In Giles' office, he and Hannah were pouring over research materials and the handwritten notes that littered the Watcher's desk. Intently engrossed on the work before them, neither noticed the door opening or realized they were no longer alone. Both were visibly startled when a hurled pad came skidding across the surface, scattering papers to the wind. Looking up with surprise, they saw Xander standing before them – face heavily streaked with grime and sweat. There was blood on his shirt and anger in his eye.

Hannah drew a sharp breath at the sight. "Oh my god ..."

But Xander focused only on Giles. "I got your report," he relayed crisply. "It's all right there, in black and white and red all over."

Giles straightened. "Xander, what—"

Hannah hurried to Xander's side. "We need to get you to a doctor."

"Don't worry, it's not mine," Xander told her quietly, but his tone upon addressing Giles was much more harsh. "It's a bold new fashion statement. Think it'll catch on?"

A fleeting expression of relief crossed Giles face, unable to totally disguise his concern. "You're uninjured?"

Xander nodded stiffly. "Lucky me. Not so much for Denise. I guess the gods of fortune were too busy sitting on their asses and watching."

Hannah exhaled a deep sigh at the news and looked to Giles, who sank into a chair with shoulders slumped.

"Oh, she's not dead," Xander assured with enforced cheerfulness. " Not yet, anyway. And hey, maybe they can even save her arm."

Giles absorbed the statement for a moment and then slipped effortlessly into businesslike mode. He reclined in the seat and steepled his fingers. "What happened?"

"There were five of them when we got there," began Xander, waving off Hannah as she tried to usher him into an armchair. "We had them outnumbered two to one, but they were big. Strong. Fugly, too. I sent Denise and Xue to guard the back entrance when they got ambushed." He pressed his lips together tightly before continuing. "Hand picked them," he muttered with self-recrimination.

Xander shook his head from side to side, as though he were trying to clear his mind. Both Hannah and Giles allowed him a moment for composure, then Giles broke the hush.

"And what were you able to learn about the demons?"

Expression disbelieving at the callous inquiry, Hannah shot a sharp glance at Giles, which he ignored. As for Xander, his jaw became set and the words that left his mouth were delivered with caustic sarcasm and no little fury. He gestured toward the notepad.

"It's there. Sorry I didn’t have time to type it." He gaze narrowed to a thin glare. "I was a little busy trying to staunch some bleeding."

Giles nodded. "I see." There was another pause while he presumably mulled over the situation. His face, however, betrayed nothing.

"You did well, Xander," he finally acknowledged, tapping the pad with a pencil. "This information may help us save lives."

Xander let out a mirthless chuckle. "I'm sure that'll make Denise feel better when she's learning to tie her shoes with one hand."

Giles refused to rise to the bait. "You should go get cleaned up," he advised.

"That's it, huh?" Xander accused, tossing his hands out to the side. "A girl gets her arm practically ripped off because I told her to stand somewhere, and your advice is to take my evening toilette?" His fingers curled into white-knuckled fists.

"What happened is ... is terrible," Giles granted with soft sincerity. "We'll do absolutely everything we can for Denise, of course. However until I've read your report, I can't give you a more personal critique—"

"Critique?" Xander repeated incredulously. "I'm not asking you to look over my book report, Giles!"

"Xander ..." Hannah murmured, doing her best to soothe the young man, though her efforts were fruitless.

Lurching forward, Xander thumped violently on the desktop. "Whatever happens to Denise is a direct result of my decisions!"

Giles considered the wrathful gaze and fought to maintain inner calm. "I know," he admitted.

This apparent lack of reaction served only to heighten Xander's incensed mood. He angrily swept a stack of papers to the floor. "God, is there anything left in you?" he challenged. "A girl almost died tonight!"

Giles sprang to his feet, hurling the chair backward as he rose. He slammed his palms upon the desk, eyes glittering like flint behind the lenses of his glasses. "And how many were saved?" he shouted in return. Seizing the notepad, he threw in Xander's direction, where it was caught on instinct.

"Tell me!" insisted an unwavering Giles. "How many innocent lives did your decisions save tonight?"

Xander had no need to check his scribblings for verification. His response was more subdued. "Eight."

Giles took a deep breath and began to steady himself, although his every muscle remained tense. Deeply concerned, Hannah went to her ex-husband's side, but made no move to either say or do anything. Instead, she continued to observe the unfolding state of affairs, her watchful eyes missing nothing.

"Eight lives for a possible one," recounted Giles wearily. "That ... That's a good day, Xander."

"A good day," came the sneering reply. "Denise nearly bleeds to death right in front of me, and that's a good day."

Giles exhaled again, displaying his frustration. "That isn't what I meant." He ran a hand through his hair and took another stab at explanation. "I empathize with what you must be feeling. But as a Watcher, you must learn to look at the larger picture."

He treated Xander to a grave and serious stare, trying to communicate the importance of what he was about to say and the necessity for the younger man to understand.

"This is not the hardest decision you will ever make," Giles informed him with some regret, "nor is it the highest price you will be asked to pay. The job that we do requires a certain ..."

"Ruthless detachment?" interjected Xander helpfully.

It was impossible to fully disguise the wince, but Giles pushed onward without reprimand. "Efficiency," he corrected gently. "We exist to protect the world, and the Slayers are the tools by which we do that."

Xander snorted. "Nice philosophy you've got there, Mr. Travers."

Giles massaged his forehead, fingers digging into the flesh. "Xander—"

But Xander had ostensibly heard enough. "No, you know what? I've got someone else's blood to wash off of me."

He returned the notepad to the desk with a toss of contempt and spun sharply on his heel. Giles watched as he yanked the door almost from its hinges and marched from the room.

Upon Xander's departure, Giles sank heavily into his chair. "That went well."

Hannah crouched at his side. "He's just angry and frustrated," she comforted, her hand resting on his wrist.

With a near imperceptible shuffle, Giles shifted from Hannah's light grip. "Two emotions I'm rather acquainted with myself at the moment," he muttered, closing his eyes and sinking back into his seat.

With a frown, Hannah scrutinized the haggard expression and slouching shoulders. "Rupert ... about what you said ..."

Arching an eyebrow, Giles regarded her from beneath lowered lids and waited for completion of the question. As Hannah continued her detailed study, however, realization began to dawn. "You meant every word, didn't you?" she asked with the vaguest taint of disgust.

Her only answer was a deliberate clenching of the eyes. "Perhaps we can continue our work tomorrow," he murmured.

Hannah was unwilling to let the matter drop. "Ziggy, it's—"

"Tomorrow, Miss Sinclair," he insisted with cold finality.

Hannah recoiled as though she had just been smacked in the face, but her astounded expression was quickly replaced by one of outrage. Pushing herself up, she strode smartly toward the open door, pulling it closed behind her with a force that rattled the wall.

Giles remained still for a long moment. Then, his eyes cracked open and he tugged at a nearby drawer, groping blindly until he found what he was seeking. Retrieving a shot glass and half-full bottle of whiskey, he removed the cap and poured liberally. He considered the rich amber liquid for some time, swirling the glass, before raising it to his lips and draining the contents in one grateful swallow.

The morning sun was insipid, promising little in the way of warmth for the upcoming hours. Across a drab sky, even drabber clouds scuttled, carrying their threat of possible rain. In the private training room at Slayer Central, a pair of headphones jammed firmly over her ears, Buffy pounded a punching bag and engaged in a recital.

"Proteins," she echoed dutifully. "Proteins are amino acid chains. They're formed by amino acids and peptide bonds." A frown creased her forehead. "Now what the hell's a peptide bond?"

She listened carefully to the silence for a moment, fists never ceasing in their relentless hammering.

"Any day now," she urged.

Apparently, there was more silence.

"If you don't tell me," she briskly informed, "I'm just going to guess. Trust me, neither of us wants this."

Still there was no joy.

Tilting her head to one side, Buffy pondered the unanswered query as though it were one of great philosophical importance. "Isn't a peptide that stuff you take for heartburn?" The revelation was short-lived. "No, wait, that's Pepcid."

Mournfully, Buffy groaned and ripped off the headphones, taking out her frustration on the hapless punching bag, "I'm never going to pass this thing! Not without ..."

Suddenly her expression brightened considerably. Clearing her throat, she moved into practice mode. "Hey, Will!" Buffy smiled charmingly at the spot where Willow might possibly be in the near future. "You know how you said you'd help me however you could during Buffy's College Adventures: The Sequel? So I was thinking, if you knew some way to sort of Sabrina yourself into my head from about two to three on Friday, I could—"

The rehearsal was abruptly interrupted by Faith's entrance, and Buffy's mouth immediately clamped shut. Faith's outfit indicated that she too had plans to utilize the workout room, but from her expression she'd been lost in thought and was just as surprised to see Buffy. The pair spotted each other at almost the same instant and both visibly stiffened beneath the atmosphere of tension that erupted between them.

Buffy gave a brisk clip of her chin. "Faith."

Faith's response was equally as curt. "B."

For a while, neither woman broke the ensuing and uneasy hush. When they did speak, it was in unison and the declaration of one canceled out the declaration of the other.

"I was just going—" Buffy announced.

"I don't have to—" began Faith.

The threads of conversation were abruptly cut, leaving nothing but thick silence until Buffy tried again.

"You stay. Me go."

Faith shook her head. "Nah, it's cool. You're already in the middle'a somethin'. I'll come back later."

"I'm done," Buffy insisted. "I have a class to get to, and anyway, I'm sure you have lots of skills to hone: punching, kicking, neck-snapping."

As soon as the words had rolled deftly from her tongue, Buffy bit her lip and cast her eyes to the floor. If the barb had physical form, she would have snatched it back, but it was already too late.

"Forget it, " Faith responded with a thinly-disguised sneer. "Between you, me an' your superiority, it's gettin' kinda crowded."

Turning, Faith made her way toward the exit, but her departure was quickly halted by Buffy.

"Faith, wait! I'm ... sorry. I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean—" She faltered a little at the disparaging look Faith tossed over her shoulder. "Okay, I meant it," she admitted. "Just ... not the part where I said it out loud."

"Straight from the heart, B," encouraged Faith. "Glad we're bestest buds again."

Buffy sighed, unsure of where to step next in the minefield of conversation. "What do you want from me, Faith?"

"I dunno, what do you want from me?" retorted Faith with a questioning tilt of her head. She leaned casually against the doorjamb and crossed her arms.

"Well unless you've got your very own Marty McFly to go back in time ..."

Faith smirked. "Sorry, fresh out."

"Then I guess that's that."

"Guess so."

A decidedly uncomfortable quietude settled.

"This was fun," Faith finally decided. "Sorta like gettin' stabbed in the ear with an ice pick. We'll have to do it again real soon."

"It's not exactly a skip through the park for me either, you know." The edge in Buffy's voice was making an undeniable comeback.

"Right," conceded Faith, pushing away from the door and moving further into the room. "I can see how tired you must get, peerin' down on all the rest of us from that high horse of yours."

Instinctively, Buffy adopted a guarded stance. Her reply was no less defensive. "Do you think I like feeling this way about you again? You were supposed to be different now, Faith. Better!"

"Just like you?" Faith's tone was heavily laced with sarcasm.

"No, just like you," retorted Buffy, "only without the bonus psycho features!"

"I know what I did was wrong ..." Faith responded hesitantly.

"Well great!" enthused Buffy. "Good first step!"

The narrowing of Faith's eyes indicated she was on a short rope. "Sorry B," she apologized, not sounding especially sorry at that moment. "I keep forgetting how perfect you are. You'd never understand, right? That need to give as good as you got. Make someone pay for what they did to you or someone you care about."

Buffy pursed her mouth. "Feeling like that and acting on it aren't even in the same zip code. We are Slayers, Faith. We're supposed to be the good guys."

"And sometimes to be the good guys, we have to kill the bad guys," reminded Faith, as though she were talking to a small child.

"Not like that!" came the sharp accusation. "Judith was helpless."

"And what would'a happened when she wasn't, huh? You really think she'd be sittin' in prison right now?" Faith's lips curled contemptuously. "Cuz take it from me, they don't give you a whole lotta incentive in there to stick around if you don't gotta."

It was a valid point, and one Buffy couldn't entirely muster the defense to refute. "I don't know," she confessed. "I don't have all the answers. But I can't ... What am I supposed to do?" Her gaze penetrated Faith. "Forgive and forget that you killed someone in cold blood?"

"Just like Willow?"

Buffy's momentum ground to a screeching halt.

Faith smiled, though it contained no true merriment. "Guess she don't count. Angel and Spike neither, huh?"

With an arched eyebrow, Faith waited for an answer. Buffy had none.

"Guess I'm not the only one with issues," summarized Faith. "But then, I'm a 'good guy with psycho features'." She stared Buffy in the eye. "What's your excuse, B?"

She didn't wait for a response. Faith simply strode out of the room, leaving Buffy alone with her unanswered questions.

"And then, fwhoom!" Dawn threw her hands open theatrically. "She just walks out, leaving behind much drama. It was very cool." She nodded with satisfaction.

Tara smiled indulgently. "I bet."

Seated in an ice cream shop on the Penn State campus, Dawn was making short shrift of a huge banana split. Tara's small dish of French vanilla spiked with butterscotch sprinkles seemed almost dwarf-like in comparison.

"Thank god for TiVo, that's all I can say," sighed Dawn gratefully, holding aloft a gigantic spoonful before shoveling it into her mouth. "They should just reschedule school around my TV."

"Uh-huh," agreed an absent-minded Tara.

Picking up on the definite "I'm not really listening" vibe, Dawn frowned and began to make a detailed study of Tara's expression. Focused primarily upon the bowl in front of her, Tara wasn't so much consuming the ice cream as she was playing with it – alternately sculpting the melting confection into abstract peaks and then smooshing it around again.

"I guess that's what college is for though, right?" suggested Dawn.

"Absolutely."

"Well that, and Roman-style orgies where you work your way through as many frat boys as possible in one night." Dawn regarded Tara expectantly.

She was treated to a fleeting smile. "Sounds fun."

Deriving no small amount of personal satisfaction from the agreement, Dawn grinned wickedly.

"If you're willing to, you know, exchange a lifetime of freedom for an evening of debauchery," added Tara, her tone appearing to be as unheeding as before.

A look of surprise invaded Dawn's features as Tara glanced up from her bowl and smirked. "I was listening."

"Well it was an easy mistake," returned Dawn defensively, "given your attention to the Vanilla de Milo there." She gestured at the deformed lump of ice cream nestling in Tara's dish.

Paused in mid-sculpt, Tara's eyes traveled to the misshapen creation. She grinned somewhat self-consciously before scooping the "head" from her masterpiece and quickly swallowing it.

"Yummy," she murmured as she licked the back of the spoon.

"Avoidy," gainsaid Dawn, viciously stabbing her banana. "So what's up with you?"

"Up?" asked Tara innocently. "I'd say I'm up to level 53."

Dawn's brow furrowed. "Level fif..." She shot a suspicious look Tara's way. "What's level 53?"

Tara smiled. "Whatever you want it to be."

"That's cheating," Dawn felt strongly driven to point out. "No cheating comments that make no sense." She popped an overly large wedge of fruit into her mouth and talked around the obstacle with amazing clarity. "Seriously, are you okay? You keep getting that glassy-eyed, 'my brain is on world tour' stare."

Tara shrugged. "I just have a lot of stuff going on, that's all. Mostly school stuff, you know how it is. Still getting into the swing."

"Makes sense. You don't wanna swing when you should've swung," nodded Dawn with confidence, despite – or perhaps because of – the seeming randomness.

"That just leads to disaster and heartache," Tara continued smoothly.

"And really," Dawn agreed with a touch of bitterness, reaching across her own plentiful dessert to snag a healthy helping of Tara's ice cream, "don't we get enough of that without help?"

Wasting no time in returning the favor, Tara promptly launched her own invasion upon Dawn's banana split. The blonde waved her spoon and grinned in triumph, but then frowned as she noted that Dawn's good mood had slipped.

"So," Tara ventured, keeping her tone light as though she'd noticed nothing, "how is the most incredible boy to ever have a Y-chromosome?"

Dawn blinked for a moment before responding enthusiastically, "He's good!"

Tara waited for the customary expansion that usually accompanied one of Dawn's favorite topics, but none was forthcoming and Dawn was oddly silent once more.

"He's good, but...?" prompted Tara, enjoying the pilfered strawberry/banana combination.

Dawn shrugged. "Nothing really. But I've been ... thinking a lot."

Biding her time, Tara nodded sagely. "Thinking is good." She waited contentedly and patiently for Dawn to elaborate. The teenager did not disappoint, eventually turning to Tara with questioning eyes.

"Do you ever wonder why?" Dawn shook her head, obviously dissatisfied with that opening line, and gave it another try. "Not why. If?" She wrinkled her nose. "No, how?"

Though more than willing to be sympathetic to the query, Tara couldn't help but smile at its convoluted delivery. "I need a few more words in that one, sweetie."

Dawn visibly struggled. "Grip is ... He's really great, you know?"

"So I've heard," Tara gently teased. "At length."

"Okay, so I'm Broken Record Girl," Dawn admitted. "But he is, you know? Smart and sweet and funny and ... and I guess I'm just thinking, why me?"

She ardently searched Tara's face for a plausible explanation and found total understanding. "You're wondering how you got so lucky," Tara clarified.

Dawn nodded enthusiastically, relieved that someone was able to comprehend her predicament. "Right!"

"I suppose the fact that you're every bit as smart and sweet and funny never crossed your mind."

It took a bit of effort, but Tara was able to hold back a chuckle at Dawn's answering expression.

"Tara, c'mon." The flat, leveled look made it clear Dawn wouldn't pay even ten cents for that line. "You're family. You have to say that."

"I'm pretty sure I didn't sign on for gratuitous ego-fluffing," Tara countered, but a toss of shiny brown hair declared the argument at an end.

"Anyway," Dawn persisted, "Brenda said something the other day that got me thinking about how, like ... Grip doesn't know me. Not really."

This time, Tara openly smiled. "Well your relationship is still pretty ... you know. New. It takes a while to really get to know each other and—"

"No," Dawn interrupted. "I don't mean 'know' like him knowing I sometimes start singing the 'Gummi Bears' theme song for no good reason. I mean know know. Stuff. Important stuff."

Tara considered this declaration carefully before offering a reply. "Like Slaying stuff?"

Slowly, Dawn shook her head. "Like Key stuff."

The two stared at each other for a moment.

"That's important stuff," Tara noted solemnly.

"It totally is," admitted a rueful Dawn. "I mean, what am I supposed to say? 'Hey Grip, I'd love to go the movies with you. Don't worry about the age rating, I'm actually old enough to have met the protoplasm you evolved from'."

Tara nearly choked on the ice cream she'd just swallowed. "I-I probably wouldn't recommend that phrasing."

"I know he likes me," continued Dawn without pause, "but ... but is it me me, or does he just see the me he wants me to be?" She fell silent, replaying the question in her head. "I don't know if that made sense."

The bulk of her attention focused inward, Dawn neglected to notice the wistful look that settled on Tara's face. "It did," the blonde confirmed, her tone indicating an especially strong dose of empathy.

"And it's like, so do I tell him?" Dawn chased her maraschino cherry around the bottom of her bowl. "Tell him that practically everything he knew about me was wrapped up in this huge lie? And once I did, would he want to know who I really am underneath all that? And if he didn't ... could I take it?"

Presumably, Dawn expected no verification or otherwise. Lost in thought, she continued to poke mournfully at her dessert, unaware that her expression and Tara's could have been mirror images. Tara gave no voice to Dawn's questions – though it seemed she wished that she could.

Beneath the pallid light of a crescent moon, two figures walked purposefully but unhurriedly. The girl's cloak shimmered darkly scarlet, her bearing stately and regal as she covered the ground with a long stride. The one who accompanied her was barely discernible from the encroaching shadows, except for his shock of flaxen hair.

"I remain unconvinced, Marcus," she stated, eyes firmly fixed ahead.

"I am aware, Lady," her companion readily admitted.

"This is unacceptable." Her tone was dangerously calm. "I refuse to waste my time on one who has not earned it."

"Yes, Lady," Marcus agreed.

Coming to an abrupt halt, she turned to face him. "You will explain to me again."

With downcast eyes, Marcus bowed his head.

"Lady. I watched the enemy as you commanded. Nightly, soldiers are dispatched to patrol this region. Often they move in pairs or small groups of three or four, but there is one group that is consistently larger." Employing caution, he dared to glance in her direction. "Under the direct command of their general, they slaughter their opponents with efficiency and without remorse. All kills come at his order, Lady." He lowered his gaze once more. "I personally heard him confirm this."

The girl regarded him thoughtfully. "You do not blame the hammer for the actions of the hand."

Marcus apparently had nothing of intelligence to add and wisely held his tongue while the girl continued to dwell on the proposition. Waiting in respectful silence, he started slightly as the small transmitter attached to his lapel crackled into life.

"They're here, sir," came the hushed message. "The demons have engaged."

Marcus' eyes glowed with anticipation. "Excellent," he whispered, bringing the device close to his mouth. "We'll be along shortly." He bowed to the girl once more, seemingly reluctant to intrude upon her reverie. "Lady ..."

"Take me," she instructed with a curt nod.

Marcus acknowledged the order by extending his arm. Her gloved fingers curled lightly around his elbow as he proudly escorted her toward their destination – a densely forested hillside, which afforded perfect cover while still providing an excellent vantage point. The slope overlooked a large park, strikingly scenic in appearance. To the right of a grassy common, the surface of a man-made lake sparkled with lunar reflections. Rustic benches were dotted randomly yet invitingly around its perimeter. Tall trees, strategically placed to enhance the exterior decor, rustled their leaves in the cool of an evening breeze. To the left, there was a well-equipped playground which, given the late hour was, not surprisingly, devoid of children. Judging by the number of stationary vehicles, this was one of Trillium's prime make-out spots.

But not on this night.

The entire area was swarming with demons – big, strong and, undeniably ugly. The screams of increasing terror that floated upward held little fascination for the cloaked figure who watched the carnage from her lofty position high above. She seemed immune to the butchery taking place below, except for a mild display of detached interest when her gaze rested fleetingly upon one of the Junior Slayers, each girl doing her utmost to protect the innocents and efficiently dispose of the demon adversary. Still, she was essentially impassive until her eyes spied a form standing some distance apart from the conflict.

Brandishing a stout broadsword, Xander's grip alternately tightened and slackened around the hilt of his weapon. Obviously far from delighted with the relative safety of his alienated location, a reluctant and restless Xander was blatantly eager to utilize his sword for more than just defense if push came to shove. Cupping his free hand to his mouth, he shouted an order to a smattering of Juniors within earshot and they reacted immediately, rushing to the defense of a horror-struck youth who was mere moments away from being eviscerated.

From the hillside, the girl watched with rapt attention, her focus wandering from Xander only to assess the import of his commands upon the battlefield. She reached out toward him, seeming to nestle him with the palm of her glove. She tilted her head speculatively then, lightning fast, clenched her fingers into a fist, utterly obliterating Xander from sight.