Three strands of my stories intersect here. Buffy's new Big Bad trains his forces and finally takes her on. Jonathan and Andrew face their destiny and interact with Buffy's as well as someone else's from Angel's past. And Spike and Buffy finally get together. Enjoy.

"Let the games begin!," Hendrik Hartog announced as he entered his underground headquarters.

"Our bosses were getting impatient, Henry," a serious-looking vampire in his early forties told Hartog.

"I AM the boss. What I think you mean, Douglas, is that YOU were getting impatient."

"Forgive me for liking our enemies as dead as possible as soon as possible."

"Except he was an enemy we could steal from."

"You know he hasn't had any useful breakthroughs in months."

"But I was the one who always believed in him. I knew his genius, and I wanted to give it the chance to flower. After all, his blood isn't all I've taken from him. How are the techies coming with the decryption?"

"It's not really an decryption matter. More of a scientific puzzle. His data is in pieces. Only someone with our training has a hope of putting it together."

"Then we shall do that. I look forward to the challenge. And I look forward to seeing if you are up to the challenge." They walked down the hall, passed rooms full of computers and lab equipment. The whole setup was very professional. The vampires weren't even lumpy. Mixed among the work rooms were three rec rooms: one with video games, one with billiards, ping-pong and fooseball tables, and one with a 50-inch flat-screen digital television with dvd and surround-sound. The only hints of the true nature of the operation came when Douglas and Hartog made a left at the end of the hall. They went past small arsenal rooms, a security room with monitors of the perimeter, and a training room where Pitt was teaching four vampires the finer points of hand-to-hand combat.

"You lads think you are immortals. You are vampyres, so you will live forever. Bollocks. BOLLOCKS! The average human lives for 75 years. How many vampyres do you know who have been around for 50 years? Hardly any, I bet. Coos there aren't many out thar. That's right. Most humans live longer than most vampires. How dare we call ourselves immortals! Out on the street, on your own, chances are none of you would last six months in this toon. And that is why you are here. Eternal life is not a right. It must be earned!

"I will teach you how to earn it. I will mold each and every one of you into warriors. Humans will cower at the mention of your name. Other vampires will follow you. You will be able to walk into any toon, any lair, and all the rest will fall in line behind you. They will forsake their former leaders, because they will see that you are A BREED APART. If that's not what you want, leave now. Get yar arses out of my soit. But if you want to be a warrior, if you want to be better than the rest, then step on up." Pitt took off his shirt and bounced around a little to limber up. He was narrow-shouldered, not particularly muscular, and without much muscle definition.

"Don't look so toof, do I? Try and take me. The four of you, together. Shouldn't be too hard, right? Cum on! What fun is an afternoon indoors without a little spot of violence? Shew me whut ya got." The four vamps looked at each other, shrugged, and smiled. Pitt was a real braggart. The sort of guy you want to put in his place. They went bumpy, and attacked. The one on his near left tried a right jab. Pitt grabbed his arm and threw him over his shoulder. The one on his far right tried a high kick. He duck, spun around, and kicked the vamp on his far left in the chest. The one right in front of kick charged and threw a left and a right punch. Pitt blocked both and landed two left jabs to the vampire's nose. The vamp on the right tried to kick Pitt in his midsection. He grabbed that vamp's right foot, pull him forward, and kicked him in the groin. He went down.

Pitt had repelled all the initial attacks. But now he was surrounded on four sides. He smiled. "That all ya got?," he taunted. The vampire on his left charged. Pitt stepped towards him and nailed him with a right cross. Then he did a right back kick to knock down the one behind him. Then a left spin kick to floor the one on his left, who was preparing to throw another kick of his own, but didn't have time to get it off. Pitt faced the vamp in front of him. Pitt stood straight up, like a statue. The vamp threw a right cross. Pitt swerved his head to the side. Then the vamp threw a left uppercut. Pitt arched his back and pulled his head back out of the way. Then Pitt tried a weak left kick. The vampire grabbed his left foot in midair. Pitt smiled, leaped in the air, spiraled his body like a corkscrew, and landed a right kick to the vampire's face. All four of them were down and hurting.

Hartog and Douglas walked in. "Don't hurt my men too much," Hartog told Pitt. "Remember, they're on our side."

Pitt walked over to them. "Cum on Hart. You know it's only tough luve. Gotta break 'em down before I can build them up."

"Or before you get the chance they could frag the drill sergeant," Douglas joked. "The army metaphors can cut both ways."

"Well, Doogie, you don't tell me how to fight, and I won't tell you how to split the atom."

"I'm a biologist. We don't split atoms. We splice genes."

"Whatever. Same difference. Loik I care. That's your department. And this is mine."

"And I'm in charge of both of them," Hartog reminded Pitt. "Morale's important. Keep them disciplined, but also keep them happy."

"That's wut hunting's for. They hunt at night, and train during the day. That way, there's a balance: work and reward."

"It think you and Doug would agree on that. He handles his technicians the same way."

"Did you act yet on the tip I gave Dougy?," Pitt asked Hartog.

"Yes I did. And thanks for the recon. Once that boy joined forces with the Slayer, he had to go. We couldn't tolerate an alliance of brains and brawns." He put his arms around Doug's and Pitt's shoulders. "After all, I want to be the only one with that combination."

Willow knocked on Zooey's door. "It's open," Zooey called out. Willow entered. "Good to see you all better."

"I'm not," Willow replied, walking up to Zooey. "Not until I can wrap my arms around you. Then I'll be all better."

"That makes two of us," Zooey replied. "As long as you're still here tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's Sunday. I don't have classes. You don't have work. We have nowhere better to be than with each other."

"Sounds like a good start," Zooey answered nebulously.

"I here you spent last night with a cute boy. Should I be jealous?"

"Eli's a cutie, but he's a little young for me. Plus he's a one-woman man, and I'm a one-woman woman. And both our women were unavailable that night. How did the 'emergency family thing' go?"

"Okay, considering I would have rather been with you. You know that, right?"

"I do now." Willow went to kiss her. Zooey pulled back.

"What's wrong?," a puzzled Willow asked.

Zooey gave her a sly half-smile. "I've been waiting a while for this. So I just wanted wanted you to feel what the waiting was like." Willow moved in. Zooey moved back a few inches more, still smiling. "The longing, the aching, the smoldering desire." Zooey put her left hand behind Willow's right ear, and twirled Willow's hair with her fingers. Willow started to look a little flush.

"Okay Zo. Think you made your point quite powerfully." Zooey pulled Willow's head towards her. Willow smiled.

"And then just when you can't take the yearning and the burning any longer." Zooey kissed Willow.

The training was finished for the afternoon. Pitt and Douglas sat in the media room, drinking cups of hot blood and watching "The Man Who Would Be King." Roxane had just bitten Sean Connery's king, and he bled, proving to the Afghans that he wasn't a God. They rebelled, and a battle ensued between the numerous natives and the small force of Englishmen and their Indian Sepoys. This reminded Doug of something he wanted to ask Pitt. "You go on and on bout how you're a 'warrior,' a fighter and all. So why haven't you gone up against the Slayer? Isn't that was a 'warrior vampire' would do?"

"Tell ya why I haven't. Mid-70s, I went to Lisbon with my mate Shannon. Lo and behold, there was a Slayer in Portugal. I had never seen one. Naturally, I was curious. Shannon, he was ambitious. Wanted to take her oot. Found her and engaged her, he did. I tied up her Watcher, made him watch his young charge die before I ate him. Fierce gurl. Boot my height. Long, black, braided hair that flopped around when she fought. Dark, angry eyes. Yew want to know how a foit's goin', wootch the eyes. Forget the arms and legs. They're just distractions. Beginning of the row, she's gaut the eyes of a huntress sizing up her prey. Shannon's smart. Concedes the initiative. Forces her to attack, to try and kill him. He evades her attacks. She gets frustrated. He takes control, goes to work. Right aboot this time I see fear in those eyes of hers. She knows tables 'ave turned. Now she's the hunted. Shannon beats her up good. She gets desperate. This gives her a second wind. Girl gives him all she's gaught and then some. Ol' Shannon gets worried. Wonts to finish the deal. Gets behind her, bites her in the neck. Check mate. She's done for.

"That's when it gets real interesting. She's got that stake in her right hand. But he's behind her. So she can't reach him. Toim's running out. Blood's draining. Slayer knows she's dying. But she'll be damned if she doesn't take her killer with her. So this Slayer stabs herself with her own stake. Plunges it clear through her body, into her chest, out her back, and into Shannon's heart. Remember, his front was flush against her back. Poor bastard, killed at the moment of his greatest triumph. I tell the Watcher how proud he must be of his gallant yoong warrior, then drink him. Then I finished draining the Slayer. I know it's a vulture move, but why let all that blood go to waste? My point is, Slayer's a kamikaze, a bezerker. She knows she's going to die soon anyway. And I doont foit anything willing to take me down with it. I want to be around to enjoy my triumphs."

Douglas was a little blown away by the story. "Gotta respect that level of commitment. A Slayer willing to stake HERSELF to take out one of us." Pitt watched the battle scene at the close of the movie. The Indian sepoy officer says goodbye to his English employers and charges into a crowd of enemy Afghans, hacking as many enemies as he can before his inevitable death.

"Now thot I doont understand," Pitt complained. "He's a bloody mercenary! His employer's doomed. Why doesn't he run away through the mountain pass to safety, then go find himself a new boss? That would be the smart thing to do. But nooo!!! He commits suicide for a doomed cause he didn't have any stake in to being with. Bloody stoopid merc he is."

"I thought you believed in honor," Douglas replied.

"Doogie, honor is for when your foitin' for your own kind. Couple times I've hired demons as muscle, but I always knew when the shite hit the fan they would turn and run. Or when I did some work for the Orangemen in Ulster, takin' oot some greenies. I'm gonna feed anyway, so gettin' paid for it's a nice bonus. But I played it safe. Didn't get brave and risk being lynched by a band uv Republicans. Cum on! Loik I'd put my life on the line for humans."

"I've always been a fan of safety and forbearance myself," Douglas replied. He stood up and walked back to the lab. With the movie over, Pitt flipped through the tv channels. They had digital broadband cable, so channel surfing was going to take a while. Hartog was looking over the lab when Douglas entered.

"How is the order coming along?," Hartog asked.

"Nearly completed, Henry. Nothing you should concern yourself with. Real elementary stuff."

"Just make sure it's done on time."

"I promise it will be done ahead of schedule."

"What I like to hear, Doug." Hartog left the room and went into the computer lab. Four vampires with human faces were busily typing away. "The sound of effort! I love it."

"We love what we do," one of them told him.

"This is a dream job," another added. "I got some buddies who would GET KILLED to have it." The others laughed.

Another vampire entered. "Henry, you 5:30 is here."

"You mean the recruit?"

"Precisely."

"Fabulous." Hartog walked to the end of the hallway, walked out a door, and met the young man. "Hendrik Hartog. It's a pleasure. You must be Edwin. Did you have trouble finding the place?"

"No, oddly enough I didn't. Your directions were very helpful. But why do you work underground?" Hartog took Edwin inside. They walked down the hall.

"Security. We trade in intellectual property. Ideas are the life's-blood of this business. If we can't keep them secret, they're worthless. Trust me, with all the amenities, you won't even notice. He showed Edwin the arcade, the pool room, the media room. The wide-screen television and four rows of plush stadium seating impressed the young man.

"You sure take care of your workers, Mr. Hartog."

"Please, call me Henry."

"Is there a workout room?"

"Two, actually. One for weights. The other for aerobics, yoga, tai-chi, jujitsu, whatever else the kids these days are into. Now let me show you the laboratory." He took Edwin into the science lab.

"State-of-the-art equipment," Edwin noticed as he walked around. "This is better than what we had in college."

"It should be. I only want the best. The best equipment, and the best men to use it. How did you hear about my humble little outfit?"

"Through the Career Office at Cal Tech."

"Where you got your Masters."

"Actually, I flunked my Generals, so they gave me an M.S. as a parting gift."

"Nothing to be ashamed of. All I care about is what you can do from here on out. Masters, PhD, it doesn't matter so long as you're talented and can produce. This is a small company. A growing company in a growing field. So there is plenty of room for advancement."

"That's what I'm looking for. Some place where I can hit the ground running."

"Then I think you've found a new home. Now let's go into my office and we can discuss terms. Salaries, stock options, that sort of stuff." They walked in. Hartog shut the door.

"Oww! What are you doing!? Owwww!!!," Edwin yelled, before loss of blood quieted him.

Zooey woke up on Sunday morning. She looked to her right. There was Willow, sleeping soundly. She kissed Willow's left eyelid. Willow awoke. Zooey rolled on top of her. "You looked so beautiful and peaceful I almost felt bad about waking you."

"Glad you did. Can't have any fun when I'm dozed off." Willow ran her right hand across a long, thin, arching tattoo that ran across Zooey's upper back. Two curving lines extended out from a small, diamond-shaped geometric design in the center. "Didn't even notice this before, on account of the lights being off and all. How long you had it?"

"Bout two years. Thought it looked cool."

"It does. Very cool. Does it mean anything."

"Don't know. Got it for the look. Round the time I got my belly ring." Zooey rolled over onto her back. "And I know you noticed that last night." Willow smiled. Zooey got out of bed and put on shorts and a t-shirt.

"Hold it. Why are you leaving the bed and getting clothes on and doing all these counter-productive things? I thought you had nowhere to go."

"Just getting some breakfast. Thought maybe we could sit and talk and do the sorts of things I've heard couples do. We are a couple, right? We do have a relationship even when we're not on my mattress? Or at least we should." Zooey flipped on her stereo, which started playing "Cradle And All" from Ani DiFranco's "So Much Shouting, So Much Laughter."

"Of course we're a couple, even when we aren't naked," Willow responded as she got to her feet and threw some clothes on. "But I think we both know that's the best part." She got a cup of coffee. "What's this?," she asked.

"You don't like the music?"

"It's okay. It's just, different. You know, from what I listen to. But that's not necessarily a bad thing. After all, you're different from what I'm used to."

"It's real, it's raw. Pretty and brutal and messy all at once. The music, I mean." The song got to the bridge. "And listen here to her guitar playing. The way it's meshes with the groove laid down by the bass and the horns. The way it undulates. Very sensual. You feel it?"

"I do. This is good. You and me sitting down, talking, spending the day together. No distractions. No emergencies. You've been very patient with me and my crazy madcap life. I'm lucky to have you."

Jonathan's moment of action had arrived. He said goodbye to his boss Raul. Said it had been a pleasure, but it was time for him to return North. Raul didn't know Jonathan was a fugitive. He figured Jonathan was some college kid out slumming and learning what he could about magic in the exotic South. Jonathan told Andrew he was driving up to Sinaloa to pick up supplies for Raul. Jonathan had done this sort of thing many times before, so Andrew thought nothing of it and headed off to work. Jonathan grabbed what he needed from the apartment, got in his used Datsun with 120,000 miles on it, and drove north to face the music.

The border guards didn't give him much hassle south of San Diego. They let him through without a search, which would have been a waste of time since they'd be looking for drugs and he didn't have any. Jonathan was a fugitive from state law enforcement, but the federal border patrol didn't have him on their wanted list.

After driving for nearly 50 hours straight, he arrived in Sunnydale. There was some stuff he needed. After looking around for cop cars, he parked outside the Magic Box. A stocky middle-aged Mexican gentleman entered the store. Anya approached him. He said a few words in Spanish, acting as if he didn't speak English. She left him alone. He scanned the shelves, looking for a few special ingredients. After a few minutes, he found them. Then he walked to the cash register.

"I only accept American currency. DOLLARES AMERICANOS," Anya told him slowly and loudly.

"Bien," he replied. He read the numbers on the register, pulled out a bunch of greenbacks, and handed them to Anya.

She held the money and smiled. "You do speak my language after all!," she exulted. "The universal language of commerce. COMMERCIO, SENOR."

"Sî," he replied softly. She handed him his change. "Gracias," he told her. Then he took the bag with his purchases and left.

"Thank you and por favor come again, señor," Anya told him as he left. Spike came out from the back room. "I think we've reached a whole new demographic," Anya told him with a smile. "And the Latinos are the fastest growing market in this nation."

This reminded Spike of something. "Have you noticed that this is the only town in Southern California without a large Mexican population? Guess they're smart enough to steer clear of the demons."

"However, one would expect the low home prices to attract immigrants eager to acquire a piece of the American dream. Not to mention the frequent business turnover, which offers ample opportunities to the novice entrepreneur, as I myself have discovered."

"Speaking of 'turnover,' what happened on this street while I was gone for the weekend?"

"Didn't see it. Think it was some near-apocalypse."

"Oh. Just another one of those. They happen so often, it's hard to get excited about them anymore."

"I know what you mean."

Once in his car, the middle-aged Mexican changed back into Jonathan. Mimicking Raul's body for a few minutes allowed him to operate incognito. Anya would have recognized Jonathan immediately. Then Buffy would have gotten involved. That was the last thing he needed. Now he had time to kill. He couldn't perform his spell until nightfall. He thought about hanging around town for one last time, walking through the school, taking in the nostalgia. But it was too dangerous. He drove east towards the desert, across the county line, into places where he still enjoyed complete anonymity.

Spike didn't know what to do next. Buffy wanted him to reach out. He did, then she pushed him away. Spike had his pride. Going back right away would seem needy and desperate. If she wanted to play mind games, he could play along. She went to him, he told her to get lost. He went to her, she did likewise. Now it was Spike's turn to bide his time, to make Buffy wait. Then he could beg her to take him back from a position of strength.

Spike thought of this as he took a late-afternoon walk. He passed by the Bronze, and heard someone playing. He opened the door and walked in. Elijah sat on the edge of the stage, playing his Kramer electric, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was just fooling around with some chords. He played D-suspended, then D with open high E, again and again, slowly. Then he threw in a G-chord. Spike recognized the riff. It was the intro to Johnny Thunders' "You Can't Put Your Arms Around A Memory." Spike had seen Johnny play it in New York in 1978, shortly after he had written it. As Elijah played the verse part, unaware anyone was listening, Spike started mumbling the heartbreaking lyrics under his breath:

"It doesn't pay to try.

All the smart boys know why.

It doesn't mean I didn't try,

I just never know why.

It isn't cause I'm all alone,

Baby you're not at home.

And even though they don't show,

The scars aren't so old.

And when they go,

They let you know.

You can't put your arms around a memory.

So don't try. Don't try."

Suffice it to say, Spike had listened to that one a few times as he drank to dull his pain after Dru dumped him. As Elijah played the contemplative opening riff again, Spike walked up to him. He stopped playing, took the cigarette out of his mouth, and placed it at the far end of the guitar neck, between the bridge and the tuning pegs. "Wasn't expecting an audience."

"Just walking by and heard the strumming. Didn't know you smoked."

"Just when I'm playing. Or writing. I figure as vices go, it's pretty harmless."

"Compared to the other things musicians put in their bodies, yes. But that's a pretty minimal standard. I mean, look at Johnny."

"Yeah. He was quite the junkie."

"And an alcoholic on top of that."

"It's a shame he died so young."

"Actually Eli, it's a miracle he died so old. 38's pretty long in the tooth for a rock star with a death wish. I thought he wouldn't make it past 28. I saw him a couple times in the eighties, and he looked like a walking corpse. A stylish corpse, but a corpse none-the-less."

"You saw him play? What was he like?"

"Messy and magnificent and gloriously sloppy. A doomed romantic playing punk rock. Cynical and sentimental and serious and joking all at once. And actually a really good guitar player when he put some effort into it."

"Gotta love a loser with talent," Elijah commented.

"There's something endearing about a guy who doesn't live up to his potential. Unless you know the guy. Must be bloody maddening to care about someone who throws their life away."

Elijah thought Spike was giving him some sort of paternalistic advice about his own life. He didn't know Spike was talking about himself. "Don't have to worry about me, Spike. Too much of a perfectionist to be gloriously sloppy. It's not Johnny's lifestyle I identify with. It's his sentiment. Guess I'm also a doomed romantic, 'cept I take the doom parts pretty hard."

"You're not still pining for Elektra, are you?"

"No. I'm past that. We're not the same people we were when we were in love. And we were. Least I was. And she sure acted like she was. Course you can never be sure. But when she left me, it was like my legs had been cut off at the knees, and they took a long while to grow back. Suffering's great for art. So maybe it's also good for whatever it is I do. Happy, contented people don't make great musicians."

"I'd be wary of embracing the tortured artist pose if I were you."

Elijah took a drag from his cigarette. "Pain finds everybody. Least I can do something with it, put it into my work. Can't say that if you're a doctor or a lawyer or a computer programmer. Way I see it, most of life is about dealing with not getting what you want. No one ever gets the girl of their dreams. That's why she's in your dreams, instead of in your life."