There are less than twenty of us left.  All the junior partners-the original junior partners, not the recent promotees-are dead; only two of the senior partners remain in this dimension.  Wolfram and Hart should, by all rights, be dying.

It's not.

No, if anything the business is growing again, taking on more recent grads and paralegals.  They've raided the bank accounts of dead or missing clients, anonymously, of course.  It's laundered by a source buried so deep that even the Mafia doesn't know about it.  I think they're the same people who off'd Hoffa.

So, here I sit in my cushy office, one of the survivors of the End of Days, a war that turned out only to be one of many.  A lovely view, six figure salary plus benefits, fully furnished townhouse, no debts, an offer of junior partnership for my efforts ...

And a brand, spanking new conscience.

Why now?  Why didn't this happen five years ago, when I was still handling the firm's completely human cases?  Even during the fighting I might have been able to slip away unnoticed, presumed a casualty of war like so many others.

Now, though, if I walk away I might as well sign my death warrant.  I'd have to give up everything, my house, my money, the life I've worked for all these years.  I swore to my mother I wouldn't be like my bastard father.

But I am.  I let go of everything to gain this.  What happened to that idealistic young law student who wanted to do good?

Oh, God ...

He was seduced, that young man, seduced by the life he had always wanted, by the chance to become a mover and shaker, someone who had power.

Power.

That's what it comes down to, who has power.  I have power, the partners have seen to that, but it's hollow now.  I can't do what I feel needs to be done ... my power, what I've sacrificed so terribly much for, is useless.

Like me.

But you're not useless, that little voice nags.  You can still help.

"And walk away from it all?"

If that's what it takes, then yes, my new conscience assures me.

"And the righteous shall walk a thorny path ...  Even if I were to take your advice -- and I haven't said I would -- how will I help if I have no way to live?"

My new friend smiles.  For every door that closes, a window opens, it tells me.

And suddenly, I can see ...

A converted warehouse.  Well, it fits with what that nut of Slayer -- Faith, I think her name is -- told us.  That one's ready for the padded room, you know.  She hides it well enough, but the senior partners know she's becoming a liability.

And they have ways of dealing with liabilities.

How I make it past the wards I'm not sure, maybe my new guilt has overwritten the old desires and malicious intent.  I have no idea how they'll take my arrival, especially considering ...

As I push open the door I'm confronted with four people, not the two I'd expected.  Hmm, looks like Faith has been keeping secrets.

Angel and Lockley, I recognize; the other two are strangers.  Both are blondes, the man's obviously bleached, the woman's is harder to tell.  Her roots are darker, but that could be natural.  Her hazel eyes, though, give her away; I know now, who she is.

The Slayer.

The real one, the one from the Hellmouth, not that mad freak that works for my former employers.

And if this is the infamous Buffy, then the other must be Spike, one of Angel's Childer.  There were rumors that they survived the attack in Sunnydale, but no one could confirm the information.

All eyes are fastened on me now; four bodies ready to pounce at any minute, with only the slightest provocation.  I held up my hands, but didn't step forward.

I may have left Wolfram and Hart, but I still have some self-preservation instincts left thank you very much.

"I've come to help."

The End