All was darkness. Whole, consummate and pure. The darkness was nothing and the darkness was everything.

How?

"Farnstal! So good to see you! Well, as much as I can see you. Even translucent, you look sharp."

The response was garbled, like a scrambled radio signal from some foreign location. However, even if the reception had been perfect, it was doubtful the transmission would have been understandable. It seemed to issue from a distance far away. The incoherent message was rewarded with a merry laugh.

"And you kept your sense of humor! Oh, dear me."

A groan, pained and weak, could be heard from a nearby source.

"Bernie! It feels like it's been a thousand years. Probably because it has been."

The jumbled chatter continued, overlaid by yet another groan.

"And Yitam. It's always a—"

The declaration was interrupted by a burst of incomprehensible jabbering, but the tone was unmistakably harsh and angry. Very angry.

"Now Yitam. Manners. You're a guest."

Why?

Yet another stream of unintelligible speech could be heard. The delivery was no less infuriated than before.

"That's your anger talking."

The enraged babble climbed an octave higher.

"Which, if you recall, was the fault of that magician, not me. Very inconsiderate really. Sure, he gets a witch, but the rest of us? Just because he's done with the Key ..."

When?

This time, the shrill gibberish was followed by a sigh.

"But you drove her out, and did a mighty fine job of it too. She rested, built up that power until she was ready to control it, and here we are. Really, I think you're upset about nothing. Have some cocoa."

Now.

Dawn opened her eyes.

Images swam before her, blurred and fuzzy around the edges, as though she were under water. She squeezed her eyelids tightly shut and tried again. Slowly, things came into focus.

The room was comfortable and inviting. A welcoming den or lounge. A small fire blazed cheerily in the hearth and the walls were lined with tall bookcases containing numerous leather-bound volumes and neatly-stacked newspapers. A plush sofa with over-stuffed cushions dominated the area, which was littered with intriguing and attractive knickknacks adorning every available surface. The room radiated with homespun warmth and well-being.

Dawn was seated in a high-back wooden chair. Her wrists had been securely bound from behind and her ankles firmly tied to the legs of the chair . Thus, she found little consolation in the overall air of "warmth" and "well-being." It took a few seconds for her to become fully aware of the situation. That she had been confined and restricted. A captive.

Fearfully, she took stock of her surroundings and the three shadowy figures seated on the couch. A flicker of remembrance crossed her features. She had seen them before – at the perimeter of a clearing against a forest backdrop, bearing flaming torches. Involuntarily, she gave a sharp intake of breath as recognition penetrated. It was the Wren Boys, their forms nebulous and lacking solidity.

Unable to focus on anything else, she stared in horror as the outlines of the trio shimmered and then vanished, leaving behind three ugly demons, reptilian in appearance, complete with gray scaly skin and long tails. They were thin, lean, utterly repugnant and every bit incorporeal as their former counterparts. One in particular was trying desperately to lift a delicate china teacup from the table in front of him. He made the attempt time and time again, but to no avail. Occasionally, it did seem as though he was able to make it move a little as, slowly but surely, the demons began to transform into beings of shape and substance in the present dimension.

Tearing her eyes away, Dawn's attention switched to Dr. Joseph. Initially, he didn't seem to notice that she had regained consciousness, intent as he was on being a good host. He placed cookies with infinite precision upon a large platter, setting it on the coffee table before his guests. The two demons who were not engaged in wrestling with the stubborn teacup immediately made a grab, but met with no more success than their companion. The three were simply not yet sufficiently tangible to accomplish such tasks, but it was clearly only a matter of time. As Dawn concentrated on Dr. Joseph, he also began to undergo a metamorphosis. A bathrobe, worn atop a dress shirt and pair of slacks, replaced the woolly cardigan. The facial features contorted for a brief second and Dawn instantly gasped as she recognized the visage that smoothly took its place. Four pairs of eyes turned in her direction as the shift reached its completion.

Doc gave her a friendly smile, as though he was meeting a long-lost old friend. "Well, look who's awake," he observed happily. "Would you like some cocoa?"

Dawn stared for a moment and then refocused on the three demons. All had their lizardly lips drawn back in a snarl and one of them actually seemed to be drooling. Dawn shuddered with revulsion and her eyes quickly darted back to Doc. Head tilted slightly to one side, he was waiting patiently to hear whether or not she'd like to indulge in a nice cup of cocoa.

Dawn's expression registered disbelief. "It can't ... You're dead."

This was obviously a surprising bit of news. "I am? Nobody told me."

"Buffy pushed you off of the tower," Dawn insisted. "The crazy tower. I saw her."

"Oh, that," dismissed Doc with a wave. "Hurt, yes, but kill?" He chuckled. "It takes more than a little tumble to kill our kind. More than anything you got in this dimension, anyway. It's a nice place, sure, but as far as killing goes, I gotta say, it's a little on the uncreative side, you know?" He shuffled closer. "Now, was that a yes to cocoa?"

Dawn pulled back as far as she could, given her restraints. "What? No."

"Are you sure?" asked Doc, somewhat disappointed. "I make really good cocoa, don't I Yitam?"

Eyes never leaving Dawn's face, Yitam growled something appropriate in response.

Doc was appeased. "There, you see?"

"I don't want cocoa," said Dawn defiantly, determined to put on a brave face. Her efforts weren't entirely successful, but nonetheless laudable. "I- I want answers. What are you? What do you want with me?"

"We're demons," Doc explained, glancing over his shoulder at his guests. "I thought that was obvious. As for you, well, you've already been very helpful. My friends were stuck in a sort of limbo, y'see. Caught between dimensions." Doc scratched absently at his chin. "I was lucky enough to get free when we were tossed in there, oh, six, seven hundred years ago." He shrugged as though the length of time was of no moment. "I've been trying to help out since, but dimensional magicks ... slippery stuff, and not exactly my specialty. With Glorificus, I was pretty sure I had it figured out. The walls go down and all my boys had to do was find their way here. That Slayer of yours messed things up but good, though." He frowned. "Hm. Have to remember to thank her for that."

The trio on the couch cackled. The sound was dark, evil, and full of promise. Their forms were a little more solidified now, particularly around the edges. One of them had even managed to drag a cookie almost completely toward him with one sharply taloned digit.

"But, well, we all know how that ended up, don't we?" continued Doc. "It took me a little while to get my bearings after that one. Did a bit of reading up on the Key –" He treated Dawn to an affectionate nod. "You – while I was at it, and figured you were still my best chance. You weren't ready then. But look at you now."

He beamed at Dawn in admiration and something akin to parental pride. She squirmed in her seat and looked disturbed at the notion, but her mask of courage stayed fixed.

"And- And so you're here," she acknowledged, sitting straight in her chair. "What are you going to do?"

"Nothing much," replied Doc nonchalantly. "Destroy life on earth as you know it. It's not a big thing."

Horrified, Dawn's eyes grew round as saucers. "What?"

"Oh not me personally," he hastened to assure. "Not entirely. With the fellas still a bit out of sorts, I've got limits. Gotta get them back to normal first."

His gaze traveled to the demon trio and he evaluated their progress. Development was slow but gradually, they were taking on a more substantial essence. He smiled and refocused on Dawn, favoring her with an assured wink. "Shouldn't be too long now."

Dawn's anxiety was mounting. "But- But then what will...?"

"Get something to eat, probably," Doc informed her conversationally. "You wouldn't believe how long it's been. See, Yitam there feeds on fear." Yitam flicked his forked tongue in Dawn's direction, as though he could already taste her.

"Farnstal and Bernie," continued Doc, as both wiggled 'hello' with their wicked claws, "take care of hopes and dreams. Me, I come in after they're all done and sort of devour reality itself. Tasty stuff, reality. Especially with a dash of horseradish." He smiled at Dawn, and although still friendly, there was an underlying hint of genuine malevolence. "It's been a really, really long time, and I'm very hungry."

Dawn's owl-like eyes quickly narrowed in desperate concentration. She appeared to be on the verge of panic and was obviously calling upon every ounce of energy to teleport from the area.

"Don't strain yourself, kid," advised Doc. "You're good, but you're new. Ironic, isn't it?" He took a moment to chuckle before getting back on topic. "It cost a boatload of power to get my buddies outta there. You'll be a while before you can pull another stunt, so just sit back and relax." He lifted the platter from the coffee table and offered it to her. "Cookie?"

An excitable rush of chatter emanated from the sofa. One of the demons was saying something. A rather lengthy something to which Doc listened intently. It sounded like gobbledygook to Dawn, but she pounced upon the distraction to struggle against her bonds. They remained as secure as before.

"It might ruin the cocoa," Doc replied with a frown. Still, he gave due consideration to the instantaneous rebuttal and shrugged, seeming to relent.

"Bernie thinks that maybe you can help us speed things along after all," he informed Dawn cheerfully. "Your blood's pretty special, you know. Potent."

In less than a heartbeat, he had taken up position behind Dawn's chair, a knife in his hand that had seemingly materialized from thin air. With a sudden movement, he brought the blade to her shoulder and drew it toward her elbow in an arching gash. Dawn bit her lip but was unable to totally stifle the cry of pain. Quickly turning his head, Doc used his long, prehensile tongue to snag a teacup. Grasping the handle with his fingers, he held it beneath Dawn's wound. Drops of rich red blood began to swirl and mingle with the cocoa.

"We slice you open," he explained, mostly to himself, "and the boys take a drink, and by the time you're dry ..."

Swiftly, he inflicted another cut. This time, Dawn made no effort to muffle the shrill cry. Tears prickled behind her eyelids and the glare she tossed Doc's way was a study in undisguised hatred. But he was far too preoccupied with his current activity to notice. Seizing the opportunity, she jerked back her head and drove it into his chin with all the strength she could muster. He staggered, affording Dawn a chance to shift her body weight sufficiently to hurl herself toward the floor. The chair had no choice but to follow and its legs sailed upward, landing squarely in Doc's face with a heavy thud. Just before Dawn was about to hit the ground in an awkward and probably agonizing heap, there was brilliant green flash. The chair and ropes toppled to the carpet but of Dawn, there was no sign.

Shaking his head, Doc recovered his bearings. He frowned at the empty chair and limp ropes. A smear of thick blue blood oozed down the side of his nose, but he paid it no mind. He blinked at the vacant space on the floor where Dawn, by all rights, should now be residing. Absent-mindedly, he focused upon the teacup, amazingly still secure within his fingers.

"Well then," he said taking a sip. Immediately, his features crinkled into an expression of distaste and he eyed the figures on the couch. "I told you it'd be ruined."

Buffy and Willow sat next to each other on the couch in the living room. Textbooks, notepads and an assortment of assignment pages lay on the cushion between them. Xander and Tara were on the floor, engaged in a spirited video game of Hot Shots Golf.

"I hate this," complained Buffy.

Willow smirked. "You're weird that way."

Buffy was instantly indignant. "I'm weird?"

"Yup," confirmed Willow. "It's a well-known fact. Documented and everything. See? Says so right here." She pointed to a passage in the textbook. "'Buffy is weird.'"

"You're funny." The flat tone indicated no possible amount of actual funny.

"It says that too," Willow agreed amicably. "Now pay attention."

With a long-suffering groan, Buffy rested her head against the back of the sofa. Apparently, the paying of attention wasn't high on her list of priorities. "C'mon, don’t make me," she wheedled.

"Buffy, you said this was due on Monday," said Willow sternly.

Buffy regarded her hopefully. "It is. So you should do it."

"I'm not doing your homework!"

"Please?"

"No!"

"I'll be your best friend," offered Buffy with an endearing smile.

"You are my best friend."

Buffy nodded in complete agreement. "Then it's time to pay up."

The line of reasoning was getting nowhere, and Buffy wilted beneath Willow's challenging gaze. Mumbling her displeasure, she sat straight and grabbed one of the textbooks, holding it upside down. At Willow's arched eyebrow, she quickly turned it the right way.

"I think Willow won," Xander grinned, although his gaze never left the television.

Tara nodded, watching him prepare for his next shot. "Yeah, she tends to do that."

"That's good," he replied, attention rapt upon the impending stroke. "One of you should be a winner. Then I won't feel so bad ..." His tongue crept from the corner of his mouth as he delicately tapped a button. "...for kickin' your ass so completely."

The ball rolled smoothly into the hole, and Xander thrust his arms into the air as a congratulatory message brightly flashed. "Victory!" he crowed.

"Is he beating you, baby?" asked Willow sympathetically.

"I," announced Xander proudly, forefinger prodding his breastbone, "am beating her..." The prodding was transferred to Tara's upper arm, "...like a very beaten thing."

Tara wasn't to be deterred. "I'm planning a big comeback, though," she swore.

Turning to the screen, she analyzed the position of her ball, firmly ensconced in the rough. With a careful tap of a button, her onscreen persona took a mighty swing. The ball skipped forward about an inch. Tara frowned. "I'm revising my big comeback."

Xander let out a huge sigh of happiness and contentment. "Golf. It's a man's game," he declared. "You know why it's a man's game?"

"Because it involves long sticks and little white balls?" Tara asked innocently.

Buffy immediately began choking back a laugh, while Willow simply snickered.

"No," Xander refuted, "because ..."

He watched the screen as Tara, studying her predicament, tried for another swing. This time, the ball landed squarely on the green.

"Actually, yeah, you're about right," Xander finally admitted with an unapologetic grin.

Tara tried for another shot. Her ball rolled encouragingly in the direction of the hole, but stopped just short. Xander leaned forward eagerly. The game was on.

"Okay Tara, you've gotta get this," urged Buffy, tossing the textbook aside. Also wrapped up in the game, Willow thankfully didn't seem to notice. "All of womanhood is counting on you."

Tara's brow became furrowed. "See, this is why I don’t like being iconic."

The tension in the living room became suffocatingly thick and it seemed like everyone was holding their breath. Steeling her shoulders, Tara depressed the button. The little lady golfer shuffled her feet and pulled back her club. Tara's finger hovered nervously. The future of feminine supremacy undoubtedly rested on the accuracy of this next shot. The silence was almost deafening. If a pin had dropped, it would have echoed like a clap of thunder.

But it was not the drop of a pin or the rumble of thunder that shattered the quietude. It was the loud 'whoosh' of rushing air and an explosion of green light.

Taken off-guard, Tara mistimed the precise art of button-pushing, and the muchly needed putt became a line drive, right back into the rough. Tara scowled at the screen. "Well of course," she muttered peevishly.

But there was no time to dwell on the consequences of Tara's defeat. To everyone's astonishment, Dawn had suddenly materialized. After tottering unsteadily for a second, she collapsed into Xander's vacant chair. She grinned delightedly as realization set in that she was home.

"I’m not on my face!" she declared gleefully.

"Yeah," Willow agreed with a confused expression. "I hate when that happens."

Buffy blinked at her sister. "What are—" Her eyes grew wide as she noticed the nasty gash and the blood trickling slowly down Dawn's arm. "Xander, bandages, now."

Leaping to his feet, Xander bounded up the stairs two at a time, while the others rushed to Dawn's side.

"Okay, what happened?" demanded Buffy, grim-faced as she crouched in front of the chair.

Glancing at her injury, Dawn groaned. "Can I just say that I'm sick of getting cut up this year?" she asked petulantly.

"Fine, you've said it," acknowledged Buffy curtly. "Answers."

Dawn's expression grew deadly serious. She inhaled deeply and stared Buffy in the eye.

"I think I really screwed up."

Carrying a sturdy double-bladed axe, Xander came down the stairs into Dr. Joseph's lounge. He glanced at Buffy and shook his head. "Nada."

The Slayer was well-armed with a sword in one hand and a loaded double-crossbow slung over her shoulder.

"They're gone," complained Dawn. "They're gone." She crossed her arms angrily. "That's ... that's so unfair."

"Think you'll find the bad guys don't exactly follow the rules," commiserated Willow with a grimace.

"It's part of what makes them bad guys," said Tara wryly.

"That and those thin moustaches," added Willow.

Dawn was miserable. "This is all my fault."

"It's not your fault," refuted Buffy firmly.

"They're free because of me," asserted Dawn with equal firmness.

"Did you know what they were doing?" questioned Buffy. "Did you intentionally let out the barbershop quartet of evil?"

Dawn squirmed a little. "No, but—"

"Then it's not your fault," concluded Buffy with an emphatic nod.

Xander placed a comforting arm around Dawn's shoulders and treated her to a quick squeeze. "Besides, how were you supposed to know? We all thought Dr. Joseph was just a sweet old guy. Heck, we've been over here for dinner more times than I can count. And can I just say that I'm feeling a deep sense of betrayal that the primary ingredient in the peach cobbler does not appear to have been love?"

"This is why we can't have friends," sighed Willow.

Dawn's expression became dismal. "If they hurt anybody ..."

"We'll stop them first," Tara was swift to reassure.

Buffy twirled her sword restlessly. "We just need to figure out where they went."

Everyone fell into heavy thought and then, Dawn came to a realization.

"Willow, Tara, can you guys do a—" began Buffy, but she was interrupted by Dawn.

"I can find them." Immediately, Dawn had everybody's attention. "I can feel where they are."

Xander quickly removed his arm and took a step back. "Okay, that's kinda creepy."

"Remnants, maybe?" suggested Willow. "From the portal?"

Buffy was more interested in practicalities than theories. "Can you bring them here?"

Dawn's eyes narrowed in concentration. Slowly, she shook her head. "No. But I can send you to them." Her absorption increased. She seemed to be inwardly listening, feeling out whatever it was. "We have to hurry," she said urgently. "They're getting stronger." Her gaze raked the faces of her companions. "I have a plan. Do you trust me?"

The others regarded each other in silence for a moment, then Buffy turned back to her sister.

"What's the plan?"

The hospital's maternity ward was located in a secluded wing, peacefully buffered from the chaotic atmosphere of the emergency room and shielded, as much as was humanly possible, from the diseases and maladies of the facility's other patients. From within an open utility closet nearby, a green glow rapidly expanded until it became person-sized. As it compacted and dissipated, Willow could plainly be seen. Before the radiance had completely faded, however, another even larger shimmer appeared next to her and it was Xander who emerged from this brilliance. They looked at each other and then began to assess their surroundings.

"Was it just me, or did you expect the plan description to involve a little more description?" whispered Xander, hefting his axe reassuringly.

Cautiously, Willow peered out of the closet, checking the area beyond. Save for some medical equipment pushed against the walls, it was completely empty. "I think time was a bit of an issue," she replied.

"Yeah, there’s a novelty," said Xander wryly. "So you an’ me, huh?"

Willow nodded. "Looks like." Together, they emerged into the hallway, and Willow frowned. "Hey, are we where I think we are?"

"If you’re thinking amusement park, then no," returned Xander. He took point position as they made their way down the corridor.

Willow smirked. "I’m gonna work under the assumption that this wasn’t Dawn showing a really depressing lack of confidence."

"I’d say that’s a good idea," returned Xander, indicating an area on his right, fronted by a wide panel of glass.

Willow followed him to the window. Inside the large room were rows of incubators. Most were occupied, their tiny, red-faced, bawling inhabitants sporting either a blue bonnet or a pink one. The floor was littered with white-uniformed nurses, all apparently unconscious. In the center of the nursery stood one of the gray-scaled reptilian demons. Its lizard-like arms were outstretched and its head was thrown back in ecstasy. From each of the little cribs, thin, spiraling, smoke-like tendrils drifted toward the monster. It was still semi-translucent in substance, but certainly more solid than it had been when trying to snag a cookie in Doc's parlor.

An expression of disgust invaded Willow's face. "Oh. Wrong. Big wrongness." She clenched her fists. "I have a sudden desire to hit it, hard and often." She glanced briefly at Xander. "Think we can hurt it yet?"

Farnstal lowered his head. His eyes suddenly snapped open and he stared menacingly through the glass at Willow and Xander.

Xander's grip tightened on the double-bladed axe.

"I think we’re about to find out."

Luckily, the dimly-lit hallway was deserted when the green glow shimmered into existence and Tara stepped out of the portal. She just had time to hear vague snatches of dialogue and the strains of background music before Giles appeared from within another glimmering flash. His arms were extended, as though he had been leaning against a desk or table when he'd suddenly been whisked away. Almost instantly, he toppled forward, which wasn't surprising given that his former support had abruptly vanished. Stumbling somewhat ungracefully, he managed to regain his footing, thereby saving himself the indignity of falling flat on his face. But it was a close call.

Much to his surprise, it was Tara who rushed to his aid with a subdued, "Mr. Giles!"

"Tara? What are...?" He paused and in less than a heartbeat, had perfectly weighed up his new environment – a theater. "You know if you wanted to go to the movies, you needed only to ask," he told her with a puzzled expression.

"Thanks," she whispered. "I’ll keep that in mind."

Quickly moving further along the darkened row of theaters, she pulled a cell phone from her pocket. Giles watched for a moment, fully anticipating an explanation that, apparently, was not going to be forthcoming any time soon. He hurried after her.

"So shall I guess the whys and means for my being here? I confess to having several rather entertaining possibilities in mind."

Tara didn't answer immediately. She was busy scrolling to a number on her phone while peering in one screening room after another, obviously in search of something.

"I’m sure you do," she eventually threw over her shoulder, "but they’re probably all wrong."

"That’s actually comforting," murmured Giles. "So then what—"

Turning, Tara approached him, waving her hand. "It’ll save time if I only have to explain once."

Giles folded his arms across his chest. He frowned, but was prepared to listen.

Neither noticed the thin tendrils of silvery-gray energy snaking their way from underneath a theater door only a few yards further down the hall.

Hands thrust into the pockets of her leather jacket, Faith sauntered along Slayer Central's main hallway. She was about to turn the corner when a flash of green light materialized, followed almost instantly by Faith's reappearance some distance further back along the passage. Needless to say, the abrupt displacement took her by surprise.

"The hell?" she muttered.

Quickly taking stock of her immediate surroundings, Faith could find nothing out of the ordinary, other than what had just happened. Nevertheless, her well-honed senses seemed to tell her otherwise. She frowned and was about to step-up her investigations when a low buzzing and the vibration of her cell phone in her jeans pocket diverted her attention. Pulling out the mobile, she depressed a button.

"Yeah?" she answered snippily, before falling silent to listen. "You might say that. Freakin’ weird, an’ a heads up next time wouldn’t be a bad idea, y’know?" As the caller continued, she shook her head. "Nah, just back down the hall."

She focused on the conversation, interjecting with the occasional “yeah” and “uh-huh” to indicate that she was listening. Her gaze constantly roamed the corridor as she did so, but while her back was turned, a gray-scaled demon began its soundless crawl up the wall and onto the ceiling above her head. It watched Faith very closely as it made the ascent and appeared to be copiously drooling.

Faith grinned into the receiver. "So I just wail on the son of a bitch an’ wait?" She nodded with satisfaction. "Fun times. ... Yeah, I got it. ... Yeah. Okay."

Snapping the phone shut, she returned it to her pocket. Tensing for action, she whirled and raised her fists, but there was nothing to fight.

"Home-delivered punching bags," she smirked. "That’s service. So where are you, you fu—"

Her expletive went unfinished as every nerve end in her body started to tingle. She looked up just in time to see Yitam lunge from the ceiling.

Upon the flat roof of a lofty downtown building, there was a blinding flash of green that shimmered for a second before leaving Buffy in its wake. She seemed surprised at her location but recovered quickly and lost no time in taking assessing the situation. Not too far from where she had materialized, she spied Doc standing casually near a large air conditioning unit, arms folded across his chest. He had shed the bathrobe and appeared to be rather anticipatory.

Her lips tightened into a thin line. "You know, when someone knocks you from a tall place, it’s really just good manners to die."

Doc nodded in friendly fashion. "Thanks for the tip."

Buffy took a step toward him. He didn't move. "How about we try it again?"

"I would," said Doc agreeably, "but I sort of have a dinner date and I’d hate to disappoint." He grinned in her direction. "They’re growing, you know. They’ll be fully in this dimension any minute now. Then it’ll be my turn."

Buffy's eyes narrowed. "Your turn?"

He nodded again. "This world isn’t the first, and thanks to your little Key, it won’t be the last. Starting right here, at City Hall, is where your world will end." His ensuing wave encompassed the entire area. "We’ll devour it all, every last drop." His expression was one of sheer delight. "It should be quite a show, you’ll wanna stick around."

Buffy was open to the suggestion. "Plan to."

In a blur of speed, she whipped the crossbow from her shoulder, took aim and fired.

In the hospital nursery, Farnstal continued to absorb the essences of the newborns with increasing speed, his expression a macabre mix of iniquity and rapture. Xander and Willow watched with horrified eyes.

"We need him away from them!" said Willow in dismay. "I can't ... I'm afraid I'll ..."

Xander needed to hear no more. Barreling through the open door, he rushed toward the demon and immediately launched into a tackle. But Farnstal's midsection hadn't yet fully solidified and Xander found himself hurtling through the spectral figure to collide with the opposite wall. His battleaxe clattered to the ground as Xander, temporarily stunned, tried to regain his bearings.

Willow wasted no more time. Grabbing a nearby mop, she charged swinging into the nursery. The wooden handle easily passed through Farnstal's arms and chest, and so she swung again. This time, she made satisfying contact with the head and immediately repeated the action. The second strike splintered the handle and served only to infuriate the demon. Snarling, he reached for Willow's neck with a wickedly clawed hand that was disturbingly substantial. But Xander was there. Seizing Farnstal in a chokehold from behind, he began to wrestle the demon toward the entrance. Sprinting across the room, Willow retrieved Xander's axe. She turned, just as Farnstal was hurling Xander to the floor. He slid along the polished tile and then skidded to a halt at her feet.

"Okay," he groaned, "that's now two times too many for being on the floor today." Scrambling upright, he turned to Willow. "Can you—?"

Willow nodded and thrust the weapon into Xander's hands as she stepped forward. Farnstal's eyes glittered dangerously as he locked onto her and prepared to attack once more. Willow simply raised her arm to intercept the assault, and an invisible barrier deflected the blow. The demon tried again, this time with the other hand, but met with the same result. Growling deep in his throat, Farnstal snatched up a metal chair from the hallway, lifting it high above his head. As he did so, Willow let loose with crackling bolts of lightning from her fingertips. The chair glowed brightly, encased in sparking energy, and then acted like a rod. Powerful jolts surged through the demon's body, until Farnstal slumped to the ground. Although unconscious, his muscles twitched uncontrollably and spirals of smoke drifted lazily from the top of his head. Despite the power, the charge wasn't enough to destroy the creature. He was incapacitated, though for how long it was impossible to estimate.

Mouth set in a tight line, Willow looked down disapprovingly. "So there. Bully."

She visibly winced as the wails issuing from the incubators reached nerve-shattering proportions. Turning, she saw Xander cradling a cute bundle of righteous fury. The pink beribboned bonnet had slipped over one eye and the small face was scrunched and scarlet in its wrath. Two tiny fists waved in futile protest while little legs pumped the air. Xander rocked the infant gently in an attempt to instill an air of calm. He spoke to it quietly, soothingly, and Willow leaned against the door jamb to watch, while still keeping the debilitated Farnstal well within her sights.

"Aww," she murmured with an enchanted smile. "Seriously. Aww."

Xander regarded her sharply. He seemed somewhat embarrassed and shuffled his feet. "It was crying," he explained sheepishly.

"I hear they do that," agreed Willow. "It's one of their primary features."

Xander didn't reply, instead refocusing on the baby, who was now beginning to hiccup between screams. Xander jiggled her up and down and made comforting noises. He straightened her bonnet and the little one instantly grabbed his thumb, holding on fast.

Willow's smile could only be described as 'sappy'. "I think it's only fair to tell you," she said firmly, "that this is going down as one of my all-time favorite adorable moments ever."

"Will ..." cautioned Xander.

"Proud Papa Xander," Willow cooed, "with his little howling bundle of joy ..."

"Will." The tone was a little more forceful.

But Willow would not be deterred. "All swaddled and red and screaming in that way that's cute when you know you're the Aunt and can go home and not have to listen to it any more whenever you want. This dream – of mine, for you – can be yours. All you need—"

"Will."

"All you need," continued Willow with determination, "is the right girl to come along and—"

Her sentence was cut short by Xander plucking another bawling and decidedly unhappy infant from an incubator and thrusting the squirming package into her arms. Willow's diatribe was instantly forgotten as her expression melted into one of enamored goofiness.

"Oh!" she uttered, immediately tickling the baby under the chin. "Aww, poor thing! You're mad, aren't you? And hey, totally valid. But you know what'll make it better? Coming with me to poke that mean ol' monster with an axe a time or twelve! That's right!"

She picked up the weapon from the floor and walked toward Farnstal, who thankfully, for his sake, had yet to stir.

Xander shook his head before concentrating once more on his small charge, who continued to give indignant vent to her justifiable tantrum.

In the darkened movie theater, Tara spoke softly into the phone while Giles hovered nearby.

"...just need to incapacitate it," she whispered urgently. "Dawn will do rest. ... That's it. ... But Faith, seriously, these guys are supposed to be super tough, and—" She sighed at the interruption before adding, "Just be careful, okay?"

She snapped the phone shut and turned to Giles with a 'Well, that's it' shrug. The Watcher frowned in thoughtful assessment.

"At least she's practicing like I told her to," he decided.

"The bright side, Mr. Giles?" queried Tara with a smirk.

"Well there seems to be one so rarely."

Cautiously, they moved along the hallway, peering into the dimness in search of a warning sign.

"Do you, uhm ... know what we're looking for, exactly?" asked Giles, blinking through his glasses.

"A demon?" offered Tara, well aware that was hardly much to go on. She shook her head regretfully. "Not really. Dawn said they were sort of ugly. And see-through."

Giles made his way to one of the screening rooms and quietly opened the door. Quickly, he turned back to Tara. "And perhaps draining the essence out of several moviegoers?"

Tara was immediately at his side. The pair exchanged a confirming glance and then darted into the room. Bernie had positioned himself toward the rear of the relatively empty back stalls. Standing behind one of the rows, he was effectively draining half a dozen patrons. They didn't seem to be aware of the violation as they focused straight ahead in absorbed fascination, tubs of popcorn forgotten in their laps. But it was not the picture show itself that had them beguiled. Their stares were more of the 'wow, I have seven brain cells left' variety, and the odd one or two who weren't utterly devoted to blinking occasionally, were apparently obsessed with concentrating, open-mouthed, open the array of enchanting colors that flashed before their eyes from the flickering screen.

Having now found their quarry, Tara and Giles seemed unsure of their next move. Given that they were both unarmed, Tara resorted to the mode of attack that was most familiar.

"Distraho!"

Bright flashes of energy leapt from Tara's extended fingertips. The beams struck the demon and he reeled a little at the assault, having achieved a solidity that had yet to be attained by Farnstal. It was both a blessing and a curse – although he could be more easily hit, he could also more easily hit back.

Abandoning his prospective meal, Bernie lashed at Tara with his long, whip-like tongue. She dodged out of the way but only barely, stumbling into a large trashcan in the process. It hit the floor with a metallic clang. With a cruel sneer, Bernie began to close in, sensing impending victory. Acting quickly, Giles snatched a purse from one of the nearly-drained moviegoers. The bag was a monstrosity – large, clunky and designed to hold every possible portable item necessary to sustain life. Thus, it was bulky and heavy and perfect for Giles' purpose. He swung it like an Olympic hammer thrower, showering Bernie with blows to the face, torso and skull. No inch of the demon's anatomy was safe from attack. Every now and then, the purse would sail through an insubstantial area, but Giles simply used the momentum to launch into another swing on the next pass.

The skirmish was beginning to create a disturbance that was impossible to ignore. From a row mid-way down the theater, an irritated audience member swiveled in his seat to hiss a subdued 'shh!,' but Giles paid the admonishment no heed since he now had Bernie on the defensive beneath a flurry of strikes.

But it was clear his luck was about to change. Bernie was shaking off the onslaught with disturbing ease, even deflecting potential hits altogether. Giles stepped up his efforts, but things were starting to look grim, until the demon's forward shamble abruptly slowed. Confused and dismayed, the demon regarded his feet, fast becoming rooted to the spot. His arms dropped uselessly to his sides and his neck began to roll. Before being totally out of commission, his eyes snapped toward Tara, whose presence he'd apparently forgotten. But realization hit far too late and he shuffled to a halt.

Coming together, Giles and Tara stared at the trapped and now powerless Bernie.

"Is it—" began Giles, but his urgent query was interrupted by the irate moviegoer who now upgraded his relatively quiet and civil 'shh!' to a full-blown Defcon 4-level 'Shh!!'. The pair winced.

"Is it dead?" Giles completed his question in a stage whisper.

Tara responded in kind, her voice a tad strained as though she were concentrating very hard. "No, just immobilized."

Giles blinked at the frozen demon. "Can you keep it contained?"

"All night?" Tara shook her head. "No. But until Dawnie does her thing ..." She threw Giles a small smile of confidence. "I'll manage." She glanced with some amusement at the purse still clutched tightly in Giles' fist before refocusing on Bernie.

Giles grimaced and gingerly deposited the handbag into the lap of its owner. She blinked lazily at him, not seeming to entirely comprehend, but slowly recovering from the assault.

"We'd best relocate it to a more secure location until then," Giles quietly urged.

However, that was easier said than done. It was doubtful they could simply walk, inconspicuously nonchalant, out the front door with a living demon statue in tow. Nevertheless, leaving Bernie in his present position was not an option. Giles jerked his head meaningfully toward the exit. Tilting the demon backward, he took one arm while Tara gripped the other, and together they dragged Bernie, stiff and unyielding, through the double doors into the dim corridor beyond. Propping him against the wall, they pondered their predicament.

"We could always take it into the restroom, I suppose," suggested Giles, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief.

It sounded good to Tara. "Okay."

Taking hold of Bernie once more, they began to haul him away but then realized they were heading in opposite directions.

"The restroom is this way," frowned Giles, puffing a little.

Tara's eyes grew wide. "That's the men's room."

"Yes...?" said Giles, rather impatiently.

"I was thinking more the ladies' room," advised Tara, arching an eyebrow.

"Oh." The Watcher's face became flushed and Bernie was again laid to rest against the wall while Giles utilized his forehead-mopping handkerchief to polish his glasses. "Uhm, yes, b-but ..." he stammered with no little embarrassment, "but I think the men's room will likely provide a bit more privacy, don't you?"

It was now Tara's turn to get flustered. For no apparent reason, she reverted once more to a stage whisper. "I c- I can't go in there." Mortified, she glanced down the hall. "It's the men's room."

Giles ran a hand through his hair. "Well can you maintain your spell from outside?"

"I-I really wouldn't wanna try it," Tara admitted nervously.

"And I don't want to leave you alone with it, in case it breaks free ..." returned Giles.

There was a long moment of silence as both searched desperately for an alternate solution. It was Tara who solved the dilemma. She motioned toward a theater a few yards away.

"In here! It should be deserted."

With a sharp nod of agreement from Giles, Bernie's journey was resumed. Together, the two of them carted the hapless demon through the doors where the screening of Shark's Tale was in progress.

Yitam launched himself from the ceiling with surprising agility. Faith had clearly not expected the demon to be quite so nimble and suddenly found herself flat on the floor with Yitam straddling her. Immediately, she tried to kick him off but his torso and lower extremities were, for the most part, intangible and she met with no success. Snarls issued from both parties as Yitam raked his razor talons across her upper chest, leaving several parallel cuts in their wake. The assault only fueled Faith's already considerable anger and, seizing Yitam's shoulders, she thrust him away with a force that sent him flailing into the wall.

Wincing from the stinging abrasions, Faith quickly scrambled to her feet and immediately experienced an eerie sensation. Confused, she whirled to see Yitam hungrily absorbing a substance he was sucking from her body. The essence was smokelike and lacked any true consistency, but there was no doubt that it issued from Faith and was being consumed by the demon. Her eyes widened in alarm as she felt her strength gradually diminishing. She staggered forward with clenched fists.

"What're you doin' to me?"

The question was answered by a wickedly gleeful chuckle and garbled statement that Faith couldn't understand. She took another stumbling step toward Yitam, growing steadily weaker as the extracted flow of energy from human to demon escalated. Yitam threw back his grotesque head and chuckled again.

"Fear," he murmured, flicking his tongue around the alien words. "So much. Brought me here. I take, yes?"

Faith attempted to close the distance between them but fell heavily to her knees. The color began to drain from her face and her arms hung limply at her sides. Beads of sweat appeared on her forehead and she looked to be on the point of collapse. Yitam's eyes glittered as he enjoyed the spectacle. He licked his scaly lips as though savoring a very fine meal and ambled toward her.

"You have strong, but is not enough." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "The fear holds you. I will also. You will fear for me, yes? Will be very good."

Only a matter of inches now separated Faith from her adversary and he was in close enough proximity to inflict serious damage. Unfortunately for Yitam, however, the reverse was also true. Much to the demon's stunned surprise, Faith's outstretched fingers abruptly invaded his intangible midsection, rapidly traveling upward to encroach upon an area that was considerably more tangible. Instantly, the smoky-gray tendrils evaporated and Yitam gasped in agony. Distinctly unpleasant squelching noises issued wetly from the demon's innards, originating from a place where Faith's hand could not be seen.

Yitam could do nothing but gape stupidly. A mingled expression of incredulity and inexplicable pain spread across his features.

Faith's lips curled into a contemptuous sneer. "I'm afraid not."

Courtesy of one extremely irate Vampire Slayer, Doc hit the asphalt hard and bounced along the roof once or twice before skidding to a halt. He rolled to his feet with an ease that seemed incongruous with his elderly appearance. Thwipping out his tongue, he lashed at Buffy, but she dodged nimbly to one side. Doc repeated the attack and this time, Buffy captured the thrashing appendage in her fist. It was mistake. Holding it was like grabbing a fistful of straightedge razor. Gasping in pain, the sword fell from her other hand, and Buffy was left with nothing but a deep gash on her palm as the tongue was effortlessly retracted.

"Great," Buffy snarled, gritting her teeth together and applying pressure to the freely bleeding wound, "now I need a rabies shot."

"You can't stop this," Doc told her with smirking confidence.

"Yeah, well, forgive me for not listening to the bad guy when he tells me that."

Slowly, the pair began to circle each other. Drops of blood soaked into the concrete from Buffy's hand, but neither paid it any mind. Every bit of focus was on their opponent.

"It's done," Doc said. "We're free and nearly whole. You can slow us and you can hurt us, but c'mon. You can't beat us, kid." He treated her to an affable wink. "No one can."

"Do you know how many things I've killed that've said pretty much the same thing?" returned Buffy. She thought for a moment and then shrugged. "Well, I don't have an exact count, but I'm betting it's a lot."

Doc's eyes narrowed. "You got a smart mouth, you know that?"

"So my mother used to tell me," Buffy replied. "In roughly that tone, too."

She stopped in front of a wooden structure, possibly a storage shed of some kind. Across from her, Doc also came to a halt.

"You can't scare me," Buffy informed, standing straighter. "It is sort of funny to listen to you try, but it won't work." She shook her head in disgust. "Every time I look at you, all I can see is a sick freak who likes to cut on little girls. And I gotta tell you, of all the sick freaks I've met in my life, that kind comes in way at the bottom of my Christmas card li—"

In the blink of eye, Doc performed a stunning and startling feat of aerial acrobatics. Landing securely behind the Slayer, he instantly executed a perfect spin, tail connecting solidly with Buffy's stomach. Taken off-guard, she was knocked from her feet and ended up some yards away, near where she'd started.

Winded, Buffy lay on the asphalt, clutching her midsection and panting with pain. "Not fair," she gasped, "we weren't done ... bantering yet ..."

Doc's features contorted in sympathy. "Not doing very well, are you?" he commiserated. "Poor thing. All my time here, and do you know you're the first one of your kind that I've ever faced?" He regarded her glumly. "This is actually disappointing. Gotta say, I really do think all the 'Chosen One' noise is overrated. I can't believe nobody's said this before now, but you're just not a very good fight, Slayer." He looked quite unsatisfied. "Not a good fight at all."

The words were barely out of his mouth when he lashed again with his lethal tongue. Buffy managed to avoid its path but it was a close call. Quickly retracting, Doc attacked again. This time, Buffy was ready.

With an agile back roll, she collected her sword, and in the process swung it high above her head. As the whipping tongue came within striking distance, she brought down the blade in a mighty arc and promptly severed at least two-thirds of the deadly appendage. Blood, viscous and blue in color, spewed from the mutilated stump. Doc staggered backward until he made contact with the door of the shack and then slithered to the ground, howling in agony.

"See, that was your problem," Buffy informed him. "You're not fighting the Slayer."

Dropping the sword, she produced the double-action crossbow. With unerring aim, Buffy fired off two consecutive shots. Both bolts found their intended targets, each piercing one of Doc's forearms and shattering the bones before becoming firmly embedded in the wooden structure behind him. Doc's wails increased as he realized he was now pinned like a mounted butterfly.

Placing the crossbow on the ground, Buffy retrieved the sword and approached her trammeled prey. "You're fighting a pissed off big sister."

She followed up the announcement by driving the blade of the weapon nearly to the hilt into Doc's gut. He was now securely immobilized, his head slumped, but the grave injuries had not snuffed the spark of life. Doc's breath rose and fell in his chest, somewhat ragged but nonetheless rhythmically. Undoubtedly, he was badly hurt, but not dead. Far from dead.

He coughed and speech was obviously difficult, given the current tongue problems. "Won't ..." He lisped and then hacked painfully for a second. "This won't ..."

"Doesn't have to," dismissed Buffy. "Any second now, you're gonna get a nice all expenses paid trip back in whatever limbo hell you and your buddies came from."

Doc's eyes widened with fear. "You can't."

"You're right," Buffy casually agreed. "You're making this one-way trip courtesy of Interdimensional Key Airlines."

"She doesn't—" Doc spat out a bilious stream and then coughed again. "Doesn't have the power! Not this soon!"

His expression froze as he saw a void materializing from behind Buffy; a shimmering green portal. Nothing emerged. It simply opened. And waited. Expectantly.

In the hospital nursery, an identical gateway appeared. Xander watched, with two armfuls of now slumbering and thankfully peaceful babies, as Willow levitated Farnstal's still-smoking body into the glowing portal.

The screening room was just as deserted as Tara had suspected. Nobody but she and Giles were present when a similar radiance suddenly came into being and awaited its anticipated delivery. Working together, they hefted Bernie's leaden form toward the beckoning portal and shoved it through.

Faith dragged the near-unconscious and groaning Yitam along the hall by his feet. Upon reaching the glittering entranceway, she unceremoniously allowed his legs to drop to the floor. Wiping her hand clean on the scaly skin, she firmly planted a boot in the demon's ribs and, with a disgusted sneer, kicked him through the portal.

With mounting terror, Doc couldn't tear his eyes away from the ever-widening portal.

"I made sure!" he all but whined. "I've been waiting so long! She just opened the path, she can't do it again!" He vehemently shook his head, as though the act of negation would make it so. "Not yet! Not until we're strong! She can't do it!"

Buffy crossed her arms and shrugged. "What can I say? She's always been the overachiever in the family."

She took a step to the side as the whorls of glowing green, seeming to have exhausted all patience, hungrily engulfed Doc's body. Within seconds, he was totally consumed, although his screams of protestation and denial lingered a while longer. Then, the portal vanished, leaving behind nothing but a wooden shed, marred by a pair of crossbow bolts and a sword with a tarnished blade.

Beneath the tree which dominated the backyard of the Scooby House, Dawn lay on her back. To a casual observer, she might have just dropped from the overhead branches to the grassy floor below. Given her expression of pain and near-exhaustion, such could have easily been the case. With closed eyes, she released her concentration and allowed tensed muscles to relax. Her lips twitched and then broke into a huge smile. Dawn was happy.

The phone in her jeans pocket began to ring. Her smile grew broader as she recognized the sound of "Confidence for Quiet." Moving slowly, she dug out the mobile and flipped it open, bringing it to her ear.

"Hey Buffy," she said, opening her eyes and staring upward at the leaves.

"Hey," Buffy's relieved voice responded. "You okay?"

Dawn nodded. "I am. I really am. You?"

"We're all fine."

"Yay," replied Dawn. It was a weary cry of triumph, but a genuine cry of triumph all the same.

A moment of silence ensued, but Dawn didn't seem to mind.

"You did good, Dawn," Buffy told her. "That was some world class Scoobiage. The plan, the getting yourself out of trouble ..." She paused. "'Course, we'll have to talk about the getting yourself in trouble, but ..." There was a catch in Buffy's voice. "I'm proud of you. Really proud."

Dawn didn't reply. She didn't seem to know how. Straightening, she scooted back until she rested against the trunk of the tree, transferring the phone to her other hand. Her expression displayed a range of emotions. She was touched. She was embarrassed. She was pleased. All at the same time. The overload appeared to have temporarily short-circuited the connection between her brain and her vocal chords.

"Dawn?" queried Buffy anxiously.

"I'm here," the teenager reassured. "I'm just ... I don't know what to say."

"That's okay." Buffy's tone conveyed an unmistakable smile. "Oh, but hey, I was wondering – was hearing that more or less embarrassing than the time I told your friends about how you wet the bed when you were twelve?"

Mortified, Dawn straightened even further as if a steel rod had been slipped between her shoulder blades. Her eyes grew very round. "Buffy!"

"Less, then," Buffy concluded.

Dawn's cheeks burned scarlet. "Oh my god."

"Be calm, your secrets remain safe."

"Just kill me," muttered Dawn, heaving a sigh of relief.

"Not today," returned Buffy crisply. "First we have to celebrate. You know, after I wash gooey demon blood out of my hair. So how about you call Grip, and we can all—"

Dawn's jaw dropped. "Oh crap. Oh crap."

Dawn paused at the foot of the paved path leading to Grip's home. She contemplated her ultimate destination with no small amount of trepidation. Smoothing her hair, she straightened the collar and cuffs her long-sleeved, freshly-ironed silk shirt and made sure the hem was tucked neatly into her waistband. Then, she took a deep breath and began the long walk to the front door. She took another moment to compose herself before ringing the bell. Westminster chimes sounded from within but nobody came to answer. She waited for what seemed like an eternity and then rung again, followed by a tentative knock upon the frosted oval windowpane. This time, she could see a figure approaching from inside the house. She heard the muted click of a lock turning and Grip appeared on the threshold. For the first time, his expression revealed no delight at seeing her face.

"Hi," she greeted with a nervous smile.

"Hi," returned Grip flatly.

There was an incredibly lengthy pause of uncomfortable magnitude.

Dawn clasped her hands behind her back, fingers twisting into restless knots. "I, ah, I tried calling, but you didn't ..."

"Yeah," he nodded. "I wasn't feeling too chatty."

"I get that," she quietly acknowledged.

More silence followed. Grip continued to stare at Dawn without expression, and she found she could only meet his gaze for a few heartbeats at a time. As all the things that weren't being said continued to fill the void, Grip offered nothing.

"I'm sorry," Dawn finally blurted. "I'm just so unbelievably sorry. I was ..." Her fingers tied themselves together even tighter. "...really looking forward to today, but I had this ... this emergency tutoring session with Giles, and he—"

Grip looked her in the eye. "Tutoring."

"Yeah."

"In what?" queried Grip, his tone overly polite.

Dawn only took a moment to reply, but it was a moment too long. "Chemistry."

"You have an A in chemistry," said Grip. "You have an A in practically everything."

"Well sure," corroborated Dawn quickly. "But you've, you know ... gotta work hard to keep those grades up. A-And college is right around the corner, so this is no time to be slacking, right?" She regarded Grip hopefully.

He neither agreed nor disagreed, simply continuing to focus upon Dawn. She fidgeted beneath the gaze, wrestling with an overwhelming desire to fill the silence.

"So- So I was going to Giles for tutoring," she continued, "when our neighbor Dr. Joseph— You remember Dr. Joseph?" She waited for a response but since one failed to materialize, hurriedly continued. "Well he sort of ... needed my help for something, and I just got so wrapped up that I—"

"Is there someone else?" asked Grip abruptly.

Dawn's mouth snapped shut. She frowned, confused and uncomprehending. "What?"

"Someone else," he reiterated. "Another guy. Cuz I gotta—" Grip's voice cracked and his cheeks flushed with humiliation. He gave a small cough and pulled himself together. "If you're seeing someone else and just don't know how to break up with me, then I'd really rather you do it fast, like a band-aid. I can't take the—"

"Someone else?" Dawn's eyes opened wide with alarm. "No, I ... No. Why would you even think that?"

Grip shrugged. "I dunno, maybe because I keep getting the brush off? I mean, it's all good when you come to me, but whenever I'm the one making the plans, it's like there's always someone else you have to see or something else you have to do. If it's not another guy, then what is ..." He inhaled sharply, as though trying to summon additional courage from someplace deep within. "Is it me?"

"It's not you. It's not anyone. There's no one else, and you're fine. You're better than fine. You're incredible." She reached out and touched Grip's hand. He immediately stiffened and she reluctantly withdrew. He folded his arms defensively across his chest.

"Well then what?" challenged Grip. "Because I don't know if you realize this, but you're a really crappy liar, Dawn. Where were you today?"

Dawn looked like a small deer caught inescapably in the headlights. "I was tuto—" she began.

"You weren't tutoring!" interrupted Grip, his frustration all too plain.

The outburst echoed weightily in the air and Dawn hung her head. She nodded.

"I wasn't tutoring," she finally admitted. "I was ..." She exhaled, a sigh heavy with defeat, as she miserably wrung her hands. "I don't know how to say this."

"Try using English," advised Grip gently. "It's the only language I kinda know."

She looked up at him. He was watching her with such an expectant expression, waiting and willing to listen, eyes desperate for the truth. She had no choice but to provide it.

"My sister is a Vampire Slayer." Her gaze became fixated on the front step, the clouds, her own shoes – absolutely everywhere but Grip. "She fights vampires, and demons, and monsters, and whatever bad stuff the world throws at her." Dawn continued in a rush as though she were afraid her resolve would evaporate before she could finish. "She fights it all because it's her duty or destiny or whatever you wanna call it. And we help her. I help her. But I'm ... I'm not who you think I am. I'm really this—" She bit her lower lip. "And I know this'll sound crazy ... but I'm the Key. This ancient dimensional energy sort of squished into human form by these monks, who—" She paused and waved her hand, realizing she was going off on a tangent. "That's really a whole different story. But I've got these powers. I-I'm not exactly sure what they all are yet because they just sort of woke up again a few months ago and I'm not really as in control of them as Giles'd like – which is why all the training with him, but ..."

She ground to a halt and refocused on Grip for the first time since launching into her explanation. She eagerly searched his face, seeking acceptance and the soft light which normally shone from his eyes each time he looked at her. She found only pain and sadness. And disbelief. Grip studied Dawn with equal intensity, hoping perhaps that she was merely joking, that she would change her account and be honest with him. But when she gave no indication that such was the case, he averted his gaze, dismally shaking his head.

"I know how this all sounds," said Dawn, becoming upset. "But it's the truth. I swear!"

"Dawn ..."

"Look, I'll show you!" she declared in desperation. "I can make portals, and teleport stuff, like ..."

She riveted her attention upon Antony's Rollin' Rumblin' Dump Truck that the little boy had left lying on the front lawn. The wheels didn't move so much as a fraction of an inch. There was no green glow. No rip in the dimensional fabric. She glanced at Grip apprehensively and then focalized once more on Ant's toy. She increased her concentration. It was a fruitless effort. There was no emerging portal or display of powers. Teetering on the brink of panic, Dawn struggled to remain calm.

"Okay, so like I said, my powers are sort of crazy right now," she reasoned, "but ... Buffy! We'll go see Buffy, and she'll show you! She'll find you a vamp, and then you'll see—"

"Stop," said Grip wearily.

But Dawn would not be dissuaded. "It'll all make sense when she stakes it, and—"

"Stop."

And Dawn did indeed stop. Scalding tears stung behind her eyes, threatening to spill at any second as an expression of acute sorrow invaded Grip's features.

"Don't," he muttered unhappily. "Just don't."

Shaking his head ruefully, he took a step backward, retreating into the haven of his home. "I don't even know you anymore."

"I'm Dawn" she protested, her cheeks wet. "I'm just Dawn. Remember?"

He didn't reply, only moving further away from her into the house.

"Grip, no!" Dawn implored with a shuddering sob. "Please! I lo—"

Grip held up his hand, effectively cutting off the proclamation before it could be given full voice. With a look of misery that rivaled the one on Dawn's own devastated face, he firmly closed the door. Instinctively, she reached for the knob and then heard the click as the lock turned from the inside. It reverberated with finality. Her fingers hovered for a moment, but she made no further move to take hold.

Unable to stem the flood of tears, she leaned her forehead against the chill of the frosted glass.

And Dawn closed her eyes.