"So that's what that does."

Apparently the weapon Agent Phil Coulson just fired also had teleportation capabilities. He was in a bedroom now, sitting on the floor. A soft light bled through white curtains. He could smell candles and incense, but a metallic aftertaste lingered in his mouth.

"Your shirt."

A woman's voice. She sounded far away, muffled. Coulson tried to focus his senses, first his hearing, then his sight.

"What?" he asked, disoriented.

Slowly the woman came into focus; her face was blank, perturbed. "Y-your shirt is covered in blood."

"So is yours," said Coulson.

"Oh my god!" she gasped. Her hands went reflexively to the stain and tried to wipe it away. "How did your blood get on my shirt?"

"I think that might be your blood."

"I-I," the woman stammered, "I don't think so. I-I don't feel hurt. You look hurt. Are you hurt?"

"I don't know." Coulson said. "I feel—"

"—soar."

"No, not sore. I honestly don't feel anything at all. Wait, who are you?"

Agent Coulson had not noticed before, but there was a man in a Hawaiian shirt sitting in a chair by the window. Actually, it wasn't a chair. It looked like a pilot's seat, and as a matter of fact, there was an entire instrument panel beneath the seemingly ordinary bedroom window, which he noticed for the first time was broken. A plank of wood had apparently crashed through the glass pane and, even worse, had impaled the man's chest.

"I'm Wash. Who are you?"

"Coulson. Phil Coulson."

"I'm Tara. Wh-What happened to you?"

Wash looked down at the wooden shard for the first time, his eyes bulging out of their sockets. "Wuh duh ma huh tah duh fong kwong duh wai shung! Tai-kong suo-yo duh shing-chiou sai-jin wuh duh pee-goo!"

"What's he saying?" Tara whispered to Coulson.

"I think he's speaking Mandarin," Coulson replied.

"He doesn't look Chinese," Tara said.

"This bedroom doesn't look like a cockpit either," Coulson said.

Wash was now hysterical, flailing his arms and legs. "Get it out of me! Get it out of me!"

"Please don't move or you'll cause more internal damage!" Coulson tried to reason with him. Unfortunately, Wash had already started wriggling himself forward, sliding his body along the plank.

"Almost there," Wash said.

"I can't watch," Tara said, covering her eyes.

"Please be careful!" Coulson pleaded.

A minute later, Wash had maneuvered himself free of the shard. "That's weird," he said as he put his hand in and out of the gaping hole that was left in his chest.

Tara's face was green. Coulson worried she was going to vomit at any second. "Why don't we just—plug that up," he said, handing Wash a pillow. Wash took it gratefully and proceeded to shove into the hole in his chest.

"Not bad," said Wash.

Tara grimaced.

"Alright, well, now that we know we're all okay, I guess we need to figure out where we are exactly," Coulson said.

"Oh, I can tell you that," Tara said. "We're at Buffy Summers' house."

"Who?" Coulson and Wash said at the same time.

"Buffy," Tara repeated. "The vampire slayer."

"Oh, right," Coulson said. "S.H.I.E.L.D. has a file on her."

"What's S.H.I.E.L.D.?" asked Tara.

"What's a vampire slayer?" asked Wash.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. is a government agency that deals with—never mind that for now. A vampire slayer—well—slays vampires," Coulson explained.

"Government agency, huh? So you're part of the Alliance?" Wash asked.

"An alliance with whom?" Coulson asked.

"Not an alliance, the Alliance," Wash said.

"Oh," Coulson said. "In that case, neither our agency nor our government is part of the Alliance, whatever that may be."

"Well, that makes a lot of sense except that it doesn't make any," Wash said. "The Alliance is the government, the only government, but you're telling me there's another government here in—"

"Sunnydale," Tara finished for him.

"That's an interesting name for a planet."

"It's not the name of the planet," Coulson said, "We're on Earth. Sunnydale's the name of—wait a second, are you from space? Asgard?"

"We're on Earth?" Wash asked, suddenly making a connection. "Shiong mao niao! I know what's going on here! We're in the past—or, at least the past to me. To you, I guess it's the present. Anyway, I'm from the future! I must have time travelled. That's kind of cool."

"Kind of," Coulson said.

"Th-this is a lot to sort out," Tara said. "M-maybe I could try an enlightenment spell?"

"You're a witch?" Coulson asked.

Tara blushed. "Yes."

"Ancient Earth had vampires and witches?" Wash exclaimed. "Neat."

Tara grabbed some of the scented candles from the bedside table. "I'll need some of the herbs from downstairs. Do you want to come?"

Coulson and Wash nodded and followed her down the stairs. When they reached the bottom, they found themselves in a brightly lit living area. Seated on the couch by the window was a woman with soft, sandy-colored hair that curled around her face. Coulson immediately found her attractive and couldn't help smiling at her.

Tara's candles crashed to the floor. "M-Mrs. Summers?" she asked in a trembling voice.

"Oh, hi, Tara. Who are your friends?" Mrs. Summers asked. Her expression was warm and she didn't seem at all phased at having strangers in her house.

"Phil," Coulson said, extending his hand to her.

She took it in hers and smiled. "You can call me Joyce."

"I'm Wash from the future," said Wash.

"Tara, what's wrong?" Joyce asked the visibly shaken girl.

"It's—it's just," Tara stammered, finding it hard to get out the words. "Mrs. Summers, you died—months ago."

"What are you talking about?" Joyce laughed. "I just woke up from a nap minutes before you came down!"

"B-but we buried you..." Tara said.

"Maybe I'm still dreaming," Joyce said jovially, though she was clearly becoming irked by Tara's reaction to her presence.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," Tara said, holding her head in her hands.

"What?" Coulson asked. "What is it?"

"I just realized something," Tara said. "Wh-what if we're all dead?"

"That's ridiculous!" Wash said.

"Is that mine?" Joyce asked, noticing the pillow stuffed in Wash's chest for the first time.

"Oh, yeah," Wash said. "Sorry about that."

"It's alright."

Just then, the doorbell rang. Joyce stood from the couch and walked over to open it. A red-haired girl was standing on the porch with a laundry basket full of clothes in her hand.

"Sorry to bother you," the girl said. "I'm Penny. I've just—well—honestly, I've been wandering around the block for about an hour now. I thought I remembered where the Laundromat was—I've been there a million times—but for some reason today I can't seem to find it. Could I trouble you terribly to borrow your washer? I'll pay you for the water and detergent, I swear!"

"Oh, that's no problem dear," Joyce said. "Come in!"

She's so kind and gentle, Coulson thought.

"Thanks so much!" Penny said, entering the house. "By the way, if you see another guy wandering around outside with his laundry, will you tell him where I am?"

"Of course, dear," Joyce said.

"Thanks!" Penny said, as she made her way to the basement. "Oh, and same thing if you see Captain Hammer!"

"You know Thor?" Coulson asked.

"No, Captain Hammer," Penny said, disappearing down the basement steps.

"Oh," Coulson said. "Nevermind then."

"Would anyone like something to drink?" Joyce offered.

Coulson and Tara both politely declined, while Wash seemed to simply contemplate what would happen to any liquid if he drank it.

There was an awkward silence that lasted what seemed like several minutes. Finally Tara stooped down to pick up her dropped candles. She then went to the kitchen to retrieve her herbs and went to work casting her enlightenment spell. After several attempts, she crossed her arms and shook her head in frustration.

"My magic's not working," she explained. "I-I don't understand."

"There are other ways to get information," Coulson said. Perhaps he could get in contact with someone at S.H.I.E.L.D. to ascertain what had happened. "Joyce, would you happen to have a computer in the house?"

"Why, yes," Joyce replied, motioning to the corner of the room. "It's right over there."

Coulson and the others directed their attention to the computer desk where a girl with dark hair was sitting. She had a bullet hole in the center of her forehead, but seemed oblivious to it.

"Did I fall asleep?" she asked.

"Who are you?" Joyce demanded. "What are you doing in my house?"

"I'm Bennett," the girl said, clearly still a little foggy. "I don't know what I'm doing here. I was dreaming. There were pigs—or skin of pigs—I think I was kissing them…"

"You look really familiar," Wash said.

"Hey, so do you," Bennett said.

They examined each other for a minute. "Oh, I've got it!" Wash said. "You look a lot like this girl know—insane, certifiably. Well, to be fair, the government did mess with her brain."

"No, wait," Bennett said. "You look like a crazy man I used to know. Alpha. We messed with his brain."

"This is weird," Wash said.

"Very," Bennett agreed.

"So do you two know each other or not?" Joyce asked.

"Not," Bennett and Wash said at the same time, though both still looked a little uncertain.

"I knew this was going to happen! Cursed mortality!" A slender woman with brown hair charged out of the kitchen with a roll of duct tape in her hand. She was wrapping the duct tape around her body from her shoulder, down to her hip, up her back, and around again.

"Anya?" Tara asked. "What's going on?"

"We're doornails!" Anya exclaimed. "We were mortal, and now we're dead."

"You really think so?" Tara asked, her eyes welling up with tears.

"Hello!" Anya said, exasperated. "Joyce is standing right there, and that man has a hole in his chest."

"I'm Wash."

"Anya. Nice shirt. It reminds me of—" Just then Anya burst into tears. "Xander's still alive! How could he do this to me?"

"Aren't you happy Xander's still alive?" Joyce asked.

"No!" Anya shrieked, bawling her eyes out.

"So we really are dead then," Coulson said to no one in particular. It was finally starting to sink in.

"I don't think so. Our brain waves are still clearly active," Bennett said, "or else we wouldn't be experiencing any of this. Perhaps we're just in comas."

"Right," Wash said sarcastically, looking directly at the bullet hole in Bennett's forehead. "I'm sure you have plenty of brainwaves left to experience this collective coma dream with us."

"I don't feel dead," Joyce said.

"We need answers," Coulson added.

"I might have some of those," came a voice from another corner of the room.

"Book!" Wash exclaimed, his face lighting up. "It's good to see you!"

"And you," Book replied.

Wash turned back to his new acquaintances. "Phil, Tara, Anya, Bennett, Joyce, this is Shepherd Book."

"Nice to meet you," Joyce said while the others nodded in greeting.

"What is that book, Book?" Anya said, gesturing toward the book in his hands.

"Book book," Tara snorted. Anya rolled her eyes.

"This book," he replied, "I believe, contains the answers you seek."

Wash tilted his head to read the front cover. "The Complete Incomplete Works by J.W. Who's J.W.?"

"The author, I would presume," Book said.

"Obviously, but what does J.W. stand for?" Wash asked.

"Jesus Washington," Anya offered.

"Who?" Wash asked.

"I've never heard of that author," Coulson said. He was an avid reader, so knew of most prominent writers.

"Seriously?" said Anya with disdain. "Jesus Washington was an American hero and patriot. He was obviously very rich. Did I walk into a Pinko meeting or something?"

"I assure you ma'am, I am very patriotic," Coulson said, "And there is no author named Jesus Washington."

"Then what does J.W. stand for?" Anya asked, her voice insistent.

Coulson thought for a minute. "I don't know."

"Exactly," Anya said, a look of satisfaction on her face. "So what did Jesus Washington write about?"

"Well, about us, actually," Book replied. "These are our stories."

"What?"

"All of us?"

"Let me see that!" Anya said, snatching the book away. "Oh, look! There I am. Oh, there I am again. There's quite a lot in here about me actually. Not as much as Buffy, obviously, but…"

"Am-am I in it?" Tara asked shyly. "Does it talk about what happened to me? To Willow?"

"See for yourself," Anya said, handing her the book.

Tara flipped back through the pages until she found the one she was looking for. "That's what I thought," she whispered. "Willow…why…" A tear fell down her cheek.

Anya grabbed the book back from her. "Yes, thanks for unleashing that hell on us, by the way."

"So," said Coulson, "this book tells us how we died?"

"Precisely," answered Anya, scanning page after page. "See, here's a part about Bennett. She got shot in the head while kissing some guy."

"We'd only just found each other," Bennett mumbled to herself.

Tara heard her. "I know how you feel," she said with sympathy.

"Is there anything about me?" Wash asked.

"I don't see anything," Anya said.

"Are you sure?" Wash asked.

"Oh, nevermind," Anya said. "There it is. I didn't see it at first because your section is so short and ends rather abruptly. Anyway, it looks like you were impaled by a piece of debris right after landing your spaceship. Then all your friends left and fought in an epic battle."

"Oh, nice of them," Wash said. "But did Zoe make it? Is she okay?"

"Yes," Anya said. "She's much braver and more skilled than you are."

"I know."

"They made you a nice memorial, though."

"Can I see?"

"Sure." Anya handed him the book.

"Are you kidding me?" Wash exclaimed as he looked at the page. "They seriously buried me next to Mr. Universe?" He handed the book back to Anya with disgust.

"Oh, here's some about you," Anya said to Coulson. "It says you were a superhero trainer or something?"

"Or something," Coulson said.

"You must not have done a very good job," Anya said.

"Why's that?" he asked.

"Because they couldn't save you," she replied.

Coulson felt like he'd been punched in the gut. "Will you look ahead?" he asked, "Tell me if they were at least able to save the world? I mean, they had to, right? They couldn't have…" His voice trailed off.

Anya flipped forward in the book. "They did," she said. "Typical. You know, this is just like what happened to me. Buffy can save the whole world except for me. Or you, Tara."

"It's not her fault," Tara said.

"Tara's right," Wash said. "You know whose fault this really is? Jesus Washington's."

"I didn't exactly mean that," Tara said.

"But it's true!" exclaimed Anya, her agitation mounting. "He's the author, the one with power over the story."

"Which means he can change the story," Wash added, "and I don't know about you, but I refuse to be written off."

"We should find this Jesus Washington," Anya suggested.

"You all are missing the point," Shepherd Book interjected. He stood in the middle of the room with an air of authority, trying to ease the tension. "The point is that we were written about at all. It makes us special."

"And now it makes us dead," said Wash. "I would personally like to meet Jesus Washington in person. Then I'd kill him and see how that makes him feel."

"And what exactly would that accomplish?" asked Book.

"We won't kill him," Anya said, "but we can persuade him to consider some revisions. Andrew was a better choice to be killed off. Nobody even likes him!"

"Stop this," Book demanded, his voice growing grave. "This is insanity. I showed you these stories to give you closure, to show you that you have a legacy."

"What closure could we have possibly gained from this?" Wash asked, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "You read how I died. It was random and stupid."

"I've seen a lot of death," Coulson said. "That's just how it is most of the time."

Wash grabbed the book back from Anya, flipping to Coulson's chapter. "Not for you," he said, shoving a finger at the page as he handed the book to Coulson. "Your death served a purpose. It brought your friends together; it saved the world."

"Willow almost destroyed the world," said Tara, "because of me."

"I had just found him…" Bennett said.

"It's random and stupid," Anya echoed Wash's words. "I hate it."

The group continued to argue and rant and curse. It seemed like they could bicker forever, shake their fists at the sky for eternity, and they certainly had the chance to do so.

Coulson carried the book over to the couch, rereading the part his death played in the story. The others seemed to think his death carried a special purpose, a meaning that theirs did not. At first, he too thought this was true, that the Avengers team had coalesced around the idea to put aside their differences to honor his memory. His death had brought them together.

This was false. A lie told by Nick Fury had brought them together. The collector cards were not in his pocket; they were in his locker. How easy it was to paint marks of destiny over coincidence. His death was random and stupid, only given meaning through a lie.

Coulson slammed the book shut. His head steamed with rage and bitterness, while his heart sank with the weight of disappointment. He should have been proud to have been part of saving the world, even in a small way, but all he could think about were the parts of life he would never experience, the parts he had given up so recklessly while trying to play the hero. Maybe if he had been more special, if he had had superpowers, a real destiny, then maybe he would have survived. Why were some people blessed with more than others? Why were others delegated to play smaller parts, to be less than spectacular, to be just shy of heroic? Why when he grabbed that weapon had he thought he could even survive, much less win? He was just Agent Coulson. That's all he had ever been.

"I almost died from a brain tumor," Joyce said. Coulson had not even noticed her sit down beside him nor had he noticed that she had taken the book from him and was reading through it. "I had surgery, though, and I was fine—until a few weeks later, I had an aneurysm and died."

Coulson put his hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry."

Joyce laughed. "It's okay. Perhaps it's even better this way. Everyone experiences death at some point, so it has to be random so that it's fair. If our deaths were meaningful—I mean, if our deaths really made the world better, what would that say about our lives?"

"I don't know," Coulson said. "I always envisioned my death would be out of a great sacrifice for others. Maybe I was just idealistic."

Joyce listened carefully to his words. "You wanted your death to be glorious," she said, "but it's true what they say—that there's nothing glorious about death."

"That's probably true," Coulson said. "I'm starting to think, though, that not everything they say about death should be believed."

"Like what?"

"Well, for one, I don't think death is as bad as they say it is."

Coulson took Joyce's hand in his. Their fingers interlocked. There was a potential here, a possibility that they could stay like this for all of eternity.