Buffy straightened up and felt for the alarm clock. 7:30! She would have to push it if she was going to get to work on time. Strange, to have to work on one's birthday. If she was lucky, someone would remember to at least sing to the new girl. No, they probably wouldn't. They probably didn't even know her name. Let alone who she really was ...
It had been painful for her, leaving Sunnydale after seven years. But she felt it was what she had to do , what was necessary to build herself a life outside of duty, outside of being the Chosen One. They had made sacrifices, sure, but hadn't she, too? And it would never have worked. Slayerdom didn't come with health benefits or even severance pay. Still, it had hurt her more than she'd known, leaving town. Especially after it had ended the way it did.
But that was then, and this is now. At 25, Buffy Summers felt sure she was close to earning herself an honest-to-goodness future. In the real world, with real people, who had real concerns. She might have had to be someone she didn't want to be, to alienate those she loved, but at least she had a guaranteed life now. Buffy felt sure it would all be worth it. Weird was all it was, to wake up in a different bed on your birthday and know no one would care.
She stood up, out of bed now, and did a few stretches. Buffy had thought being in your 20's was a time of declining strength, but she was in arguably her best shape ever. With nary a demon to practice on, she had kept it up. Buffy did a perfect front flip over her bed, landing with a tiny thud on her bare feet. Peak condition. She smiled.
Opening the door to pick up her daily newspaper, Buffy reasoned that it wasn't all bad. Maybe, it she was lucky, they'd call to ---
She screamed. Buffy held in her hand the morning edition of the Times, smeared in blood. Over the headline a message was scrawled. HAPPY BIRTHDAY SLAYER! CHECK YOUR MAIL
It was unsigned. Still in her champagne silk nightgown, Buffy raced down the stairs, taking the three flights six at a time. It took her less than three seconds to get to the mail slots. She pulled hers open. There was a small envelope, marked BUFFY in blood. In a familiar hand.
Buffy stuck two fingers inside the envelope and pulled out a flaky piece of ripped paper. She turned it around in her hands, feeling its texture. The realization soon came to her that it was not paper, but a piece of human skin which had lost all pigmentation. It was almost snow white. In blood again, the same handwriting:
help me
A note fluttered out of the envelope, typed and bearing her name on the top. She read on, horrified.
Most cowardly Slayer -
For every day you do not come home to face me, you get more pieces of your true love. Don't worry, he won't die until I'm very far down. Perhaps someday you can collect all of him. I'm sure he'd like to be with you again.
Buffy started to breathe harder and harder, panting until she could no longer feel her own heartbeat. It can't be, she thought. It can't be him. I killed him. I buried him. She was in the car and driving the three hours to Sunnydale within minutes. Buffy was halfway there when she realized she had forgotten to call in sick.
***
The Harris household also got a message in their paper that morning. Xander Harris showed it to his wife, who advised him to call the library immediately. "Willow will know what this means," she said calmly. Xander always admired her composure in times ike these. Not that they'd faced them recently. But he loved the way she kept her cool anyway. It had been the same tone in which she said "Yes" to marry him and "Forget her" when the woman whose name they no longer mentioned left.
He knew she was right. But as he dialed the library, Xander couldn't help thinking that with the day, and the message, and the headline circled ...
He clutched the paper in front of him as the Sunnydale High School phone rang.
"Willow Rosenberg, please."
"Just a moment."
He stared at it again. A front page headline reading TWO DIE IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT AT WAREHOUSE was circled, and underneath, written in what Xander presumed to be blood, was SHE'LL BE BACK.
He didn't dare to guess who it spoke about.
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