A Few Key Sunnydale Alum

New York City
Saturday, October 14, 2006
2:40pm

"Mark Rosen," says Zone with an air of satisfaction, studying the screen.

Jonathan's there in his dimly lit cave of an office, the two of them surrounded by half-dismantled and reconstructed computers. And for a not insignificant fee, Zone has just hacked into Columbia University's student records database.

"'Cording to his transcript, he never so much as set foot in the Extremely Ethnic Studies department. And -- yeah, check this out." He highlights a block of data. "His grades are kind of scattershot, until right here in Spring '05 when they go through the roof."

It's final exams week at the Slayers' Academy. Which means that about five young women were called in by Sarge at the beginning of the week, and told something to the effect of Right, miss. Sometime this week you're going to get tapped by surprise and put through twenty-four hours of whatever we can throw at you. Can't say what day, can't say when, but you've got to outlast the clock and acquit yourself well, 'cos surviving unharmed by hiding under the bed's for pussies.

The workout rooms off the upper-level armory are usually deserted this late at night. But there's a light on in one of them, and a familiar sound coming from inside: the thrup-thud of feet moving rapidly from one stance to the next, the flat slap of wood or flesh against padding.
lord, give me grace and dancing feet / and the power to impress
Jordie's there, alone in the room, beating hell out of a training dummy with one of the practice fake-Scythes.
lord, give me grace and dancing feet / let me outshine the moon
Which is a circumstance that would make a lot more sense if she hadn't finished her exam about four hours ago.

It's a big day at the Slayers' Academy.

The practice Scythes have been delivered and tested, and training with them starts today -- right after Sarge's usual unarmed-combat class, currently in progress.

Possibly a few of the girls aren't focusing as much right now as they could be.

Part I begins
...and continues
...and wraps

The Council takes a precaution

River Tam winds up in the Slayerverse briefly, and there are unintended consequences

Part II begins
Temporary setback

The Council convenes

In Milliways, Andrew gathers a bunch of volunteers, and:

Countdown

Assault, Part I
Assault, Part II
Assault Part III

All hail the conquering heroes!

Aftermath

Historically, as a rule, the funeral of a Slayer has been a quiet affair. On occasion there have been families to make the arrangements, but most of the time, the parents and (if any) siblings have long since lost all contact with their daughter, whether deliberately or not. The Council has always seen to it that the Slayer is given a decent burial: a hardwood box, and six feet of consecrated ground, and someone to say the words, and the Watcher as sole mourner.

This, like so many other things since the Call, has changed.



It's the first time they're all back together again in over a year, the women who came to Sunnydale as Potentials and fought the First Evil there as Slayers. Caridad and Chao-Ahn, Rona and Vi and Shannon, half a dozen others. Many of them died in the battle at the Hellmouth ... but Kennedy is the first of them to have died since then.

So they're here, and so are newer Slayers who had Kennedy as their first combat instructor, and field Slayers who had her as their team leader. And so are at least one ex-lover, and at least one current one. About four-fifths of the Slayers are in somber black; the rest are in equally somber white.

Kennedy's parents and her half-sister are here somewhere too, in the crowd. Buffy and Giles are talking to them.

Soon someone's going to stand up front and start the memorial service.

It's early January, and warm for this time of year in these latitudes.

Wells is inside the building, in one of the interminable Council meetings.

Spoon is outdoors, which is probably better for everyone.

It's not worth the effort, at this point, to make herself firmly visible.

Instead, Meg concentrates on making her voice as loud and solid and present as possible as she zips through the building, ignoring such petty obstacles as walls and floors and extremely surprised lawyers and mentally checking off sites of battle: "All out! Everybody out!" she shouts to Wells and Spoon, and "They're coming down, get ready!" to Buffy and the others in the lobby, and "We're all done, it's time to go!" to River and Spike, and "Find the others, get out now!" to Harth and Mel, and then back to the first group again, as fast as she can.

Everyone has to hear.

It's a bigger room, this time. The better to fit two dozen zhirelin in addition to the sorcerers themselves.

The conference room setup this time is much hastier, at Emma's orders. The table's been upended against the wall instead of removed entirely; the blood in the spell diagram is still tacky. Everything's in place, including the two most vital components: the real Kshaartian mandrake, and the Scythe.

Emma's trying hard not to pace as the two red-robed apprentices bend to light the first candles, as the priests in their darker robes begin chanting.

We're in the homestretch. Go. Go. Go.

"How fast can your supplier deliver another one?"

A pause. "Well, find out then!" she snaps. "Yes, now. I'll wait."

She's pacing behind and around her desk, her heels striking the floor in a steady brittle click click click, gripping the phone like a lifeline.

Beth's fingers twist together between her knees. ( This isn't working for me. )