FORM
YOU
name: Spike
age: 120 (years)
height: 5’10"
romantic attachments: -
YOUR CHARACTER
name: Strangler Ripper Slasher Killer
age: 24 (years)
height: 5’10"
preferred physical enhancements: I want to keep my bloody hair color
romantic attachments: -
is there any role you would like to fill in the Game?: If I have to die, I want to die a better death
than the Poof will
END FORM

Chapter Two:
"It will be so much easier to let go..."
The Countess Lisha Finlay Cari di feRosen di Ayr calmly slid the petal-thin letter into the silk
envelope and pressed her seal, a moon rising above a tumultuous sea, onto the lip of the envelope,
closing it. She looked up from her desk and smiled at the man shifting uncomfortably from foot to
foot in her doorway. "One moment, Nicol," she said. "Let me check the seal."
He looked surprised to be acknowledged but nodded and stopped his shifting for the moment. The
Countess bit the tip of her tongue in concentration and tried to slide a gold-tipped fingernail under
the wax of the seal. Convinced that it would stay closed until it reached her friends’ hands, she
stood as she picked up the envelope of a different color and gave them to the nervous Nicol, who
had begun to shift again.
"Please take the red one to her Splendor Brenna Aisha Beth di garAyrport di Ayr, and the green
one to Magician-at-Court Gili Finlay Cari di garDorport di Dor, okay?"
He slipped them into his large bag. "Red to the Queen, Green to the Dorian Magician. Got it."
She smiled encouragingly. "As fast as you can, okay? They’ll be worried."
He returned the smile this time. "Want me to give them verbal messages?"
"No, thank you. They’ll open the letters right away anyway. And here!" She handed him three
silver coins from her pocket. He glanced at them and then did a double take. "Madam, I couldn’t
possiblyÐ"
"Please. I’m sorry about the poor harvest this year, tell everyone that. Okay?" He nodded and
slipped the money into the pouch around his waist. He turned to wave goodbye several times.
She waved back at him with an amused smile, and then turned to sit back down.
Willow was desperately trying to sort out all of the information in her head.
Once she’d stepped through that door, she’d been thrown straight here, finishing writing a letter
toÐBrenna? Who was Brenna?
Cordelia. Of course. You maintain direct contact with the capital because of Jordan and because of
Brenna, as you and Brenna are close friends. And GiliÐTara was Gili.
What kind of a name was Gili anyway?
Willow shook that thought away and tried to think of a spell to calm her pounding headache, but
facts would not stop bombarding her brain.
Your father died two years ago. You’re fifteen. You’re not married.
You miss Brenna (Brenna? Oh, Cordelia) and Gili (what kind of name is that, anyway?) so much it
hurts.
You think Aaron (who?) is handsome but a bore.
You have a crush on Karl (WHAT?!?!?!).
You like to fistfight.
The last crop has been sparse and your serfs go unpaid, but they’ve been willing to let it alone so
far.
You’ve been so caught up in your books lately that you haven’t written to Gili or Brenna till just
then. They’ll be hurt but understanding.
You’ve been considering asking Jordan for a grant of money.
You’re five feet, ten inches tall (I AM? Cool).
You don’t know spells.
Willow sighed and shook her head. Okay, so maybe she couldn’t think of a spell to calm her
pounding headache.
She’d go for a walk; it was autumn, and autumns in this part of Ayrkris were quite crisp and cool.
You’re five feet, ten inches tall. Right. She’d tour the place, even if she technically knew it all, and
maybe take a look in the mirror, and then she’d go for her walk.
* * *
The first thing Cordelia saw when she opened her eyes were the equally opened eyes of Gunn.
The first thing she realized was that she was in bed.
The second thing she realized was that she was in bed with Gunn.
The third thing was that they were both completely nude, and barely covered by a thin white silk
sheet.
"Eep!" She leaned over the side of the bed, away from Gunn, reaching for the blanket that had
fallen to the floor (presumably during the activities their characters had taken part in the night
before). She was stopped by the feeling of Gunn’s strong hands holding her back. Barely
managing to keep the sheet covering her chest, she turned to him, and was extremely surprised
when he kissed her soundly on the lips.
"Good morning, Brenna," he said once they’d both had to pull away for lack of breath. He
wiggled his eyebrows at her and then got up.
Oh boy.
* * *
Tara was roused from intense concentration by persistent knocking on the door.
With a sigh, she put down her pen and went to answer it.
Spike barged in. "What the hell is going on?"
Tara quirked an amused eyebrow. "Beg pardon, your Majesty?"
"Don’t you dare ÔYour Majesty’ me!" He violently yanked the pale gold circlet off his head and
threw it at the wall. "What the hell am I wearing?"
She tried her best to look confused, although her mirth at Spike’s bewilderment at his new
situation was making roleplaying difficult. "Your tunic, pants and robe, Majesty."
He glared at her. "Look, witch, you’re really getting on my nerves. I asked to be someone
powerful, but I didn’t ask to be dressed like some nancyboy!"
She lifted the back of her hand to his forehead. "Are you quite all right, Majesty?"
He batted her hand away irritably. "Obviously you’re not going to be of any help at all." He
sighed, and then walked over to her mirror and brushed a hand over his head. "Well, at least my
hair’s stillÐ" He stopped. "I have a reflection!" He turned back to her, now positively giddy. "I’ve
got a reflection! Whoo-hoo!"
Then he seemed to realize how undignified he was acting and calmed himself again, clearing his
throat in a highly imperial fashion. "I don’t suppose you’d know the whereabouts of my personal
assistant?"
"Majesty, I am your personal assistant." She cocked her head at him. "Are you sure you’re all
right?"
"YeahÐyes. I’m quite fine, thank you. Do I have any engagements this afternoon, or is the
remainder of the day mine to squander irresponsibly?"
She ignored his joking and picked up the large bound book she used to list his responsibilities.
"Not today, no. But tomorrow, you’ve got to be on your yacht by noon. You promised Brenna
and Jordan you’d visit."
He furrowed his brow. "Brenna? Jordan?"
Tara rolled her eyes. "Look, Spike, I’ll only do this once, and I’m probably only allowed it
because it’s early in the Game. You’re the Prince, got that? So act Prince-y. You’ve probably got
instinctual reminders on how to act that Arachne’s given youÐeverybody’s got a pretty good idea
of their characters and their backgrounds and stuff. If you don’t know somebody, it’s because
your character doesn’t. You have Prince Karl’s memories. Brenna is Cordelia. She’d your sister,
and she’s married to Jordan, the Prince of your rival country, Ayrkris."
"Oh." He rubbed his temples in a form oddly reminiscent of Angel, and then opened an eye to look
at her. "Go on. Who are the rest of them?"
"Were you listening at all when Arachne was talking?"
"No, not really."
"Willow is my sister. Her name is Lisha. She’s Gunn’sÐJordan’sÐcousin, and Cordy’s best
friend. I’ll probably visit her when we go."
"‘We’?"
"I have to make sure you know what to do. I’m kinda like your Filofax."
"My what?"
"Never mind."
"Who’s Angel?" Tara gave him a look that clearly said ÔYou should know this’. "What?"
"Angel’s identity was the only one you noticed. You thought it was funny."
"Oh. Oh, yeah! He’s the bastard son, right? Given shut-yer-mouth money?"
"Land."
"Whatever. I think I’ve got it now." He turned to leave.
"SpiÐMajesty?"
"What?"
"You forgot your crown."
* * *
Willow stood, awed, in the door of her own room. High-ceilinged and walled with stone, it shone
with a majestic something-or-other she’d never quite been able to define. It was extremely
dignified in a way that didn’t make her uncomfortable.
There was a wide bed made of honey-colored wood that was very lowÐperhaps only a foot off the
floor. There was a thin mattress on it, and it was still unmade as her blankets were tumbled about it
on the floor.
It faced the room’s only window, which was floor-to-ceiling and framed by thick dark red drapes.
Sunlight was flooding the room and bouncing off the walls, which, upon closer examination,
proved to have specks of mica in them, which reflected the sunlight in tiny shots of color.
There was a door next to her bed, and Willow crossed the room and opened it. There was a large
porcelain basin which she assumed must be a bath. Next to it was a wooden rack which boasted
several snowy-white, fluffy towels. Behind the rack was another floor-to-ceiling window covered
by a thin silk curtain which let light, but not prying eyes, into the room.
The wall behind the tub was completely covered from the floor to halfway up the wall with
mirrors, and it was this wall that Willow cautiously approached.
Her image made her gasp. As her Ômemories’ had informed her, she was, indeed, nearly six feet
tall. Her eyes were the sameÐstill a dark greenÐand her hair still red. But the length! It was tied into
a tight braid, and it hung down her back, nearly to her knees. From its shape as it curved over her
head, she deciphered that it was wavy, and very thick.
She wore loose pants that were tied with a discreet drawstring of gold ribbon. They were mostly
blue and green, but in the light from the window that bounced off of the mirrors, she saw that there
were tiny threads of gold woven in. The shirt she wore was silver and blue, and it bared her now
muscled stomach. The sleeves just covered her elbows, but were so wide that they slid off of her
shoulders, and when she turned her back to the mirror to view the rest of her ensemble, she saw
that her shirt was backless except for two thick straps across the bottom of her back and right
below her shoulders.
She was shocked; she’d never felt this beautiful. But the mode of dress was like nothing she’d
ever seen before, except perhaps in Disney’s Aladdin.
There was another hanger on the back of the washroom door. On it were swaths of iridescent
material. She held a length before her and frowned as she realized, once she looked into the mirror
again, that it was completely see-through.
With a sigh, she abandoned it on the towel rack, planning to skip the tour of her current dwellings
and just take that walk, as her head was throbbing by now.
When she opened her bedroom door, she came face-to-face with a startled maid, who gave a little
gasp and then quickly collected herself. "Beg pardon, Madam," the maid exclaimed.
"It’s quite all right," Willow assured her. She gently stepped around the maid and began to stride
down the hall.
"Madam!" the maid called after her, sounding for all the world as if she were scandalized. For the
life of her, Willow couldn’t imagine why; the maid wore a wraparound skirt with dark red and
gold patterns and a midriff-baring halter top.
"Yes?" Willow asked, turning.
"You couldn’t possibly go out like that! Come back and I’ll put on your velama and torquei. I
know you dislike them, Madam," the maid continued, effectively cutting off Willow’s arguments,
"But there is no way you can ever attend Jordan’s court without them, so you might as well get
used to them."
Willow sighed and allowed herself to be led back into the bedroom.
To her surprise, she was led back into the bathroom. The maid (who, her randomly spouting
Ômemory’ informed her, was named Aira) gently lifted the length of see-through stuff from the
towel-rack where Willow had so negligently dropped it and threw it over Willow’s head.
Willow was too surprised to do anything besides blink. Before she could regain her senses of
dignity and righteousness, along with the lightning-quick reflexes of which she was usually so
proud, Aira pulled the thing farther back on her head and secured it with a slender silver circlet that
rested in Willow’s hair. Aira spent a moment trying to secure it before she clucked her tongue in
amusement and released Willow’s long hair from its braid, letting it fall in a riot of curls down her
back and across her shoulders. Then Aira was able to pin the circlet to Willow’s hair.
"There," she said proudly. She turned Willow to the mirror, where she was able to see that the
frighteningly see-through material was actually a veil to cover her face and hair. It was held on by
the circlet, which was really much more of a piece of well-curved, thick wire.
"Thank you, Aira," Willow said. "May I go now?"
Aira looked scandalized again.
* * *
Cordelia, perfectly clad in veil, gold circlet, various rings, belly chains, bracelets, chokers, a pair
of drawstring pants sewn from gold thread, and a red shoulderless shirt similar to the one Willow
had so recently donned, floated into the Imperial Breakfast Room.
Gunn was already there, sitting at the small table. He was gazing out at the small pond beyond the
glass walls of the Breakfast Room, and he had a cup of choclatl in hand. He didn’t notice her
appearance, which was good, because she really needed time to assess him.
He was wearing dark red pants of the same material as Cordelia’s and a dark red tunic, which came
down to his knees. The tunic was open all the way down and had no buttons, revealing a muscular
chest and thick gold chain which hung from his neck to about mid-chest. Cordelia’s memory bank
told her that this was normal attire for men in this part of Imani.
She sent a silent prayer of thanks to whatever higher powers might exist that she would get to see
Gunn half-naked for what was likely to be an extended amount of time, and then she cleared her
throat to alert him to her presence. "Jordan?"
He turned, and she couldn’t help but blush as his piercing gaze traveled her whole body, starting at
her bare (except for two toe rings) feet and slowly sliding all the way up to the circlet resting on her
long straight hair. "Brenna," he said at last, his formerly blank expression conveying appreciation
and possibly... lust? "Good morning."
"You said that already," she reminded him, blushing again as she remembered their pleasant
wakeup. "And it’s nearly one o’clock."
He snorted in a distinctly un-kingly manner. "Whatever. Come have some hot chocolate."
"Choclatl," she said as she crossed the room.
He furrowed his brow. "What?"
"It’s not hot chocolate. It’s choclatl."
"See previous answer. Whatever."
Cordelia smiled and settled herself gently into her chair, reaching with a long-fingered (and overly
adorned) hand for the second cup of choclatl.
"I hear your brother is coming to visit us soon," Gunn commented idly.
Cordelia raised an eyebrow. "Really? Which one?"
"The troublemaker," Gunn said. "The blond."
"Karl," Cordelia assessed, usually lyrical voice dripping with scorn. "Must he?"
Gunn put down his cup and turned to face her completely. "You don’t want him to?"
"I’d much rather AngÐAaron came. He’s far better behaved."
"But he’d illegitimate."
"Illegitimate, schmilligitimate! I haven’t seen him for nearly three years now, and I endure Karl’s
intrusions every month!"
Gunn sighed. "He’s bringing the witchÐwhat’s her nameÐ"
"Gili."
"Yeah. And if she comes, Lisha will probably visit, too."
Cordelia brightened. "That’s worth something. And maybe Karl will go off canoodling again and
leave us alone. When’s he coming?"
"My Minister told me he was leaving his Dorgarth tomorrow."
* * *
"What do you mean, delayed?" Tara demanded. The trembling shipsmaster paled and shrugged.
"The ship leaks, Madam," he explained.
"So patch it, damn it!" she retorted. "That doesn’t explain the month-long delay!"
"Madam, there’s nothing I can do about it," the shipsmaster said.
Tara sighed and tried to control her anger with a small tinge of amusement. Apparently her
character had a less controlled temper than she, Tara, actually had.
She contemplated letting her hair spark just to scare the shipsmaster, but decided against it and
signaled for him to go.
Spike stuck his head in the door. "What the hell was that?"
"You ship’s been delayed, Majesty," Tara replied.
"Oh, hell," he said. Then he reconsidered. "But then we don’t have to go." His face brightened.
"We don’t have to go!"
* * *
Inside the Black Widow
Arachne frowned at the presence she felt entering the club. It belonged with those who had just
begun their Game; why had it not gone with them? She hated it when people were late.
She stood and made her way to the door, where the girl stood. Arachne immediately recognized
her and called her name. "Faith!"
The girl spun around in surprise and narrowed her eyes at the thin blonde woman who suddenly
stood before her. "How do you know my name?"
Oops. Arachne rarely made mistakes, but this had definitely been one. How do you explain to
someone that you know them from an Alternate Universe?
"You’re here to play the Game," Arachne said in her most cryptic tone.
Faith rolled her eyes. "And you’re crazy. Go away."
"Willow’s playing," Arachne hazarded, hoping to get a reaction. She did get one, but not the one
she wanted.
"I’m out of here." Faith turned to leave, but Arachne caught her arm.
"How did you get out of jail, Faith?"
"Lucky trial," Faith replied before she could stop herself. Then she began to look scared. "Look, I
don’t know what the fuck this is, but I don’t like it. Let me go!"
"Do you know what the Game is?" Arachne asked. "Let me show you."
Her thin hand tightened around Faith’s tatooed bicep and she pulled her through the club to the
back room where the Game was played. There she shoved Faith towards a chair and then handed
the shocked Slayer a piece of paper.
"You’re going to play the Game, Faith," Arachne said, leaving no room for argument. "Willow is
playing. So are Spike, Angel, Cordelia, and Tara. There is one other player that you don’t know;
perhaps you never will know him. But this Game is your salvation, Faith; I can feel it in the air. So
fill out your form and give it back to me, and I’ll set up your character. Then you can enter the
Game and play."
Faith stared at her for a long moment. "What the hell do you mean, my salvation? No such thing.
And I’m not going to play anything with Willow and Tara, not after I fucked with their friendship
like that. And I’m not filling out anything! So let me go!"
She stood and stalked to the door, as if she was expecting to be stopped at any moment. She
kicked the door and it cooperatively opened. She looked back at Arachne, confused.
"You’ll leave if you really want to, Faith," Arachne said. "But aren’t you curious? Don’t you want
to know what the Game is?
"Don’t you miss Willow? Don’t you want to say sorry, even if it’s not real? And what about
Cordelia? Tara? Even SpikeÐyou messed with his mind a littleÐhe used to love Buffy, you know."
Faith stood in the doorway, half turned towards Arachne, pain written all over her face. "How the
fuck do you know all this?"
Arachne smiled, and the tension in the room lessened a little. "Sit down, Faith. Fill out the form,
and then you can play."

next