A beefy, blunt-faced guard pushed Faith through a pair of metal doors into the sunlight, blinding her and keeping her off balance long enough for someone to grab her from behind—a few someones, actually.  They wrestled her to the ground, shoving her face against the concrete. As one guy straddled her hips and jabbed his elbow between her shoulder blades, another grabbed her ankles.  Unlucky guy.  She kicked him, breaking his jaw.  She heard him yell as she twisted her body, throwing the first guy off her back. She even managed to climb to her feet before the third guy rammed a hypodermic needle into her arm, injecting her with God only knew what.  Pain, then numbness, then paralysis washed through Faith in a cold wave. 

What was the drug?  Was she going to die?  Would they kill her?

Faith had an urge to snort or laugh.  Of course they would kill her. . .if they wanted to.  The question was, did they want to?

You never could tell with the Council.  They had rules and things.  Faith tried to remember if she had broken any lately.  A prison brawl where she had defended herself against being raped didn’t break the rules. . .did it?

Come on! What was she supposed to do?  Play passive and be victimized? Faith couldn’t see how the Council could expect that, but what did she know? She had never understood Watcher logic or Watcher rules. Faith wasn’t even sure she was supposed to.  After all, she was just the Slayer, just the council’s weapon.  =Don’t think.  Obey.  Kill this.  Destroy that.  But don’t hurt this thing over there because that would be *wrong.*”= 

A lot of rules --‘morality’ they called it -- but Faith knew they considered her morality shot to hell a long time ago.  She had crossed the line, become the enemy, and the Council had washed their hands of her.  Everyone had washed their hands of her except Angel and Wesley.

So why were the suits here?  What did they want?  It sure as hell wasn’t a tour of  a California state penitentiary.  This wasn’t even one of the nicer ones. You’d never find Robert Downey, Jr. or Winona Ryder in this dump -- only gray walls, stained concrete floors and those ‘other’ people, the ones whose names no one knew or cared about.

For years the Council had been happy to watch her rot in jail -- not that Faith complained. She didn’t deserve to complain.  Given her options, prison looked pretty good.   It was better than being executed--which was possible if the Council decided it was the ‘right’ thing to do.  The only reason Faith was still alive was because of B, the Council’s chosen one, their golden girl, their hero.  As long as the Council had Buffy they could afford to have their spare Slayer in jail.   

Oh shit.  B.  Were they here because of B?  Had she died?  Again?  Buffy made a habit of not letting death keep her down, but even the golden girl’s luck had to run out some time. 

Something moved deep inside Faith.  Was it sadness? How could it be sadness?  She didn’t even like B. . .much.  She couldn’t grieve for B.  She couldn’t.  It was wrong.  It had to be wrong to have this rock of emotion lodged in her throat for someone Faith had screwed over so many times and in so many ways.  It was hypocritical.  So she couldn’t be sorry for B.  She must be sorry for herself, sorry that with B dead her own number must also be up. . .which wouldn’t bother Faith if she wasn’t meeting death laying on the ground, held by three men in suits as they pumped some narcotic into her veins.   

She was a Slayer.  Yeah, sure, she was a *rogue* Slayer, but she was still a Slayer.  And a Slayer fought. . .things. . .and stuff. . .monsters.  She was a monster but there were others. . . there were bad guys. . .guy?  What was that guy doing?  That needle looked. . .ow.  It. . .ow.  Hurt.  Dark. When did it become so dark?  Black.  Cold.  She was supposed to die on her feet taking out some Big Bad. She wasn’t supposed to die in some blurry-minded haze.  This day sucked.

                                                  *                  *                 *

Faith came to in the back of a van.  Everything was moving, and she wanted to roll over and empty the contents of her stomach in a projectile way.  She fought the urge, not wanting to give the suits any sign of weakness. They might use it against her. So Faith hid her nausea, ignored her clammy palms, and, when she found the strength, opened her eyes.

Okay, maybe not a van.  Maybe it was an ambulance or something.  It was hard to tell.  It mostly looked like the interior of a van with the windows blacked out, only there was a bench running along one wall and some electronic equipment and wire storage bins running down the other.  The bins were full of weapons.  In short, it looked like a vehicle a serial killer would own, and, just to complete the atmosphere, when Faith tried to move she discovered she had been strapped to a gurney using leather cuffs and straps. 

=They must think I’m Hannibal Lecter. =

Faith hoped she looked angry.  She really hoped she looked angry because she didn’t want to look scared. 

The men in suits sat on the bench while a  blond woman with hair scraped back in a tight, anal-retentive bun and a superior, pinched-face expression knelt by Faith’s side.  “There is no reason to be anxious,” the woman said with a crisp British accent.  “Everything is under control. All will be well.”

“Yeah right, bitch.” Faith cringed at how weak she sounded.  It sucked the intimidation factor right out of her bad attitude.

The woman shifted and avoided Faith’s direct gaze. “It will take some time for the drug to wear off.”

“Lucky you.”

“There is no call for belligerence.”

“Consider it a bonus.”

The woman huffed.  “Honestly. . .”

Honestly, what?  Faith didn’t think the woman knew what the rest of the sentence was supposed to be.   She was just saying something -- anything -- to break the silence.

=Haven’t lost my touch,= Faith reassured herself.  =I frightened her. That’ll help when I make a break for it.=  Then Faith remembered her restraints, the leather cuffs at her wrists and ankles.  She wasn’t going anywhere.

The Watcher pressed her lips together, thinning them as she adjusted her glasses.  “Those were necessary. We needed time to speak with you, to gain your cooperation—“

“Drugging me and strapping me down doesn’t scream consent and cooperation.”

“We broke you out of prison.”

“I noticed.”

Anger flashed in the Watcher’s eyes.  “We could send you back.”

=Or worse.=  The words were unspoken, but they definitely hung in the air.  There was always an ‘or worse,’ and in this case ‘or worse’ involved permanent death.  Speaking of which --

“B?”  Faith asked softly and, almost to her shame, with genuine concern.

The woman frowned.

“Buffy, the Slayer. “  Faith knew she sounded shrill and she hated it.  She was supposed to sound like she didn’t give a damn.  She *would* sound like she didn’t give a damn.  “Did Buffy bite it?  Is that why you’re here?”

The Watcher didn’t say anything.  She didn’t need to.  The answer was in the way the muscles worked in her narrow throat before her snippy voice lost its cool composure.  “We need your assistance.” 

Faith rested her head and closed her eyes.  She’d been right.  Buffy had bought it, and the Council needed a replacement killer. 

“Miss Summers was beaten and. . .”

Need a killer?  Knew where to find one. Let her out of her cage.  Point her in the right direction.  Go get 'em, girl.  Faster pussycat, kill, kill. Good kitty. . .or was it bad kitty?

”.  .  .her killer is still at large.  .  .”

Something inside Faith's chest knotted and sank to the pit of her stomach. It was heavy and it ached and when she ignored it, the thing clawed at her gut.  Any second now it would pop out of her chest leaving a gaping, bleeding wound like that creature in Alien because that kind of emotion didn’t belong inside her.  She was Faith--cold, heartless, fearless Faith. She couldn’t be sorry, and she couldn’t be scared. She couldn’t be icy with dread.

The female Watcher clasped her hands together in prim, ladylike fashion. “I want to make you an offer.”

“Let me guess. It’s one I can’t refuse.”

“Well. . .no.  I am afraid you can’t.  You must understand our options are limited.  We need a Slayer.”

=And I’m the only one you’ve got. . .unless you kill me.= “So what’s the offer?  You give me a get-out-of-jail-free card as long as I work for you?”

“Yes, if you agree to have a Watcher and if. . .”

=I live that long.=  After all, B *had* been talented.  If something had taken out B,  that  same something could take out Faith

The Slayer lifted her chin, reminding herself she had always known where she stood with the Council.  She was a killer and must be punished.  She was the Slayer and must be saved. . .or at least preserved until they needed her, needed her skill for the kill.  It was a skill they loathed and treasured, a skill that brought contempt to their eyes and offers of freedom to their lips.

We'll set you free, if you kill for us.  We'll kill you if you don't. Nice set of choices.  Whatever Faith had intended by her voluntary incarceration was secondary to the Council’s need for her to kill. . .or die.  Maybe both.   Two kitties, one stone.  They had lost B, the rebel, to this fight.  But Slayers were disposable creatures. Call in the second string and send Faith against the monster.  If she bested the boogeyman, great.  Council wins. Monsters lose.  If Faith lost, one more problematic Slayer out of the way.  It was a win-win situation for the suits.

So what was she going to do?  Die at the hands of pinch-faced, know-it-all, holier-than-thou pricks with sticks up their butts? Nuh-uh. There were better ways to go. A big, no- holds-barred-battle against something she could punch, kick, and rage against sounded pretty good.  She'd even be doing it for the light and right which probably wouldn’t mean much in the end but, hey, Faith had sort of promised to try for redemption to make up for all the wrongs she’d done. 

“Am I walking into an apocalypse?”  Not that it would make a difference.  She would go anyway.  It only seemed right.   Then again,  what did she know about ‘right?’  Strike ‘right.’ Walking into Armageddon made cosmic sense.  Help with an Ascension, pay with an apocalypse.  There would be symmetry to that. 

The Watcher shook her head.  “We do not believe an apocalypse is imminent.  Miss Summers averted that catastrophe.”

So it was a case of  ‘beat the apocalypse, lose the war .‘  Buffy had saved the world, only to lose herself.  “What do you want me to do?”

“Be the Slayer.” 

And take out the Big Bad.  “So untie me and tell me who or what I’m supposed to kill.” 

There had never been another choice.  Faith *was* the  Slayer, the chosen one, blah-di-blah-blah-blah.  Biting it while following her calling was the best offer she was ever going to get. . .and it *was*  better than staring at gray walls looking at an endless list of boring days.

The Watcher released Faith’s restraints and looked increasingly frightened the closer Faith came to being free.  Faith wondered if the woman would scream if she said, “Boo.” 

The Slayer actually considered doing just that as she sat up and massaged her wrists.  “So what’s your name?”  

“You may call me Ms. Chartley.”

“Well, Ms. Chartley, what’s the 4-1-1?”

The Watcher handed Faith a picture.  “This is who you must track down and kill.”

Faith blinked.  "You're shitting me.  You've *got* to be shitting me. Willow Rosenberg? You want me to kill little, wallflower Rosenberg?"

"She's a powerful black witch and a murderer."

"No way."

"She killed the Slayer."

Which couldn't be right. . .could it?  Little red witch became a Big Bad,  killed her bestest friend in the whole wide world?  Something didn't compute. 

"Evil is a powerful thing. You of all people should know that."

=Oh yeah, rub it in. I went all evil and apocalyptic. Tell me I'm bad as you point me toward who to kill.=  Faith glanced at the picture in her hand, at the petite red head’s elfin features and irritatingly chipper smile.  "So you fell off the high white horse you rode in on, did you, Will?  Bet it hurt."

The photo didn't answer, and the ache in Faith’s gut increased.

"She killed the Slayer and at least two others." 

=And don’t you sound detached about it.  One Slayer down, but that’s no problem. Replace her quick.= "Two others?" Faith asked.

"Alexander Harris and Warren..." The watcher squinted at the paper in her hand then handed it to one of her companions. "Can you make out the last name?"

The Alien was scratching again, threatening to make Faith bleed before it burst from her chest.  “Willow killed Xander and B?” 

It was beyond comprehension, beyond even the limits of Faith’s cynicism. This was a great sucking pit of awful.  =How am I supposed to do this?=  Faith wondered. This was like kicking puppies or drowning kittens, something that would make even the hardest heart balk.  =And what hat am I supposed to wear?=  Black, because she was killing Willow, someone who had once tried to be her friend, or white, because the Council commanded the moral high ground and this was *their* plan?  Faith didn’t know.

The van came to a halt.  =Now what?=

Ms. Chartley looked anxious.  “Um…You most probably wish to be armed.”

“Yeah, sure.”  Armed to fight Willow? “Hey, Hear-No-Evil, See-No-Evil, and Speak-No-Evil, make yourselves useful.  Hand over the weapons.”

The three male Watchers looked startled at being directly addressed, and the one with the swollen, purpled jaw gazed at Faith resentfully.

Faith crossed her arms.  “Unless you want to fight your own battles.”

They handed her a crossbow, a sheaf of arrows, a switchblade, an axe, and a knife. 

It was all relatively standard Slayer gear.  She pocketed the switchblade, slung the strap attached to the crossbow and arrows over her shoulder,  tested the weight of the axe in her hand, and examined the knife.  The knife *wasn’t* standard issue.  It was silver, the real kind not just the shiny color.  It had a thin, crooked, razor sharp blade, and the handle was embossed with strange ancient symbols.

“It is the dagger of Am-mit,”  one of the male Watchers nervously explained.

Did it matter?   Faith searched through the storage bins until she found a sheath for the blade and strapped it to her thigh.  =So now I’m suited up like Lara Croft except. . .=

“Take off your blouse,” she ordered the female Watcher.

“Excuse me?”

“Unless you want me looking like a prison escapee, strip and hand me your blouse.”

Ms. Chartley looked horribly embarrassed.

“Oh, come on!” Faith stripped off her own shirt.  “I’m sure you’ve got appropriately starched underwear under there.”

“Turn around, “  the female Watcher ordered the three stooges.  Seeing that it would be  difficult for the men to turn around on the narrow bench she amended her request to:  “At least close your eyes.”  She nervously unbuttoned her blouse revealing a very lacey, very sexy, nude colored bra.

Faith arched an eyebrow. “Why, Ms. Chartley, you have hidden layers.”

The Watcher grabbed the orange prison shirt out of Faith’s hand. 

Faith shrugged, and, once her new shirt was on and weapons were back in place, she decided she was ready as she would ever be to meet the Big Bad. . .even if she was still struggling to believe the Big Bad was Willow.

Ms. Chartley handed Faith a cell phone.  “We will reconnoiter the area—“

“Reconnoiter?”

“We will search the general area -- surreptitiously of course -- while you. . .”

“Hunt?”

The Watcher grimaced.  “We want you to stay in constant communication.”

“Is that practical?  I’m a Slayer, not Dana Scully.”

Ms. Chartley’s blank expression spoke of a profound ignorance of pop culture references.

“Mulder, Scully, evil bureaucratic conspiracies, romance by cell phone--any of this sound familiar?”  Faith had  thought the show was popular in England.  Hell, they’d watched it in prison.

The Watcher took the phone and entered a sequence of numbers that caused one of the three stooges’ phone to ring.  She handed the cell back to Faith.  “Constant communication.”

“Right.”   After all Faith was supposed to be trying to reform herself, to be a ‘good girl’. . .or. . .uh. . .*some* approximation thereof.  Of course Faith realized she could never actually *be* good.  She’d lost that title a long time ago -- if she had ever had it in the first place – but even if she wasn’t ‘good,’ surely she could manage to make a right choice.  If that ‘right thing’ was to carry around a cell phone so that a Watcher wouldn’t freak, Faith figured she could suck it up and comply with orders.  “Okay, lines of communication will stay open.”

The Watcher slid open the van door, and it was like one of those National Geographic moments where a wild animal was suddenly set free and it hesitated to go.  It wasn’t that the animal didn’t *want* to be free.  It was just that having been caged for so long, it had grown used to limits and confined spaces.  It felt comfortable, easy, safe.  Out there was the big bad world, a world of decisions and mistakes to be made. 

Faith cautiously – and still somewhat disbelievingly – emerged from the van.  One foot on the sidewalk then two.  The door slid closed behind her, and she was free, free to turn left or turn right,  free to choose, free to --

“If you run away, we will find you.” The illusion of freedom was shattered by the Watcher’s voice.  “We released the Slayer from prison, not a killer.”

Faith sniffed.  =And you can tell the difference in what way?=   She didn’t say that into the phone.  She didn’t say anything into the phone.  She simply straightened her shoulders and started walking.

It was dark in Sunnydale.  A blue-black sky and crescent moon hung overhead, and  Faith’s Slayer senses began to sing. This was what she had missed, the warm wind of the California night,  the adrenaline rush of imminent danger, the anticipation of the hunt. Only this time Faith wasn’t hunting the unearthly or the undead.  She was hunting a person she remembered as a saccharine little girl in goofy clothes, someone harmless, someone nice, and the joy Faith felt in her freedom was destroyed by the knowledge of what she must do. 

“Where do I start?” Her voice was solemn as she spoke into the phone, but as soon as she had asked the question Faith found her answer.  She stood in front of a shop whose windows had been smashed.  Shards of glass littered the sidewalk, and yellow police tape formed an X over the door. A sign proclaiming “Magic Box” hung crookedly from the awning.  “No need to answer. I think I figured it out.”

Pulling down the tape Faith pushed open the damaged door.  It looked as though a bomb had gone off.  Candles, beads, and unidentifiable but most probably magical substances littered the floor.  How were you supposed to know St. Johns Wort from Motherwort?  And what was wort anyway?  Faith didn’t know, and was fairly sure she didn’t care, but stray thoughts had a strange way of wandering through her head when she was alone and had nothing to distract her.

Glass cracked under her feet as she surveyed the dark interior of the store. No one was around, and no one had made any effort to clean up the mess.  It was a catastrophe area where no one had yet found the strength to face the aftermath. Books were scattered everywhere, on the table, on the check-out counter, on the floor. . .everywhere but where they should be -- on the book shelves.  Most lay open, a few had their pages torn out, and a couple had their covers and book bindings ripped off, but nothing was here. . .at least nothing which could explain what had happen.  The disaster area, while eye catching, wasn’t particularly informative.

Pushing aside the 1960s retro-style blue bead curtain, Faith moved into the back room then opened the back door.  It led to the alley.  All the important stuff in Sunnydale happened in alleys.

Faith took a shuddering breath.  That’s what wandering thoughts did for you.  They dragged up bad thoughts, bad memories, and bad . . . things.  An alley in Sunnydale was where she had proved everyone right, where she had proved once and for all that she was wrong, that she was bad, that she was worthless. Crossing that last line had only taken a moment.  She had turned and shoved a stake into a beating heart.  She’d killed a man.

Faith still remembered the sensation of that first *real* kill.  She remembered because it hadn’t felt any different.  Bone, muscle, flesh--a vampire had those too.  She knew the exact amount of pressure needed to drive her weapon home.  She’d honed that skill.  She knew how to attack with deadly force, and driving a stake through a vampire’s heart felt exactly the same as plowing one through a living man’s chest.

“Have you found anything?”

Faith startled at the sound of the Watcher’s voice on the phone.  There was good reception, too.  “Nope, nothing here.   I’ll just. . .”  Keep going.  Keep moving.  Like a shark trolling the waters she had to move to live.  If she stood still and thought too much. . .well, thinking?  Not good.

She emerged from the alley to walk down Main Street.  It had been years since she had been in Sunnydale, though she doubted that much had changed.  Kids were still stupid.  Adults were willfully blind.  Monsters still lurked in the shadows.  Some things never changed.

The Bronze was up ahead.  She could hear and feel the low thrum of the bass though she couldn’t make out the melody of the music being played.  As she drew near the club’s entrance she gazed into the faces of strangers, young strangers -- innocents being led to the slaughter because she sensed the presence of predators as well.  Was this boy for real or was he a monster in disguise?  Was the girl laughing and leading him into the shadows just a girl?  If Faith shot her would with the crossbow would she bleed or disappear into dust?  She was a Slayer.  She was supposed to see and know, but there were so many faces and so little time. How was she supposed to distinguish?

Light fell over the boy’s features.  Oh, good, bumpies.  Faith raised aimed her crossbow.  She liked it when things were clear and easy.  Pull the trigger and the vamp was dust.  The girl who had been at his side looked shocked, then frightened.  Perhaps the chica wasn’t a complete idiot.  Brushing back her hair with her hand, the girl composed herself and disappeared through the doors of the club.

“They must be desperate to send you.”

The Slayer froze, then turned to find Willow standing behind her.  Only the witch looked nothing like Faith remembered.   Willow’s clothes could have passed for traditional Faithwear—black and a lot of leather.  Her hair was also black, and not the natural kind: more Elvira Mistress of the Dark meets evil Miss Clairol.  Even Willow’s eyes were black, and for a moment Faith could do nothing but stand and stare.  What had Willow done to herself?  Was this Willow at all?

The witch’s lip curled in a sneer.  “So how was prison?”

“Boring, gray, deadly dull.”  Faith shrugged.  “It was prison.  Probably isn’t supposed to be a barrel of laughs.”

“That’s because you were bad and must be punished.”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“And are you here to punish me?”

Faith looked at the empty crossbow in her hand.  “Sorta looks like I was drafted.”

“*You*?  You can judge me?”  Willow sounded disgusted, and Faith couldn’t really blame her.

“I don’t judge.  I just. . .”

“Kill.”

Oh, so Willow *had* gone bad.  She’d learned how to strike where it just might hurt.

The witch circled Faith, her movements graceful and slow.  “Do you think you can?”

“Can, what?”  Faith adopted her ‘I’m a bitch -- don’t mess with me’ pose.  She hated having her weak spots exploited. “Kill you?  Didn’t we just establish that I’m good at that?”

Some shadow of feeling crossed Willow’s gamine features. “It’s harder than I thought.”  She met Faith’s dead even stare.  “And easier.” 

“Yeah, it’s easy.  Too easy.”  Faith remembered the girl she once knew.  “You didn’t mean to do this.” 

Willow didn’t answer but walked into the alley. “Doesn’t matter now.  It’s done.” 

Faith followed.  She recognized this part.  Willow was setting the scene, the final confrontation, the final act.  It was what Faith had done with Angel. She had needed him to punish her, to set things right.  She had staged the confrontation and expected him to win. . .because he was the good guy.  He was the hero -- vanquish the big nasty and all was right with the world.  She would have been properly punished and then there would have been peace.  Death was easier than living with the consequences of what she had done.  Angel had known that, and now Faith knew it too.

Willow wasn’t looking for justice or even a big win.  She was looking for a way out.

“Will--“

Willow raised her hand in a casual gesture and suddenly Faith flew through the air, hitting a brick wall, splayed out like a bug against a windshield only with less technicolor ick.  And she hurt.  God, how she hurt.  It wasn’t the trauma of the impact.  She was a Slayer and built to take a licking, but, from windshield gunk to bug zapper char without missing a beat, Faith’s senses were fried as  black magic sizzled over every nerve ending, burning her like electrical fire.

“I killed Buffy.  I killed Xander.  You think I won’t kill you?”  Another flash of magic, a red, orange, and white arc of light, hit Faith with teeth-rattling force.  “I could kill you now. Break you. Burn you --“

“I get the point, Will.”  The wave of unearthly power dissipated, and Faith fell to the ground.   She lay there for a moment then clawed at the dirt trying to pull herself to her knees.  “You’re the badass now.”

The witch stepped over the prone Slayer.  “You think I chose this? I didn’t choose this.  I didn’t want this. I was pushed into it.  It’s not my fault.”

“Right.”

“Don’t mock me!”  Willow squatted, her boots crunching again the gravel as  she turned Faith over so they could face each other.  “I didn’t do this.  He did this.  He ruined everything.”

=Who, he?= “Xander always was kind of a screw up.  Not sure he deserved to die--.”

“Don’t!” Another surge of black power jackhammered  Faith into the ground, no doubt leaving a Slayer size hole in the dirt.  “You don’t understand.  It was Warren who did this.  He killed Tara and deserved to die.  I didn’t mean to hurt Xander.  I would *never* hurt Xander.  He just. . .”  Something hardened in the witch’s expression.  “He and Buffy got in the way, and  things. . . It all went too far!  Don’t you see it’s not my fault?  Things got out of control.  I wouldn’t do this.  I couldn’t do this.  It’s not *me.*”

=Oh yeah, keep telling yourself that. Repeat it a billion times. You still won’t believe it.=  Faith knew this because she recognized the turmoil inside the witch, the denial and self-hate. Faith recognized it because she had faced it in the mirror for longer than she cared to admit. She remembered the desperate excuses, the pretending not to care, and she remembered that painful moment of clarity when the truth hit her dead center between the eyes that *she* was the monster.

Willow stood, and Faith just had to ask, “If it wasn’t you, Will, just who was it?”

Willow’s eyes -- so black, so scarily, frighteningly black -- burned with some inner fire.  “Bitch!”

Faith fired the crossbow she had secretly loaded.  Wooden stakes might be for vamps, but they could kill people too.  Willow smiled as if she had been waiting for this, and, if Faith’s suspicions were right, maybe she had.  Maybe Willow *wanted* this to end.

The stake stopped in mid-air.  It was very Matrix the way it hovered in mid-flight.  And the smile that spread across Willow’s face made Faith’s blood run cold.  Instinct told the Slayer to move as the witch turned the weapon back on the Faith.

Shit!  The stake vibrated with power even after it embedded itself in the ground . . . exactly where Faith had lain moments before. The Slayer gazed at it in shock then looked at the witch.  She’d been wrong.  Willow wasn’t in some suicidal depression.  Willow was in a homicidal rage.

Grabbing the axe that had fallen out of the weapons sack Faith had been carrying on her before Willow had thrown her against the wall,  Faith attacked. She lunged at Willow, dragging the witch to the ground where they landed with an audible grunt.  Faith backhanded her opponent, snapping the witch’s head to the side before raising the axe.

“Repuo!” the witch commanded, and the axe flew out of the Slayer’s hand.

Faith didn’t hesitate. She reached for the switchblade.  It popped open with an audible snap, and the light from distant street lights glinted off the blade.  She brought it down swiftly, planning to slash the witch’s throat.

Willow looked at Faith with human eyes. 

The Slayer hesitated -- just for a moment, but it was a moment too long.  It gave Willow time to gather her strength and rage, and with an inhuman roar she flung Faith into the darkness, sending another ball of black magic to explode at the Slayer’s feet.  

Faith felt the burn.  She smelled the stench of singed hair and clothes and flesh and knew it all came from her. Their gazes met.  This was the end.   Survival instinct warred with resignation as Faith watched light coalesce around Willow, crackling and humming with an ominous sound, and, unwilling to die sitting on her ass, Faith charged one more time.

She hit.  She struck.  She kicked and fought, and Faith knew she didn’t have a hope in hell of winning.  Willow was something not quite human now.  She was mad and powerful and out of control.  Magic glowed around her like some malevolent aura -- red, orange, fuchsia, and white -- and Faith watched in bemusement as the colors coalesced into tendrils of power which moved independently of one another. 

As tentacles of magic lashed out, setting items of litter on fire, Willow resembled some postmodern, all-electric version of the snake-haired goddess Medusa. It was surreal and awful, and just another night in Sunnydale. . .only it wasn’t just another night, and Willow wasn’t just another Big Bad.  This was going to be the end of one of them, and Faith was reasonably sure it was going to be her.  

Somehow, Willow summoned the axe she had previously torn from Faith’s hand.  The Slayer tried to dodge it, but it was too late.   The ax hit her. Faith screamed. “Oh God!”  She tried to pull the axe blade out of her thigh as she fell to the ground.

“God won’t help,”  Willow snarled.  “She didn’t help Tara, why would she help you?”

Willow lashed out. A black magic tendril struck Faith, blinding her with a torment she could never describe or forget.  It consumed her.  It stole her breath, her voice, and her thoughts.  It was killing her. There was nothing but pain racing through her veins, and Faith was beginning to convulse.  Some dim thought or hope hovered on the fast fading edges of her consciousness.  There was something. . .something. . .

Faith remembered the silver dagger strapped to her thigh.  It was her last resort if she could just move.  Please, just move.  Millimeter by millimeter at first, Faith managed to move her hand.  Her blistered fingers were slick with the blood that soaked her clothing, and flowed freely from the lurid gash in her thigh, but she found it.  She wrapped her hand around the dagger, feeling the embossed symbols press against her palm.  One shot.  That was all she would have.  On shot.  One chance.

Willow’s power was growing again.  Faith was learning how to anticipate it.  It was like gathering static electricity.  She could feel goosebumps rising on her skin and fear gnawing at her gut, but she had to take her time.  She had to take aim.

One shot.

She tensed her arm and threw the blade. . .straight at Willow’s heart. 

The last of her strength spent, Faith laid her head on the ground, too consumed by pain and magic to care what might happen next.  She’d welcome death if it would just stop the pain. So she waited. . .and waited.  And slowly it penetrated Faith’s consciousness that she was not dead.  Not even close.

Faith raised her head to see Willow standing in front of her, the silver dagger lodged dead center in the witch’s chest.  Willow opened her mouth but made no sound.  The alley was still and deathly silent as the sorceress disappeared.

=What?=  Faith tried in vain to pull herself to her knees, but soon gave up as she blinked with disbelief.  It was like some Warner Brothers cartoon where Wiley Coyote just went poof--only this wasn’t Wiley and this wasn’t a cartoon. This ending was just so absurd and anticlimactic.  It was just. . .over.

She felt a sob building in her throat, and she tried to swallow.  Breaking down, breaking into tears was not something Faith did.  She had survived hadn’t she? There were those who would say it was more than she deserved.

It started to rain.

God, could there be any more misery tonight?  Faith laid down her head and closed her eyes and -- despite her best efforts -- she cried.

There were footsteps.  She could hear them somewhere behind her, they made slashing sounds in the gathering puddles.

“Faith?” 

It was the Watcher.  There was hesitancy in the woman’s voice, fear.  Did Ms. Chartley think she was dead? There was a light touch on her shoulder.  “Faith?” 

Chartley gently turned Faith over, and Faith managed to focus long enough to say,  “Got any more of that stuff you drugged me with earlier?”  She blacked out.

When Faith came to, she was in a hospital room all nice and white, crisp and clean. 

She hoped a year hadn’t passed, because that had screwed with her  last time. 

Ms. Chartley was talking into a phone.  “Broken ribs, a rather nasty laceration on her thigh, second and third degree burns, a concussion --“

Were the Watcher cataloguing her injuries?  Sounded like enough for even a Slayer to need time to pull herself back together.

“Yes,” Ms. Chartley answered the person on the other end of the line.  “She vanquished the witch.”

“Maybe not.”  Faith was surprised by how hoarse her voice sounded.

Ms. Chartley looked surprised.  “I will call you later.”  She hung up the phone and took a seat next to the bed.  “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been electrocuted, thrown against a brick wall, hit with an axe, and set on fire.”

“I’m -- “

“Don’t say sorry.  Stuff like this comes with the job.”

Ms. Chartley sat up straight and clearly made an effort to look like a cool and collected.  “You said you were unsure about having vanquished Miss Rosenberg.”

“I don’t know about vanquish.  I hit her with that funky dagger, but. . .”  Faith looked up.  “I don’t know what happened.  It was in her chest, and that must have killed her.  I can’t see how it couldn’t.  It’s just. . .she disappeared.  Just ‘poof.’ Gone.”

Chartley frowned.  It caused short little lines to form on her forehead between her perfectly plucked eyebrows.  But after a moment or two the Watcher relaxed, as if somewhere in her head she had found the answer she needed.

“It happens that way sometimes,” Chartley explained.  “Ingesting that much black magic is a death sentence.  A rational mind cannot sustain it.”

“Mind? What does that have to do with it?”

“You must have heard of ‘mind over matter.’  It is the mind that is essential.  That’s why it takes intelligence to be a competent witch.  The mind controls the magic. . .or not.”

“And when the mind goes out of control, they go poof?”

“Sometimes. Of course, in this case you also stabbed her with the dagger of Am-mit.  The cumulative effect of both those things.  . .well, perhaps we should not be surprised that in the end Miss Rosenberg died by what appears to be a confluence of supernatural means.”  Ms. Chartley nodded, apparently satisfied by what she had said.  “I am sure that explains everything.”

=Uh-huh.=  Faith wished it explained everything to her, but it didn’t come close.  Willow, who had once been nauseatingly sweet and kind and good, had wigged out and killed her best friends.  The hero, the golden girl, Buffy was dead. . .and *Faith* was the one alive to tell the tale.  No, this didn’t make sense to Faith.  It didn’t make sense at all.

                                                    *           *            *

The dark was thick and viscous, like swimming in black water only she could breathe. She *was* breathing, wasn’t she?  Willow thought she was breathing, but then she also thought she could see—which was absurd because there was no light. 

=Is this hell?=  Willow wondered, =Or is this just death?= 

“Neither,” a disembodied voice answered.

“W-who.  . .where are you?”

“The game isn’t over.”

Willow frowned. “Not an answer to my question, but noted.  What game?”

No reply.

“There’s nothing left,” Willow told him. . . it. . .whatever it was. “Everything is gone.”

“You are left.”

“I’m nothing--not  by myself.  Without Tara. . .without Buffy and Xander. . .”  She continued to peer into the darkness.  “I’m better off dead.”

“And if I told you there is a way to bring the white witch back, to bring *all three* of them back, to change things so that they never died, what would you say?”

“How?”

The voice chuckled. “Patience, little one.  I have plans. . .”

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