A/N I swear I haven't forgotten you guys! Research has just been taking all of my time. But I'm back now, and hoping that you haven't forgotten me in turn. Thanks as usual to Schehrezade for keeping me honest.


“I have struck down those who are wakeful within their shrines.” – The Book of Going Forth By Day


“Are you human enough?” Spike asked from the shadows behind the dumpster.

He had no idea why the young man was walking through this particular alley, especially without his scabby handlers, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Not when so much was on the line.

Ben, who had been pacing in aimless, wandering patterns, stopped dead in his tracks. He turned, boyish face surprised and instinctively fearful.

“Excuse me?” he asked, brows knit in confusion.

“See,” Spike stayed to the shadows, sliding closer while still keeping his face hidden so as to avoid being recognized. “I’ve got this issue, keeps me from… acting on certain impulses.” He continued walking towards the man, who was backing away slowly, eyes wide.

“I, uh… I’m not a psychiatrist…” Ben started uncertainly.

Spike’s bitter bark of laughter cut the young man short. “Too far gone for that anyway.” Another step forward, dark menace sending Ben stumbling back a little more quickly. The thrill of the hunt felt good. Unfamiliar with its side-note of righteousness, but still good.

“But see, I’m starting to think you might not fully meet the criteria. And if you’re not completely human…” Bone slid against bone, realigning and dropping sharp fangs into Spike’s snarling mouth.

Before Ben could cry out, before his own inner demon could make an appearance, Spike was on him. There was no time for a bite, not when Glory could burst to the surface at any second. Iron strong hands grabbed either side of the young man’s head, twisting sharply up and to the right.

The crack of broken vertebrae sounded like a shot in the dark parking lot.

Spike’s muscles bunched, taking up the strain of the suddenly limp body. He had tensed, wincing against the electric punishment that never came.

“Guess I was right,” he mumbled, shifting awkwardly under the dead weight in his hands.

Ben’s sneakered toes twitched feebly, nerves firing in dying complaint. When the body went perfectly still at last, Spike looked into the corpse’s flat eyes, searching for any glimmer of the hell goddess who had made this murder possible. There was nothing there other than a faint look of surprise and the hazy glaze that so quickly overtook the eyes of the newly dead.

The expression on the young man’s sad, boyish face effectively ruined whatever high the kill had brought him. He realized that Buffy could never know about this. He would have to look as surprised as she when Glory didn’t make an appearance for the big night.

Spike shrugged uncomfortably, but this was a burden that he was more than happy to shoulder. What was one more among all the others anyway. It only mattered was that Dawn was safe for the moment. There wasn’t anyone to stand between her rescue and the Scoobies, except a motley crew of sycophantic, leaderless demons who would keep the girl safe until their goddess gave them orders to the contrary.

Orders that would never come.

Spike dragged the body back to the dumpster and chucked it inside. The others were meeting at the Magic Box in half an hour to plan their attack. The irony did not escape him. He just hoped that he could keep his big mouth shut, so as to avoid a dusty end.

*****

Day 24

This wasn’t a nightmare.

Spike had survived enough of those, and crafted enough others, to recognize a nightmare when he saw one.

No, this was a sadist’s parody of a nightmare.

The Buffy ‘Bot was walking next to him, happy bounce in her, no its, step. It kept edging closer to him, defying Willow’s insistences that all of that programming had been erased.

The witch herself, Tara and Giles in tow, was following about twenty feet behind him. Spike knew that they were trying to be quiet, but three humans tromping around in the dark could only keep it to a distracting din on the best of nights. He just thanked whatever gods happened to be listening that Xander and Anya were on Dawn duty, because those two tended to raise the clamor ten-fold.

Spike hunched his shoulders miserably, thrusting clenched fists deep inside his jacket pockets. Bitterness coated the back of his throat and the memory of Xander’s sneering face and cutting words was playing on repeat in the back of his mind.

“You had that thing made, and now that it might be kinda useful, you what? Can’t stand the sight of it? More like you’re upset that Willow reprogrammed your little toy…”

Whoever said that the brain itself cannot feel pain obviously had never experienced the persistent throbbing of fried brain cells. That ache, and the livid purple swelling spreading across the carpenter’s face were tangible testimony to Spike’s opinion of the boy’s statement. Strangely enough, the others hadn’t tried blasting him into next week after the attack. Willow had just pulled him gently, but firmly away with what could only have been magically enhanced strength while Tara and Anya dithered over the boy’s bleeding nose. Giles had only looked on, glancing dully between the two combatants, if that was even the right word, before leveling flinty eyes at the vampire.

“It might help keep Dawn safe,” he had said mildly, knowing damned well what effect his words would have.

And that was why he found himself in the midst of this freakishly painful farce.

“Spike, I think I hear something.” Its voice, her voice framed by its lips, grabbed Spike’s attention with both hands and shook.

He grunted his acknowledgement of her, no its, words. After all, how exactly does one treat one’s robotic ex who happened to be modeled after one’s recently deceased love of one’s unlife? Mrs. Manners must to have overlooked that one, so Spike had settled on channeling the seething hatred he felt for himself whenever he laid eyes on the damned ‘Bot.

“No, really,” she, no, it…It said again in the loudest stage whisper he had ever heard. “Over there.” It pointed with one perfectly manicured fingertip and looked like a puppy, begging for attention.

Sure enough, there was a fledgling, newly risen and dusting the clinging soil from his tacky burial suit. Spike had to wonder at that. It had been his understanding that most people’s clothes were split up the back when they were dressed for burial, something about helping the mortician dress the corpse more easily. Seeing as how none of the newly risen denizens of this town seemed to be running around, wearing ritzed up hospital gowns, he guessed that the locals were just suckers for punishment.

My kind of people.

Spike glanced over his shoulder, making sure that the Scooby contingent had caught the ‘Bot’s words. They had, and were huddled together, wide eyed and expectant like the spectators in the Coliseum must have looked.

Caesar, we who aren’t about to die salute you.

Bitterly pondering the possibility of charging for admission for future patrols, Spike turned just in time to see the Buffy ‘Bot launch herself inexpertly at the distracted fledge. Warren’s programming had been top flight, but no mere construction of wires and polymers, no matter how technologically advanced, could really match a living, breathing slayer, especially not Buffy.

The newly risen vampire turned at the approaching sound and snapped a careless backhand across the ‘Bot’s face. It went flying, surprised gasp cut short when it hit a tree.

Something inside of Spike snapped.

The next thing he knew, his fangs were buried in the younger vampire’s throat, tearing deeply rather than feeding. Taloned fingers fisted in the fledgling’s hair, tearing in the opposite direction, audibly ripping flesh and bone. Spike barely noticed the gurgling screaming until it abruptly stopped. He spat the blood and torn tissue in his mouth out on the grass, unwilling to partake of any part of this reanimated piece of refuse. The fledgling’s neck was torn wide open, attached to his body by a ragged length of tendon and the twisted remnants of his spinal column. Spike couldn’t deny the primal satisfaction the gaping wound evoked in him, sending his golden eyes glittering maliciously.

He sauntered over to the fallen figure who was struggling to rise back to her feet. “Slayer, you alright?” he asked, voice full of solicitude.

At his words, she looked up at him, eyes shining with gratitude, and reality came crashing back down to Earth. The ‘Bot’s skin had torn during the fall, peeling latex back across its cheek to reveal the copper wires, blinking lights, and titanium support structure within.

It took his proffered hand and allowed itself to be pulled to its feet. “You called me ‘Slayer,’” it said brightly, and Spike jerked his hand away as if scalded by holy water.

It looked so hurt, so confused, and his own feelings were in enough of a snarl, that Spike found himself backing away, bile, or whatever passed for it in vampiric physiology, coating the back of his throat. Slamming the lid down firmly on the emotions that were threatening to boil over, Spike turned to face the carnage, and the Scoobies who he had all but forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Tara looked a few shades paler, and seemed transfixed in turns by the blood seeping into the grass around the fledgling and the gore staining his own face. Under the blond witch’s horrified gaze, Spike self consciously wiped a sleeve across his face. The move smeared the mess further across his cheek and accomplished little else. Tara quickly averted her eyes, and he felt an unaccustomed stab of shame.

Willow seemed completely unaffected. Giles too, but then again, the Watcher didn’t seem to react to much of anything anymore. He was watching Spike with hooded eyes, seeming to stare through, rather than at, him. It was more than a little disconcerting.

“Spike, what did I say?” the ‘Bot asked uncertainly.

He winced, but steadfastly ignored its words.

“Red,” he snapped, nerved frayed to the breaking point. The girl looked up from the mangled not-a-corpse, green eyes switching from clinical and curious to wide and guileless in the space between heartbeats.

“Vampire… portal… no more vampire…” he prompted sarcastically.

Willow’s pale face seemed cold and forbidding in the moonlight, but her voice was as light as ever.

“Yeah, no time like the present,” she said before raising her voice to the ‘Bot. “Buffy, run program Hotel California.”

Spike would have liked to protest the use of the Slayer’s name, but the sudden surge in mystical energies behind him served as more than ample distraction. He turned to see the Buffy ‘Bot’s hair rippling on magical currents and crackling with eldritch energy, inscribing a wide circle in the air with her painted nails. Its face was eerily blank and its body ramrod stiff.

It had never looked more artificial than it did in that exact moment.

Yellow-white light trailed behind its fingertips, flowing liquidly and flaring into searing brightness when the circle was closed.

Spike rapidly backpedaled when there was a ripping sound coming from the glowing portal, and suddenly the circle wasn’t filled with light, but with an oddly domestic scene. The room was large and cots lined one wall. There was a huge TV in one corner, flanked by couches, and a small kitchenette was visible in the other corner. It could have been a very poorly designed dormitory, but for the obvious lack of windows or doors.

“Spike, you’re up,” Willow said in a commanding voice. “Don’t forget that the portal’s one way, so don’t, you know, touch it.”

He bristled at her tone, but complied nevertheless.

He hooked one hand in the fledgling’s jacket collar and another in the waistband of his pants. He noted with dark amusement that the others were retreating to safer positions behind larger trees and tombstones. A traitorous voice in the back of his mind wondered if another famed Rosenberg magical meltdown could propel him where stakes could not, but he silenced the thoughts, reminding himself forcibly of his promise to Dawn.

After a preparatory swing, Spike sent the fledgling flying through the portal. No explosion, it was actually pretty anticlimactic. The vampire’s body hit the floor on the other side with a wet thud and lay still, sluggish blood leaking out on the bare concrete floor.

“Buffy, end program,” Willow said firmly, and the portal winked out of sight.

The ‘Bot, visible again now that the mystical doorway was gone, cocked her head to one side. “That was a knitted dust-buster,” it said happily.

The others just looked on in confusion.

“I, uh,” Willow tittered nervously, “I guess the spell fried some of her conversation protocols. I outta check it out. But hey, otherwise flawless!” She shot a triumphant smile to the still-queasy witch and distracted watcher.

A hissing crackle gave Spike enough warning to leap away from the Buffy ‘Bot before a stream of sparks, some mystical, some electrical, shot from the machine’s mouth. He backed away, eyes as wide as the others,’ when the mock-slayer bent double and started dry heaving, crackling energy escaping its gasping lips.

Willow’s face melted in disappointment.

Spike’s too.

His hopes that this trial run would prove so successful that he wouldn’t have to accompany the Scoobies and ‘Bot on future patrols died in the sparking shower.

When the light show ended, the ‘Bot looked up from her miserable crouch, face uncharacteristically lined with distress. “I don’t feel so good,” she whimpered to no one in particular.

None of them seemed to know how to react to that, but after a long beat, Willow stepped forward and helped the robot to its feet.

“Don’t worry Buffy.” Spike ground his teeth at the continued use of the slayer’s name, noting distantly that the Watcher was doing the same, but when the redhead continued, he felt a stab of empathy for her instead.

“I’ll take care of you. Next time will be different. Next time I’ll be perfect.”