(no subject)

[sunnydalealum]

Still no signal from Meg. By this time she should have shown up, even if everything else has run into a wall. Especially if everything else has run into a wall.

Twenty Slayers and two werewolves can't stay unnoticed for long. They're not inside the Somebody Else's Problem field yet. At least the winter weather means nobody will look askance at their long heavy coats -- but it's a gamble that nobody will be able to tell they're all concealing weapons under them.

Buffy's pacing back and forth in a slow prowl, shaking her head. "Something's gone wrong," she says flatly.

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[faithful-slayer.livejournal.com]

Faith hates her coat.

It's a good winter coat, but it's all function and no form. It's wool, itchy, and worst of all, not leather.

God, she wishes it was leather.

She's thinking about her coat so she doesn't have to think about how badly she wants a cigarette, or about this fucking bizarre situation she's found herself in, or the headache she's had ever since she found out exactly what the plan was, since Andrew took her aside and explained exactly where their backup was coming from.

They're assaulting Wolfram and Bloody Hart, assisted by a ballerina, a a Slayer from her future, and a reformed villain from a bunch of kids' books. Who Andrew met in a bar.

A bar at the end of the fucking universe.

Where there's another version of her.

Who's married.

To an intergalactic Smurf.

Fucking Milliways.

(Somebody had to say it.)

When Buffy speaks, she glances over, raising her eyebrows. "Doesn't something always go wrong?"

Not that she's at all blasé about this - she really, really wants this day to be over, so she can go home, have a bath, change clothes and find a guy to use.

(Maybe one of those Winchester boys. Or both, sequentially. That'd be nice too.)

"You think Levinson's screwed the pooch?"

Apologies, Jonathan. This is not the Faith who likes you.