is the witch, he’s a dead man, or worse. The woman looks up and winks. The little girls move in. "Clive Travers." She announces. He stands. Gathers his courage. Points the pistol and pulls the trigger, vigorously. CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! What the hell?! The woman is not startled, or remotely impressed. She just shakes a finger at him. "Clive." She starts. "You’re just a man. You can’t hurt me." One of the high school chairs moves abruptly into the back of his knees, suggesting that he sit. "Let’s talk." She says. "Willow?" He asks. She smirks. “Willow and Friends.” She answers. "Clive Quentin Travers, meet Juliet, Sonya, Elisabeth, Courtney, Violet, Gillian. All slayers. All born after the Battle of Sunnydale. My legacy. My honor guard. Feydekyn." Clive has a desperate thought. He grips tight the pistol. Looks around. Points it at the seven year old and fires. BANG! Violet dodges. She heard him pull the trigger and reacted. Just like Buffy taught her. The bullet meant for her brain just grazes her cheek. Clive’s pistol hand immediately twists like a pretzel, breaking several bones. The pistol falls to the ground with a clatter. Clive screams. The other slayers rush in. He struggles but they hold him like steel. Little Violet looks up, blood running down her cheek. She doesn’t cry. She won’t cry. Willow is furious. Every lightbulb and electric appliance in the room bursts suddenly. "Are you out of your mind?!!" She yells. "You fire on a child?!!" "You said she was a slayer! Bullets can’t kill a slayer!" He yells from the bottom of the pile. Willow breathes deep, then continues as calmly as she can. The air in the room is on fire. In the background, things still spark and broken glass tinkles as it falls. "Mr. Travers." Willow growls. "When you hurt my friends, you make me very angry." She pauses, breathes, then adds. "That’s Biblically stupid." She walks to a nearby hand sink, takes a few paper towels, attends to the child. She wipes the blood from her cheek. Then, kisses her on the forehead. The girl’s wound disappears. Willow looks up. The slayers release Clive. They deposit him in the seat that was offered to him. "Let’s talk a while." She says. Clive stands up defiantly holding his injured hand. "You children. You’re heroes. Slayers. Created by the universe for the destruction of evil. She–" He says pointing at Willow. "–is not a slayer. She’s not a watcher. She’s not some kind of slayer guide or oracle, and she’s not a goddess. She’s a witch. She’s a murderer. She’s a...a freak." "Super freak." Willow corrects. Some of the girls giggle. Willow continues. "But, he’s not lying. I’m a witch. He’s a watcher. You’re slayers. Chosen. Strength and skill, blah blah blah. You’ve heard it all before. A slayer is guided by instinct. That means that in your hearts, you know what’s right, and you have the courage and strength to act on that knowledge. Slayer gifts. Slayer mission. So–" Willow turns away from the group a moment and says, "–think hard girls, what do your instincts tell you now?" "He hurt Buffy. He hurt Buffy. He hurt Buffy. He hurt Buffy." All the little girls answer at once. "What else?" Willow asks grimly. "He has to pay." Little Violet answers. Willow smiles, turns back to the group, pats the girl on the head, looks at Clive and says: "Out of the mouths of babes." Clive scoffs. "You’re Willow Rosenburg. The most powerful witch in the world, maybe the history of the world. You obviously don’t need protection. Did you bring these girls along just to deliver that line?" The room gets hot. Clive Travers flies suddenly very hard into the cigarette yellow cinder block wall sending up a cloud of dirty dust. The impact takes his breath, and delivers a few more fractures, to him and the wall. He slides to the floor, coughing. "Remember our talk about making me angry?" Willow asks, quite animated. The little girls watch, unafraid. "Don’t provoke me, watcher. Kennedy’s dead. Buffy is...suffering. I am very... very troubled. I brought the girls for company." Willow says. She pauses a moment. Gathers herself. "But, that’s not all." She adds. "They are a jury of her peers. This is the courtroom. You’re the defendant." The witch smiles a cruel smile, then adds. "I’m the judge." "I know–" Clive starts, wheezing. He looks around. Into the faces of the girls. "–You’re here to kill me. Flay me alive, maybe worse." "You know. You know?" Willow answers fiercely. "Seven weeks ago, you knew the vampire Drusilla was is Bosnia raising an undead army. We sent Kennedy and our most experienced slayers to crush her. Only Dru was bait. She wasn’t raising an army. She had an army. We were ambushed. They all died. And, you just disappeared. Off, it seems, enlisting my best friend in a secret suicide mission. But, it wasn’t just a suicide mission. Was it?" Willow asks harshly. Travers is pale with abject terror. "No, it was worse." Willow answers her own question. "The Aeluek-suun prophesy. Your little pet project. Who so ever shall face the First Evil to vanquish it made flesh must remain in madness until its return. Buffy did face the First. In the flesh, finally. She fought it, defeated it, and killed it. It was amazing. I was there. Then, just as things were getting aftermathy, Buffy fell. There was this feedback. Magic. I think it changed the world. I know it changed her. Dawnie found out. It’s all there in your pet prophesy. Did you know that? I bet you did. I’m pretty sure Buffy didn’t." The room is getting cold. The witch continues. The Feydekyn slayers surround the terrified watcher. He can see his breath, bursting in warm desperate puffs. Willow walks right up to him. "She doesn’t deserve that fate. We hid her to protect her. But, you... found... her. Because of you, Kennedy is dead. They’re all dead. Because of you, Buffy suffers." The room gets even colder. "So, maybe it’s time you think twice about what you might, maybe think you know. I mean hey–" Willow’s eyes go black. "–better late than never." All six young slayers look on, resolute and vengeful. Clive Travers screams like bloody murder.

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The Last One

Chapter One

December 10, 2012 Six weeks before.

The war for the night has escalated out of control. The onslaught of the slayer army decimated the vampire ranks. The vamps that survive, organize. They hunt in packs, and they carry swords and machine-guns. They hit back against the slayers. They have a mysterious new leader. And a plan. After the latest disastrous campaign, the New Watchers Council is worried. In desperation, one of them decides to hit up an old ally.

Buffy Summers! Really? You’re kidding. She’s... Jesus Speilburg, she’s Buffy freakin’ Summers! “Please try to contain yourself, Jason.” Clive Travers, watcher, says to settle his very American apprentice. Things have gotten dire and they need an experienced slayer. No one is more experienced than Buffy. She’s legendary. She’s saved the world before, many times. Whatever the risk, she’s their best chance. It wasn’t easy to find her. Clive tried to follow magic, money, and mail. Nothing leads to Buffy. Magic was useless. No one can trump the witch. In fact, no one would even try. All money and mail stopped in 2007. So, Clive went in the other direction. He checked mail going to Willow, Dawn, Alexander Harris, and Rupert Giles. What he dubbed the Sunnydale Syndicate. Americans had all but abandoned this antiquated form of communication-- written word on paper, moved about by strangers, deposited in boxes. Backward and simple. This turned out to be the key. Each of the group received post from a Cincinnati yoga studio. Clive checked, the yoga studio also taught self-defense for girls. Connection to the Sunnydale Syndicate. Relatively close proximity to a hell mouth. It all added up to Buffy. The Gulfstream private jet lands in a small airport just outside of Cincinnati. Clive instructs his student. “First, I understand your enthusiasm. However, this mission requires the utmost professionalism–“ ”I understand, sir. I’m ready... for anything.” Jason interrupts. “–and...” Clive continues with a tone of strained patience. “... even more importantly, discretion. No one must know. No one. Especially, the Council.” “I don’t understand, sir. Isn’t this mission sanctioned by the Council?” Jason asks, naively. Clive makes a troubled face. “You’ll find that in times of emergency, you cannot always take time for bureaucracy. Sometimes, you must take the initiative. Having said that, we shall exercise extreme caution, to be sure.” Clive says. Jason looks considerably less enthused. “That’s first.” Clive continues. “Second is, watcher accounts for Buffy Summers, and they are numerous, run the spectrum of extremes. If there is any common denominator, it is that she is unpredictable. We must deal with her delicately.” Clive frowns, then says simply: “In other words, let me do the talking.” “I don’t understand. You don’t believe she’s–“ Jason pauses then whispers, “–dangerous?” “Mr. Jennings.” Clive says to his apprentice. “I truly believe no one on earth is more dangerous.” “I’ll be careful.” An unnerved Jason responds. “You’d better”. The older watcher remarks with half a frown. “Because this slayer has been known to kill the messenger.” Clive adds solemnly.

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That Same Moment. The other side of the world. A cave under the Pyramid of the Dragon. Bosnia.

Hugo Blank, a wicked little wretch of a vampire, moves about nervously in the darkness. He adjusts and readjusts a tray of knives and tools. He checks and rechecks the straps of his prisoner. Hugo, before he was made a vampire, was once a watcher. His limp, his facial ticks, so many things that describe his appearance and demeanor were shaped by his sire, the vampire that made him, and the cruel nature of his death. Watcher Hugo drew a very unfortunate duty. Find and watch the new master of the order of Arrelliues. The vampire Drusilla. Drusilla was well known to be notoriously flamboyant, psychotic and cruel. Even for a demon. This was a big assignment. Like most watchers, Hugo was very good at finding and watching. Only, Drusilla wasn’t at all like most vampires. She knew she was being watched, somehow. She quickly captured Hugo. She tortured him. She turned him. Her intention was to torture him past the point of madness and turn him into a creature like herself. The results were somewhat disappointing. Dru considers him a work in progress. Vampire Hugo smiles a sinister smile of satisfaction as he draws the blade of a long cold dagger across the skin of his prisoner leaving thin trails of blood. The prisoner is silent. Just then, Gnash, a gigantic soldier vampire and Drusilla’s lieutenant enters the chamber. Three other soldiers follow. They spread out about the chamber. Then. Drusilla walks in. One soldier guards the doorway. Two flank the prisoner pointing submachine guns at her. Gnash stands next to the master, Drusilla. “Why does she live?” The master demands. “It’s a spell.” Hugo answers nervously. “Actually, a group of spells. Sort of a magic cocktail.” “How long until it wears off?” Drusilla asks. “This is the most sophisticated, powerful healing and invincibility spellscape I’ve ever seen. It’s adaptable and aggressive. It’s not wearing off, ever. It’s actually getting stronger.” Hugo explains. “Any and all damage heals immediately. In fact, if you cut her slow enough,–“ Hugo adds, frowning. “--she doesn’t even bleed. And, that’s not all. She can’t be turned. She’s transplanted her soul. Spirt vault. Hidden, of course. Probably very well guarded. She may be a small town witch, but her tricks are definitely big city. For all intents and purposes our would-be goddess is indestructible.” Hugo concludes. “Very well.” Drusilla answers. “If we cannot destroy, we shall damage.” “I’m not sure you understand. We can’t damage her body.” Hugo says. “Damage is a voice. A voice with many tongues.” The master replies. “Marty.” She addresses one of her soldiers. “Yes, Master.” He answers immediately. “Tell Sid to send the dogs up. We’ll rip her to bits. See if she can heal from that.” She turns to Hugo. “You see, that’s damage.” “I doubt the dogs will touch her. Before long guns won’t even work against her. The spell is a masterpiece.” Hugo replies. “Then we use pain.” Drusilla says. “Oh. Oh, of course. We can damage her with pain. Break her.” Hugo says, then looks into the eyes of the prisoner. “You’re not a slayer. All prim and preened. You’re just a girl. Unaccustomed to pain. American. Your people are fat, weak, soft. This might just be easy.” He says. “Actually,–“ The prisoner responds. “--Americans are revolutionists. At their core rebellious.” She coughs. “But, I just live in America, My people are Israeli.” She looks hard into the vampire’s eyes. “We are not soft.” Hugo is enraged by the prisoner’s defiance. He takes a broad blade from his tray and cuts her so that she cries out. “Um...do you think it’s a good idea to cut on her like that.” Everyone turns to regard a new, but familiar female voice in shadow. “I mean, splash page, she is like thirty-one flavors of uber-powerful, and yes, also a genius. It’s not at all unlikely that she’ll somehow escape. Do you guys just, I don’t know, like hate your skin. Cuz she kinda has a reputation for revenge.” The woman is shadow shrugs then continues. “Its cool. Whatever. I mean, I’m pretty sure she can’t hurt me, but she can definitely eff-rock your world. Just saying.” Hugo slashes his prisoner across the face delighting in the misty spray of blood that meets his face. “She’s not so scary.”He says smugly. Then. “Oh Goddess!” The woman in shadow exclaims. “What is she doing here!?” Buffy Summers has appeared in the chamber. Beautiful blond and furious. A shimmering sword in one hand and a wooden stake in the other. Hugo almost pees himself. Illusion. Apearently summoned by the prisoner. A moment later he regains his composure, then his bravado. He punches the prisoner savagely then takes a syringe from his tray and injects her. “Well, you are a slippery slag.” He tells her maliciously. Just then, the real Buffy Summers wakes up. For a slayer, there’s no such thing as “just a dream.” She can still smell the cave. She can still feel the fear. Drusilla was there. The girl in shadow is familiar. The prisoner. Buffy’s pretty sure that’s Willow. Some one’s knocking on her door.

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One Moment Later Cincinnati, Ohio

From a small private airport the two watchers disembark in a waiting car. It’s a long drive to a somewhat gritty part of town. Eventually they find it: Sunnydale Yoga Studio. It’s a two story brick building. Maybe a hundred years old. Compared to the neighborhood, it’s nice. It’s clean. There’s even Christmas lights, and a small flower garden in front. Clive and Jason get out of the car. “Okay, here we go.” Clive says. They walk up to the front door then pause a moment. Jason Jennings’ father was a for-real British watcher on assignment in the United States. He took an American wife who gave him an American son, Jason. Jason was twelve years old when he heard about Buffy the Vampire Slayer defeating an indestructible demon called the Judge with a rocket launcher. Tales of her exploits followed on an almost weekly basis for the next several years. Buffy vs warlock Richard Wilkins, Buffy vs Dracula, Buffy vs Glorificus the Hell God, Buffy vs the First Evil. Year after year, fight after fight, Buffy always won. Always found a way. Jason Jennings, son of Nigel Jennings, always heard about it. Now, waiting at the door of the most celebrated slayer in history, Jason steels himself to meet what must be a colossus. A super-bad blond incredible hulk. Clive rings the doorbell. If the door exploded into splinters and Buffy stood looking down on them with a halo and a flaming sword, neither man would be surprised. Instead, the door squeaks open. A very small demure brunette looks up at them. She looks like she just woke up. “Can I help you?” She asks somewhat meekly. “I’m sorry, miss.” Clive responds. “We’re looking for someone. Buffy Summers.” “Never heard of her.” The woman responds with the slightest smile. Clive looks puzzled. Jason studies the woman carefully. “We have reason to believe she is the owner of this establishment.” Clive says. “She may go by an alias. Perhaps Anne.” “Nah,--” The woman says shaking her head. “–this is my place.” “What is your name, miss?” Clive asks. “Sunny. Sunny Dale.” She answers. “Maybe you saw the sign.” “You realize it’s written as one word on the sign?” Clive asks. “Yeah, I got that half-price. Evidently, there used to be some city out west.” Sunny shrugs. “I’ve always been lucky with random stuff.” “It’s her.” Jason interjects. “She’s Buffy.” Clive looks sharply at his apprentice for speaking up. “It fits.” Jason continues defiantly. “Buffy Summers is actually only five foot two and petite. And originally brunette.” The woman shrugs coyly. “Plus, check out the fang scars on her neck, the callouses on her knuckles. It’s her, it’s Buffy.” The woman smiles and shifts her stance. “Score one for the new world.” She says simply. “I just suck at secret identity” Clive is shocked. “Are you Buffy Summers?” The older watcher asks seriously. “Who’s asking.” The woman inquires carefully. “We are agents of the new Watchers Council of Britain, ma’am.” Clive answers sounding very British. “Duh. What are your names.” She replies. “Ma’am, I present to you Jason Jennings, my apprentice.” Clive announces quite formally. “And, my name is Clive Quentin Travers. We are at your service, of course.” She waits a moment, then shrugs. “Whatever, come in.” The woman says, stepping aside. “Travers, huh? I knew your father.” “Yes, I heard.” He replies. “He was kind of a dick.” Buffy says. “Fair enough.” Clive Travers acknowledges. The watchers step inside. Buffy closes the door. Just inside they find themselves in a small hallway. There are stairs leading to the second floor. A doorway to the right to the studio. Buffy takes them through the doorway left. To the living room. Everything is cozy and neat. The men take seats. Buffy goes to the adjacent kitchen and starts some tea. Moments later she returns. Both men stand. “So, what can I do for England?” Buffy asks. “We need your help.” Clive answers. “Help with what?” The slayer asks. “To battle evil.” The watcher replies soberly. “To save the world.” Buffy is surprised. “You’ve got the wrong Summers.” She explains. “That’s my sister’s job, now. You should know. She’s your boss.” “Things have changed. The whole world has changed.” Clive answers. “These are desperate times.” Jason Jennings watches carefully as the demeanor of this tiny brunette mouse of a girl transforms in an instant. It’s in her eyes, in her breath, in her clenched fists, she suddenly becomes that fearsome colossus. She becomes Buffy Summers, just like that. Both men step back, automatically. “You need to very carefully, and very completely explain to me exactly what you mean,--” The slayer demands. “–right now.” “Your sister is fine.” Clive answers anxiously. “But, there have been some alarming developments, recently.” “Do I need to beat it out of you?” Buffy snarls coldly. “No, no, no.” Clive answers, now fully afraid. “I’ll tell you everything, of course.” “Goddamn better.” She whispers, menacingly. “Perhaps, you should sit.” Clive recommends. “Perhaps you should spill.” The slayer answers. “Very well.” Clive replies, solemnly. “It’s the First.” “What?” Buffy puts her fists on her hips. “In 2003, the Battle of Sunnydale, you defeated the army of the First Evil, but the First Evil remains. It knows you. It hates you. It has a plan.” The watcher states, rather dramatically. Buffy pauses a moment. “Why are you here?” The slayer asks. “In twelve days the ancient Mayan calender ends. We have reason to believe that at that time the First will become flesh and lead a demon army on a campaign that will ultimately overthrow the kingdoms of man.” Clive answers. “Are you shitting me?” Buffy asks. Jason, in the background, shakes his head. “I’m afraid I’m quite serious.” Clive answers. “Why me? I mean, I appreciate a grudge match as much as the next ticket holder, but doesn’t England have anyone more qualified.” Buffy asks becoming agitated. “You must have, what, twelve squads of slayers, by now. There’s Kennedy and her slayer samurai, or whatever they’re called. Hell, what about Faith?” Buffy exclaims. Clive’s expression becomes even more serious. “Kennedy and her elite cadre of slayers were deployed to Bosnia on this matter, last week.” The watcher states very solemnly. “What happened?” Buffy asks with a anxious edge to her voice. “It was a trick. It was a trap. Ambush.” Clive stumbles with his explanation. “We recovered some bodies, but–“ The watcher composes himself then reports. “The witch and twelve slayers were sent to Bosnia.” “The witch?” Buffy interrupts. Clive continues. “Those girls faced an army of demons in those caves. For most of them that wasn’t the first time. But, this time, it would be the last.” Buffy clenches her fists so tightly that blood begins to drip from between her fingers. “They were sent to gather information. Assess the threat. Willow Rosenburg was the world’s foremost, available, expert on the First Evil.” Clive Travers stumbles through his explanation. “Will?” Buffy asks simply, tears starting. “Missing.” Clive replies, solemnly. “We don’t know. There was a terrible battle. Our team was engaged at a tactical disadvantage. They were overwhelmed. They fought hard, but...” Clive shakes his head. Buffy begins to pace back and forth, fuming and enraged. Then stops suddenly. “Wait. This is bullshit. If Willow was in trouble, I wouldn’t be hearing it from you toadies. Where’s Giles?! Where’s Dawn?!” Buffy demands smashing her fist against the wall. The wall buckles. Dust flies and planks and splinters fall about the floor. “Answer!” The slayer demands. In the background a teapot whistles. There is a very tense pause. Then. “The official council policy is that you’re off limits. Forbidden. No contact, under any circumstance.” Clive explains nervously. “What, why?” Buffy asks. “The leadership of the New Watchers Council decided that you have done your duty. You’re to be left alone. At all costs. Come what may.” Clive answers. “Dawn.” Buffy says. Her fists unclench. Her posture adjusts. “Yes.” He answers. “The council doesn’t know we’re here. This is my own initiative.” Buffy’s demeanor changes back to the mouse. “Maybe Dawn’s right.” Buffy goes into the kitchen to take the teapot from the stove eye, Clive follows her. “You know they’re out there.” Clive starts. “Monsters, demons, vampires. They have a new leader. New plan. They beat us. They’re cocky.” Clive walks up to Buffy. “But, they’re all still scared of you.” The watcher looks the slayer in the eyes. She’s not really impressed. “They have your friend.” “Yeah.” The slayer replies slowly. She takes a dagger she had hid under a tea cozy and slides it into her boot. “Xander Harris is preparing a second front of slayers for defense. We have soldiers, we need leaders. If I could take you back to England-- ” “Nah, that’s not how it works.” Buffy responds solemnly. Then, she walks over to a big wooden chest. Clive Travers is puzzled and uneasy. “You have to be aggressive. Take the fight to them.” She adds. “That’s exactly what Kennedy said.”The watcher remarks, snidely. “Of course it is.” Buffy says as she straps on a belt and loads it with four slender throwing daggers. “I trained her.” Buffy takes a light crossbow from the chest and slings it over her right shoulder. “Kennedy was right. If it was a trap, she was betrayed.” “What’s your plan?” The older watcher asks. Buffy thinks a moment. “I could call my sister. Have anything I need. All the resources in the world and a slayer army. Everything but surprise.” Buffy says with a frown. She looks up seriously. “No plan. Kennedy had a plan, it killed her. We’re going guerrilla on their ass.” The slayer says. She takes a sword from the chest and slings it over her left shoulder. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s suicide in fact.” Clive answers. “Yeah, well I don’t actually need advise from Asshole: The Next Generation. Kennedy was my friend. Those girls were my students. Willow is...” Buffy bites her lip. “This isn’t my first Kamikaze mission. I’ll get Will. I’ll get revenge. I’ll kill anything that tries to stop me. Anything. That’s the goddamn plan.” There’s an implied threat in the slayer’s tone that isn’t lost on the young watchers. She walks over to face Jason. “You got a plane?” She asks. He nods. “Take me to Bosnia.” She says grimly. “So, you’re in?” The young watcher asks. Buffy nods. “Let’s hope I’ve got one apocalypse left in me.” She bites her lip again. She knows it. She whispers it. “This is the last one.”

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