FIC; The Chosen: Where Do We Go From Here? (1/3)

[Kirayoshi@xxxxxxxxxx]

Greetings gang.

I recently sent this story over to the MegaWitchesRoundRobin list to kick around. Apart from a single rave response from TheBear, I received not a word. Sadly the round-robin has fallen into limbo since Hunter Ash had to leave due to scheduling conflicts.

Therefore, I submit the first part of my pilot ep to the main B/W lists, in the hope of getting my fellow writers interested in joining me in creating a virtual spin off series. If you are interested in helping me out with this, contact me off-list at JDMeans@xxxxxxx, or my new addy Kirayoshi@xxxxxxxxxx. I have a few ideas for plot line, including a possible recurring villain, but I don't have the time or the energy to try this whole damn thing solo. That and if it bombs I want to spread the blame around!

I've spoken my peace and counted to three,

Kirayoshi

P.S. Since it's been a week(by five minutes, according to my clock), I'm not gonna bother with spoiler space.

Disclaimers; Joss gave us the lemons; I'm just making the lemonade. And don't worry, I'm using sugar.

Spoilers; through the series finale, "Chosen". Keep in mind that I'm basing this on spoiler reports, not the actual episodes, so I may be wrong on some points.

Rating; PG-13. Warning; there are some ugly descriptions of an ugly act at the beginning of this story. Sad to say, sometimes humanity trumps the Hellmouth for sheer evil.

Author's Note; This is my pilot for a virtual Buffy-spinoff. Someone's gotta be first, right? Better me than some B/S-er!

Pairing; None yet, but knowing me, Buffy and Willow are gonna start noticing each other at some point...

Feedback; Please do. Flames will be subject to brief scorn, then deleted without ceremony.

Summary; Buffy Summers, for the first time in her life, is free of her calling as the Slayer. But there is still evil in the world. Was 'Chosen' the end, or a new beginning?

The Chosen
Created by Kirayoshi

Episode 1.1
Where Do We Go From Here?


"The battle's done,
We kind of won,
So we sound our victory cheer--
Tell me,
Where do we go from here?"
--From 'Once More with Feeling'

"Well, we know where we're going,
But we don't know where we've been,
And we know what we're knowing
But we can't say what we've seen,
And we're not little children
And we know what we want
And the future is certain;
Give us time to work it out."
--Talking Heads
"Road to Nowhere"


Prologue;
Fargo, North Dakota
June 10, 2003

She stood by the Subway sandwich shop, counting her small change. Only two bucks and a handful of pennies. Not enough for a decent meal. She prowled away from the Subway, glancing furtively at the faces that passed her on the sidewalk. She drew the hood of her sweatshirt down around her ears to ward off the chill wind that had sliced at her face like knives. She clutched at her suitcase, a battered brown nylon-shelled case that contained three sweatshirts, six t-shirts, three pairs of blue jeans, three pairs of pantyhose, assorted white cotton undergarments, a few meager toiletries and her long-time companion and protector, a plush purple dragon named Smokey. 

In short, everything she had time to throw into the case before her mother called the cops.

Everything she had left in the world.

She had only two dollars left out of the hundred she had stolen from her mother's purse(No, not my mother, she mentally scolded herself, not after she stood by and let that--that monster--) two weeks ago. She splurged the other day and ran her clothes through a public laundry somewhere in Butte, Montana, just a few days after finally getting out of Boise. She wasn't sure if the cops were still tailing her or not. They probably weren't, but she couldn't afford to take any chances. Keep moving; that was her only choice. But she simply couldn't live with the reek coming out of her clothes after a week on the road, mostly by foot. So she ran two washing machines at the Laundromat, while sneaking into a nearby YWCA for a quick shower, praying that no one got a clear shot of her face.

After all, she mused, it wouldn't do any good to get caught by the cops in her birthday suit. She could see the headlines now; MURDER SUSPECT APPREHENDED IN THE BUFF	.

It wasn't murder. That was the only thing about that horrible day two weeks ago that she knew with absolute certainty. After all, that sleaze had it coming. Chuck, that was his name, had been dating her mother for a few months, and at first he seemed to be okay. Two weeks ago, he took her to the State Fair and let her ride on the Tilt-A-Whirl and bought her cotton candy and even won her a giant stuffed panda in the ring-toss. She figured this was his way of proving to her mother that he was good husband material, by looking after her daughter.

She was smiling hugely as he brought her back home, carrying the panda for her, and she couldn't contain the excitement in her voice as she described what they did and saw at the fair. Her mother smiled at her, and then flashed a grateful smile at Chuck before she ambled to the kitchen to make dinner.

Later that evening, as she put on her pajamas and jumped into her bed, she heard a knock at the door. "Honey," the gruff but sweet voice called quietly, "it's me. Chuck."

"Oh, come in," she answered innocently enough. The door opened and Chuck staggered in. His eyes seemed glazed, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste at the foul liquor smell that was coming off of his breath. He leaned in toward her, asking, "Say, darlin', how old are you?"

"Uh," she gulped slightly, wondering what had happened to that sweet teddy-bear of a man who took her to the fair earlier. "Sixteen."

"Close enough," he growled.

Then he was on top of her. His hands mauled her breasts. His hot breath stung her cheek as his body pinned her to the mattress. All she felt was pain, terror, humiliation at this sudden violation. She cried, she screamed, she struggled. All she wanted was for the nightmare to end.

A blur of memories followed. The weight of Chuck's body suddenly flying off of her, the smacking sounds of her fists on his cheeks and jaw, the pair of scissors that somehow found their way into her hand, the warm wetness that stained her carpet red.

Her next fully cognizant moment consisted of her mother screaming over Chuck's corpse, then turning toward her. "I'll see you rot in jail, you tramp!" she snarled, a white-hot rage twisting her once-pleasing features into an ogre's mask, a mask of pure hatred. She turned toward the door, leaving her desperate daughter with one choice; survival at all costs.

Two minutes later, suitcase in hand, she stepped over the unconscious body of her mother and rushed out of the house where she had called a sanctuary all of her life only to become hell. She bought the cheapest Greyhound ticket she could find to anywhere east, and sat alone in the back of the bus, crying.

That was two weeks ago. Now, she was drifting from town to town, homeless shelter to homeless shelter, fearing every face that she saw. Each day she asked herself, would the cops finally catch me? Would they drag me back to Boise, to jail? Would they-

"Hey, Sophie," a calm voice chirped behind her. "What's the up?"

She gulped hard at the sound of someone saying her name, and bolted. She almost knocked down an elderly woman dragging a grocery cart along the sidewalk in making her escape, before ducking inside a nearby alleyway. She crouched against the cold brick wall at her back, her head pulled in between her arms, her heart hammering in her chest, her breathing ragged. Busted, she cringed, I am so busted, no way I'm gonna get outta here-

"Relax, Soph," that voice announced again. "I'm not with the cops. And they're not looking for you anyway." Sophie tried to back away, skittering sideways against the wall before trying to lift herself back up to her feet. A gentle hand rested against her shoulder, and she flinched as though touched by a low-voltage surge. "Look at me, Soph," the voice insisted, both gentle and commanding. Finally, the weakened young girl lifted her head and looked at the person who had addressed her.

A young woman, nineteen or twenty by her looks, looked back at her with sparkling blue eyes. Black hair spilled wildly around her head, framing a face that seemed impossibly old, as though this woman had lived ten lives before this one and remembered them all. Her posture was guarded, knowing, her arms hanging tensely at her sides, but the lopsided smile on her face seemed strangely comforting. She wore gray cargo pants, thigh-high black leather boots and a white t-shirt which bore the slogan; "Babe In Total Control of Herself".

She continued to speak, almost casually; "Like I said, Soph, you're not in trouble. At least not with the Boise cops. Chuck Maltese's death was labeled self-defense. I mean, you find a dead middle-aged man in a girl's bedroom with his pants down around his ankles, a pair of scissors slammed in his chest and a blood alcohol level that's off the charts, the math practically does itself. Your mom's in therapy, BTW. She's still not ready to see you, but she's coping with what that sleaze tried to do to you. Give her time."

Sophie stared hard at the woman and inhaled deeply before attempting to speak; "Wha-what happened? To Chuck, I mean. Did I kill him?"

"Yeah, that'd be my guess," the woman answered. "And good job to you. Didn't know your own strength, huh?"

Sophie lowered her head miserably. "I didn't mean to kill him," she muttered, half to herself, "I just wanted him to stop..." She sank back to a crouched posture, her shoulders sagging under an enormous weight.

"I know, sweetheart," the woman knelt before her, a calming hand gently touching Sophie's cheek. "I know you didn't mean to. But you gotta remember something; Chuck did mean to rape you. He would have succeeded if you didn't stop him. You're not in the wrong here. He was. Just keep a stranglehold on that and you'll be okay."

"B-but h-how..." Sophie stuttered, swallowed hard, and tried again. "How did I kill him? I mean, he was so bulked up, he lifted weights regularly, how could I do that to him?"

The other woman smiled. The question she was waiting for. "Well, Soph, y'know them news reports about mothers who find their babies pinned under cars, and their adrenalin kicks in and they can lift the car to save their babies?" Sophie nodded. "Well, that isn't the case here. You, Sophie Myers, are different from all the other girls. You've got a weird gift. You're what's called a potential."

Sophie knitted her eyebrows as she digested what the older woman was saying. "Is that like a mutant? Like the X-Men or something?"

The older woman chuckled slightly. "Not quite. This is gonna take a while to explain. Hey, when's the last time you ate?"

"Two days ago," Sophie admitted.

"I saw a Subway sandwich shop a block and a half back, what say I take you there, buy you a foot-long pastrami and a large Pepsi, and I'll call a friend of mine to meet us there. He can explain this better than I can. He wears tweed and uses more after shave than he should, IMO, but he's cool. You'll like him. He can tell you what's happening to you."

"How do I know he's not gonna try and rape me like Chuck did?" Sophie challenged. The older woman was taken aback slightly. She knew that the kid would have trust issues after what that monster did to her, but the vehemence of her outburst did surprise her.

After a moment's thought, she asked Sophie, "When Chuck tried to force you, did you feel something? Sort of a buzzing in the back of your head?" Sophie glared at the sidewalk for a second, then nodded. "Kinda like what you think Spider-Man's Spider sense feels like to him?" Sophie nodded again. "Well, that's just what you felt, your own Spider sense. It comes with being a potential, you can sense when someone's good or evil. Now then, look at me and tell me whether you feel that buzzing or not."

Sophie lifted her head and examined the face before her with a gimlet eye. After a few moments, she shook her head. The older woman smiled. "See, you know you can trust me. I'm on your side here. I just want to help you, Sophie. But it's your call to make. We're not gonna make you do anything you don't want to do. Way I figure, you got plenty of that from Chuck." She offered a hand to Sophie. "Whaddya say?"

Sophie looked at the woman's outstretched hand, then grasped it in her own. "Can I have smoked turkey?"

"You got it," the older woman smiled. She stood up, lifting Sophie to her feet, and pulled out a Kleenex to wipe the tears and grime from Sophie's cheeks.

"Oh, I forgot," the older woman added. "My name's Faith."

========

Seattle, Washington
November 18, 2003

"Buffy," Dawn shouted as she entered the apartment she shared with her older sister. "Letter for you. Looks like the UW." Buffy rushed out of kitchen and snatched the letter from Dawn's hand. She opened the envelope with trembling hands, and withdrew the papers inside. The clean white stationary of the cover letter bore a pale purple silhouette of a husky dog at the top. "Dear Miss Summers," she read half-aloud, "we are pleased to inform you-"

"You got in!" Dawn smiled. "I told you!"

Buffy glared at her sister. "I didn't even get to that part yet!"

"Trust me," Dawn observed, "if it were a rejection, they wouldn't be 'pleased' to inform you, they'd 'regret' to inform you."

"Ahem," Buffy cleared her throat dramatically. "We are pleased to inform you," she continued reading, "that your application to attend the University of Washington for the 2004-2005 academic year has been accepted-okay, Dawn, you were right."

"Toldya," Dawn smiled impishly, raising a fist in the air. "Go Huskies!" 

Buffy scowled briefly, before melting into a happy grin as she thumbed through the additional papers in the letter. "The letter also comes with brochures for campus housing, information on scholarships and grants, maps of the campus and the like."

"See, I knew you got in before you opened the letter," Dawn commented. "They wouldn't have added those brochures if they were turning you down."

"Good point," Buffy answered as she lowered herself to the sofa and relaxed. She reached for the remote control, and turned on the television.

"[click]-Wolfram and Hart representative Charles Gunn announced that the firm would continue to aid relief efforts for Los Angeles. The city is still recovering from massive riots that broke out after a local detective firm revealed that the mysterious and charismatic cult leader known only as Jasmine was a fraud," the immaculately coifed news-anchor announced. "In other news, Federal officials have announced that they've closed their investigation regarding the destruction of Sunnydale, California earlier in May. A spokesman for the FBI has stated, 'It is our opinion that the disappearance of Sunnydale was not a terrorist act, but a natural disaster.' The most unusual aspect of Sunnydale's downfall was that most of the city's residents had left the doomed city shortly before its final fall, resulting miraculously in very few fatalities. The governor of California has stated that there are no plans to rebuild the city. As an anonymous high-ranking official at the Bureau was quoted as saying, 'it was a miracle that any city lasted as long as Sunnydale did, under the circumstances. If there is a less-hospitable region in the country to build a city, I can't imagine such a place.' The city's former site has been cordoned off by the state government, and it is expected that the region will remain vacant indefinitely. To quote one military observer, 'if there is a true Hell on Earth, it is here'-[click] "'Shoot him now, shoot him now.' 'You keep out of this, he doesn't have to shoot you now.' 'That's it, hold it right there! Pronoun trouble-'"

Buffy sagged back in the sofa cushions, watching as Bugs Bunny bamboozled Elmer Fudd into shooting Daffy Duck's beak off yet again, and groaning as the stab wound in her gut twinged. A souvenir of her final battle as the Slayer. Dawn glanced at her sister, amazed at how easily Buffy's mood changed from elation to despair. She placed her hand on Buffy's arm, offering what support she could. "You saved the world, Buffy. Xander, Willow, Giles, Kennedy, Faith, thanks to you, they're all alive. We all got a second chance now, Buffy."

Yeah, the former Slayer reflected sullenly without speaking. All it cost me is my home and every real friend I ever had. Buffy gave Dawn a faint half-smile. She glanced back at the clock before lifting herself out of her seat. "And I gotta head for work," she announced, "if I want to afford my tuition. And you got homework to do," she added, winning a scowl from Dawn.

Buffy gathered her sister into a generous hug. "Love ya, Dawnie," she whispered.

"Love ya back, Buffy," Dawn answered. After disengaging the hug, Buffy grabbed her purse and jacket and headed out the door. Yeah, she realized, Dawn was right. I got a second chance now. A chance for a fresh start. A chance to become something new.

And a chance to forget who I was.

======== 

For once in Seattle, the skies didn't threaten rain. Stratus clouds streaked the western skies, their undersides tinged with vibrant reds and oranges by the huge setting sun as it reflected off the waters of Puget Sound. 

And for the first time in a long time, she didn't fear the sunset as she made her way through downtown Seattle.

It took her more than an hour to navigate around the Pike Place Market, especially after the contradictory directions she received from the clerks at the local 7-11. She didn't know the address she was looking for, she only knew the name of the club. She was told to look for the club around Post Alley, near the Market. Giving a resigned sigh, she soldiered on; passing the carts of fresh fish and stands of fruits and vegetables that lined the entrance of the Market.

Taking a few sharp turns at random, she found herself walking down a narrow alley, lined on either side with restaurant and bar signs. To her left she saw a neatly lettered sign for 'Kell's Irish Pub'. She smiled; she had found Post Alley.

Walking slowly and discreetly glancing left and right, she scanned the signs around her, not certain where exactly she was going. She soaked in the sounds, the colors, the sensations. A group of young men, white, black, and one Asian, rapped to hip-hop beat handclaps and mouth sounds, while a nubile Latino girl (she can't be any older than Dawn, she thought), spun on her head like a top. Three mimes fascinated, charmed, and in some cases annoyed a crowd of the curious with their silent gestures. A middle-aged man ran a popcorn kettle, vending slightly sweet and salty snacks to eager customers. A painter had set up an easel by one storefront, and was sketching the details of the alley to capture in her oils.

As she admired the hustle and activity around her, she happened to glance upward, over the head of the aspiring painter, where she found the object of her search. A hand-hammered metal sign mounted over the door and lit by three bright floodlights, with six stenciled cookie-cutout letters forming a single word;

BRONZE.

She smiled. This was the place. She pushed aside the front door, admiring the leaded glass window, and approached the bar.

======== 

Twenty minutes ago;

"Do I have to change my name?
Will it get me far?
Should I lose some weight?
Am I gonna be a star?

I-
Tried to be a boy,
Tried to be a girl,
Tried to be a mess,
Tried to be the best,
I guess I did it wrong,
That's why I wrote this song
This type of modern life,
Is it for me?
This type of modern life,
Is it for free?

So-
I went into a bar,
Looking for sympathy,
A little company,
I tried to find a friend,
It's more easily said,
It's always been the same.
This type of modern life,
Is it for me?
This type of modern life,
Is it for free?"

Madonna's voice rang out of the speaker system as Buffy entered the Bronze and made her way to the bar. "Hey, Buffy," Steven announced the moment his boss made her appearance. "We're running short on pineapple juice."

"I'm fine, Steven, you?" Buffy quipped at her assistant manager. "I'll call the food services company and holler at them. How's business?"

"The joint is jumping," Steven announced happily. "We're still doing steady business with the crowd from the Cinerama."

"Great," Buffy smiled. She looked around at the dimly lit cavernous interior of the Bronze, her new home away from home. Steven was tending the neon-lined juice bar with the assistance of their regular bartender Marcus, while several teens were playing pool by the western wall, and a large crowd was gathered on the main dance floor, grooving alone, or in groups of two or more to the loud percussive beats her sound system provided. She smiled; dozens of young people, drinking mochas, dancing, having a good time. Just like the original Bronze, she mused. Before all Hell broke loose.


After Sunnydale fell, the first stop for the survivors was a hospital in Los Angeles, where Buffy and the others were treated for injuries sustained against the Bringers and the First. The doctors were able to heal her wounds, astonished that she had recovered so quickly, but the gash was too severe to heal without scarring, or a faint debilitating pain. As she recovered, Giles laid down the law; Buffy was hereby retired as the active Slayer, a decision that she and most of the former Scooby Gang seemed to agree with. Buffy loudly announced to anyone who cared to listen that she was hanging up her stakes, and named Faith the true Slayer. 

Once they had relocated briefly to Los Angeles, Giles made arrangements with Angel Investigations, who now controlled the legal firm of Wolfram and Hart. With Angel's legal connections, he managed to acquire and liquidate the funds of what used to be the Watchers Council before it was destroyed by the First Evil. He kept half of the sizable total in a private account, with the intention of rebuilding the council, and split the rest equally between Buffy and the former members of the Scooby Gang. "A reward for services rendered," he had stated simply. Each of the Scoobs received well over a million dollars, enough to restart their lives anywhere and in any way they saw fit. Buffy decided on Seattle, mainly because she had no family there, and no one knew who she was. A chance to fade into the crowd, to simply leave her past behind her and rebuild her life.

The Red Hot Chili Peppers replaced Madonna on the house sound system as she examined the receipts from the previous night's business. A tall black man approached her, coughing slightly to get her attention. Buffy lifted her head and asked, "May I help you?"

"I'd like to speak to the manager," he stated clearly with gentle authority.

"You've got her," she answered with calm professionalism, offering a handshake. "Buffy Summers, owner and manager of the Bronze."

"Lieutenant James Richardson, Seattle police." he replied, removing his wallet and flashing his badge for Buffy to see. Buffy squirmed slightly, and the Lieutenant nodded knowingly. "I only wanted to talk for a little, Miss Summers. You've recently opened this bar, but I didn't see the notice in your window for a liquor license application."

"There's a reason for that, Lieutenant," Buffy answered coolly. "I don't sell alcohol here. I don't allow underage drinking or smoking, and no dealing. I opened the Bronze as a place for teenagers, a safe haven and a hangout spot. There was a similar place in my hometown in California, so I thought that the Bronze would sell well here in Seattle."

"Hmm," Lieutenant Richardson hummed as he looked around. Indeed most of the patrons were in the high school age bracket, and all of them seemed to be behaving themselves. He glanced back at Buffy, whose attention was suddenly fixed toward a group that had just arrived and were making their way to a corner table. They sat down at the table and hunched their heads towards each other, murmuring quietly.

"Excuse me," she walked around the bar and past the police officer, and steadily toward the table in question. She scanned the table quickly; four white men, all dressed in black leather duster jackets with their collars hitched up high over to partially obscure their faces and mirrored shades, their de facto leader sitting with his back to the wall, an air of cold menace around him. Not supernatural as far as she could sense, but sinister nonetheless. Street gang, probably drug dealers.

"Is there anything I can do for you gents?" she asked civilly. The three 'lieutenants' chuckled slightly and mirthlessly.

The leader rose his hand slightly, silencing the others. "Do you mind, missy?" he snarled through a gold-toothed shark's smile. "My associates and I are trying to do some business."

Buffy folded her arms over her chest, her posture an unspoken challenge. "I should inform you," she smiled sweetly, "that this is my place of business, not yours. And I have a zero-tolerance policy regarding illegal drugs, or possession of weapons on the premises-" Her right hand shot inside the jacket pocked of the 'associate' to her left with lightning speed. Before any of the gang could blink, she displayed a semi-automatic handgun in her hand, causing the gangsta wannabe to blanch. "Hey, that's mine, gimme!" He lunged at her, only to find himself skidding face-first on the floor. He tried to get up, but Buffy slammed her boot firmly into his back. "Y'see, the way I see it, you got two choices," Buffy told the fallen gangster, but addressing the entire table. "You can leave in peace, or you can leave in pieces."

"Actually," Lieutenant Richardson announced, approaching the scene of the brief altercation, "he's leaving with me." Buffy took her foot off of the young punk's back, and Richardson grabbed him by the collar of his duster. "Well, well, well," he greeted the punk with mock familiarity. "If it isn't 'Iceman' Isaccs. Long time no see, Ice. And that must make you," he turned his attention toward their leader, "'Phat' Albert Moretti! Oh, you've been a bad boy, Phat." He flashed his badge to the gangleader, making certain that Phat Albert knew he was no longer in charge of the situation.

"You don't have nothin' on me, officer," Phat Albert grumbled menacingly. "Ain't that right, Ice?" He eyed his lieutenant with an unmistakable threat in his eyes. Iceman said nothing; he simply glared at the cop, eyes flashing fire and defiance.

Richardson simply smiled, turning his attention to Iceman. "What say we take this thing downtown, so we can talk alone, without your buddies?" Turning to Buffy, he added, "It's been a pleasure talking to you, Miss Summers. I had been concerned about your security, but it seems like you have things well in hand."

"Thanks, Lieutenant," Buffy smiled. "Feel free to look me up any time." 

"Glad to," he waved briefly with his free arm as he held Iceman's arm behind his back. Producing his handcuffs, he slapped them on Iceman's wrists, dragging him out of the Bronze. "Marcus Isaacs, you are under arrest for possession of an illegal firearm. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right to remain silent, anything you say-" The door swung closed behind the cop and his suspect.

Buffy then turned her attention to the remaining three gangsters, who suddenly seemed significantly smaller and less cocky. "Now then," she announced, "I want you guys to do me a favor. I want you to put the word out on the street. The Bronze is off-limits to gangs, drug dealers, or any of your criminal buddies. I ever see you, or anyone whom I think might be buddies of yours, anywhere near my joint, well, let's just say that I won't be happy." She leaned in toward the cowering Phat Albert, her eyes flashing sparks. "And we want to keep me happy, don't we?"

Phat Albert sat silently, eyeing Buffy in a stare-down. Buffy simply stared back, unblinking, giving him what Giles had once called 'The Eye of the Wolf', a stare guaranteed to intimidate ten newbie vampires at once. The Eye had the desired effect on Phat, who looked away, then raised his hand to his remaining lieutenants. "We're outta here," he commanded his troops, who filed in behind him as he left the table. "This place ain't fun no more."

"What can I say," Buffy shrugged her shoulders, "you're not my target demographic. Toodles!" She chuckled merrily as the gang left silently, their tails firmly between their legs. 

Sean Paul replaced Chili Peppers on the sound system, imploring the dancers to 'Get Busy'. Buffy watched as the thugs filed out the front door and then turned to some of the customers who had witnessed the altercation. "Ladies and gentlemen," she announced, "there's no reason to be alarmed, just taking out the garbage. Go back to having fun, the floorshow's over for tonight." Steven offered her a high-five as she returned to the bar. "Way to take out the trash, boss-lady," he announced.

"Aww, 'twern't nothing'," she drawled casually. Inside, however, she grinned hugely; it was an unusual experience for her to earn the trust of a police officer. And now that the word was out that she wouldn't tolerate criminal activity in her club, she felt that she could relax a little more.

Returning to the cash register, she spent the next few minutes tallying the receipts before placing them in the bottom of the till drawer. As she finished her paperwork, she became aware of someone on the other side of the bar. Turning toward her potential customer, she announced, "Welcome to the Bronze. My name's Buffy. How may I serve...?" Her voice caught in her throat as she saw the greenest eyes God ever made gazing warmly back at her through a forest of reddish bangs. 

"I don't know about you," the sweetest voice Buffy ever knew bubbled merrily, "but right now I feel the need for more sugar than the human body can consume."

Buffy gawked in stunned silence for a moment, her breath coming in short gasps, as she made several futile attempts to speak. Finally, one word managed to squeeze out past her lips; "Mochas?"

"Yes, please," Willow Rosenberg regarded Buffy with an elfin grin that never failed in the past to warm her heart. "Hi, Buffy. Nice place you got here." She gave a brief sardonic glance at her best friend, then asked, "So, you gonna hug me or what?"

Buffy swallowed one last gasp, then whooped loudly enough to drown out the sound system and grab the attention of nearby customers. Diving across the bar, she grabbed Willow in a bone-crunching hug, a hug that the redhead eagerly returned. "Oh God I missed you, Willow," she whispered hoarsely, half-laughing, half-crying.

"I missed you too," Willow replied emphatically. For a solid minute the two long-lost friends embraced fiercely, not caring about the odd looks surrounding them, simply reveling in their closeness.

Steven lifted his hand to his mouth and coughed theatrically. Buffy and Willow glanced toward Steven and clumsily disengaged the hug. "So," Steven drawled comically, "I'm gonna go out on a limb here. You two know each other?"

"Steven," Buffy announced proudly, "I'd like you to meet the greatest, sweetest, best friend anyone ever had, Willow Rosenberg." Willow waved slightly, then extended her hand. "Willow, this is my assistant manager, Steven Shea." Steven accepted Willow's handshake, gallantly kissing her knuckle. "Hate to break it to ya, Steven," Buffy joked, "but she's gay."

"Then we have something in common," Steven countered. As Buffy turned bright red, Steven quipped, "We tease each other like this all the time, Willow."

"A pleasure to meet you," Willow answered, smiling. She scanned her surroundings approvingly, admiring the lounge chairs and sofas in some of the corners and hutches along the side wall. "Man this place takes me back," she whispered. "You done good, Buffy. Congrats."

"Yeah, I like it," Buffy answered with faint pride in her voice. "Pays the bills. Uh, Steven, can you-"

"Say no more," Steven waved his hands in a dismissal gesture, "go, catch up, do the bonding thing. I'll hold the fort."

Buffy bowed toward her favorite corner of the club, 


Download NeoPlanet at http://www.neoplanet.com