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There is on the outskirts of London a nicely maintained four story brick mansion, steeped in age and historical context. If you park in its parking lot, walk across the manicured lawns and walk to the front entrance, you will see a brass plate anchored to the right of a matching pair of oak doors: Watcher’s Council, Historians at Large.

It is nothing like it appears to be.

But inside the walls of this well appointed mansion, in an office with fine leather chairs, and tastefully selected pieces of seascape, Rupert Giles cleared his throat. He was feeling vaguely uncomfortable sitting in the office of Quentin Travers. The two men agreed on very little, and over the past five years since Giles had joined the Council, their relationship had come to a place of uneasy tolerance.

"I’m sure you’re wondering why I brought you in here, Rupert."

"Well," he said, clearing his throat again, "Just a bit."

"It’s a bit of an uncomfortable situation, one I think you’re uniquely qualified for." Quentin’s eyes glinted cruelly in the dim light of his desk lamp.

"The Ripper, in particular."

Giles felt his blood chill, past sins rising to the surface to give his voice edge. He was instantly alert, switching from unease to predator mode in a moment.

"Now why, old man, would you want to go and bring up that name?"

"For the sake of another name, one I believe you are as equally familiar with: Hank Summers."

Giles was absolutely still, trying to ignore the violence that coursed through his veins at even the sound of that particular name.

"I trust," he said carefully, "That you have a very good reason for mentioning the man you just mentioned."

"Very good indeed, Rip-, excuse me, Rupert," Quentin said coyly.

"Our latest Slayer, a girl by the name of Buffy Summers, happens to be his daughter. And the last Watcher we sent to retrieve her happened to end up, er, incapacitated."

"So Joyce gave the satan spawn a daughter, did she?" Giles muttered under his breath.

"What did you say, Rupert?"

"Nothing. You’re saying that Hank Summers, the sorcerer, his daughter just happens to be the newest Slayer?" If there was something deserving of the name irony, this was it.

"Precisely. I need you to go to LA and evaluate Miss Summers, see if she can be rehabilitated for our side. If not, well then…" Quentin smiled darkly.

"If not, well then, I leave the matter in the Ripper’s most capable hands."

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LA, 1997

Buffy Summers slid downwards in the drivers seat, as far down as she could shove her five foot two frame and still drive. The sound of bullets flying, cracking the glass of the window above her head, sent her passenger into a panic.

"Shit, Buffy! What the fuck were you thinking? You know the Gustuuk clan pack guns! We should have waited for dark so the boys could go with us."

"Chill, Des. I got this." She calmly popped a fresh clip into her Desert Eagle with one hand, using the palm of her other hand to whip the Escalade she was driving behind the only other vehicle on the street: an abandoned mini van.

"You got your Glock on you?" she asked Des as they came to a screeching halt.

"Yeah, right here!" Des waved the lightweight weapon that she had a death grip on, glancing at Buffy and shaking her head.

"Good. Ok, we roll out and take out the front boys. The tall one in the back center, we need him to die by silver, so don’t hit ‘im." She pulled her Desert Eagle’s twin out of her shoulder holster and flicked the safety off.

"Let’s do this!"

Buffy dove out the door and hit the ground with a rolling thump, listening to bullets whiz past her head as she hit pavement. There were eight of them left, four dead from her earlier bullets. Gustuuks came in a dozen, and only their pack leader’s blood was worth anything, ritual wise.
Her father had made it clear that this ritual was a serious one.

She felt one of the bullets tear into the flesh of her shoulder, but ignored it as she blew the heads off two Gustuuks on the right. She saw two others grasping chest wounds from Des’s Glock fall to join them. That left three by gun, one by silver. Another fell by her hand, the stump of his neck a bloody mess as he joined his brothers. Des took out the last two as Buffy aimed and blew out the pack leader’s knee.

An eeiry silence fell over the street, leaving Buffy’s ears ringing from the gunfight.

"Des," she yelled, rising slowly to her feet and walking towards the groaning demon. "Bring me my machete, will ya?"

He cursed at her from the ground, eyes glowing fiercely red. Buffy recognized only a couple of the words, street profanity demon style.

"Sorry and all that," she said as she put away one of her Eagles and took the silver machete with her free hand.

"But Daddy needs to get a head."

Des was still laughing by the time they got back to the mansion, pulling up past the huge black gates and the guard station. Buffy was quiet, not really feeling the rush of the kill anymore. Her thoughts were on the demon inside that she couldn’t seem to ignore lately.

She parked the smoking SUV and swung out, opening the back door to grab the dripping head from the seat. As she headed into the house with Des, she heard Casey, their garage man, cursing her and couldn’t hold back an evil little smile.

In the foyer, Des started off to the left as Buffy headed back towards the library.

"Girl, I’m gonna go get this sweat off me, get a little sexed up for tonight. I’ll see you at the party?"

"Yeah. I might be a little late. I got something I have to take care of."

"Cool. I’ll see ya when you gets there."

Buffy continued on. She followed the hallway beneath the grand staircase, took a left into the library, and closed the door behind her. She came to a stop finally in front of an oil painting of herself in a royal blue evening gown, commissioned by her father for her 15th birthday. It was ironic to her that she was the last stop on the way to his underground fortress, hair crimped prettily around her made up face, eyes glittering with what looked like wicked thoughts.

She slid her hand along its gilded frame until her fingers found the small latch that would gain her entrance to the world beneath. She watched the painting swing forward, revealing the passage behind, and quickly stepped into the darkness, pulling it closed behind her.

Buffy’s feet found their way easily in the dark, years of practice making her nimble and efficient despite the nighttime conditions. Truth be told, she felt more at home in the dark, in these underground chambers, than she ever did in the glamorous mansion above. After a bit, light began to reappear, and she strode confidently into the room it eminated from.

He was standing there, Spike, waiting for her with six or so of the others. Vampires, all, except for Tesh, the chaos demon, an overly tall, sad looking creature who happened to have a knack for casting. She watched their nostrils flare and suddenly remembered the graze she’d suffered, only to shrug it off just as quickly.

"Don’t bother loading up," she said, tossing the head at Spike. Disappointment filled her as one of his flunkies caught it.
Spike walked towards her, trying to hold back the grin at imagining her taking on a pack of Gustuuk demons single handedly.

"Decided to rush the setup a bit, did you?"

She shrugged as he came closer, trying to ignore the thrill that his presence caused. His blond hair shone in the light, jaw flexing, and she could tell from the set of his lips that he was trying not to smile.

"I was bored. Thought I’d make it a real surprise."

"And got yourself hurt, did you, pet?" he murmured, reaching a hand out halfway towards her, then dropping it back.

"It’s nothing," she said, voice hard as she turned her back on him to leave, a snub to any threat he might pose to her.

Buffy could feel him call her snub, stepping up close to breath copper scented breath on her shoulder.

She whirled, a stake poised at Spike’s heart and her Desert Eagle tight to his throat.

"Just ‘cause you’re Daddy’s muscle doesn’t mean I won’t kill you. I’m sure I can come up with something convincing as to why I had to cap your ass."

He laughed, those baby blue eyes of his calm to her threat.

"You won’t kill me princess, and you know it."

She dropped her arms in disgust, holstering her gun and tucking her stake back into her inner coat pocket.

"Besides, pet," he called after her as she left.

"I’m nobody’s muscle."

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