"That bitch," hissed the First Evil, as she wore the Slayer's face. She postured, next to the blonde, ensouled vampire as they watched Buffy and Angel's embrace.

Spike just stared, not knowing what to say. Not knowing what to do. All he knew was that something was terribly, horribly wrong.

Buffy's eyes fluttered open, and she looked at Angel. "I thought you were in L.A."

"Hey," he murmured, eyes softening. "What can I say? A demon lawyer told me my best girl was in trouble. What else could I do?"

The Slayer, the Chosen One, having just won a battle in the fight of her life, smiled. Angel, the ensouled Champion, smiled back. "You're a little late, don't you think?"

He smiled wryly. "In the end, it's always you."

Spike bit back a growl as he watched the exchange, and-

Suddenly, the mausoleum, the vampires, the Scythe- none of it was there. Not even the First Evil, or the cold corpse of its minion.

"Dammit, we're losing her!" the doctor shouted, slapping aside the tray of instruments. A loud, uninterrupted beeping was sounding. "What happened?"

"Clear!" he shouted, pressing the paddles against the chest of the young woman on the table.

An observing resident looked pale as he watched the chaos in the operating room. According to the records he had perused in preparation, this was supposed to be a simple brain operation, to remove a small tumor in the girl's left amygdala. A little unusual, yes, because she was a mental patient, but it shouldn't have gone like this. No one could have anticipated an allergic reaction to the general anesthetic, no one could have forseen the massive seizures that were wracking her body. Her heart wasn't beating, she was no longer breathing, and he realized that in seconds, this young woman, this twenty-something lunatic, would be brain dead. He only wondered if the surgeon realized it as well.

Apparently so.

"Shit!" Dr. Reinhardt swore again as he let his helpless gaze fall on the monitors. Glancing back and forth, he knew he had nothing left. Slamming the paddles back on the cart, he exchanged a look with the anesthesiologist.

"Call it."

A nod. "Buffy Anne Summers. Time of death, 2:15 pm, May 20, 2003."

In the glass-enclosed observatory, Joyce and Hank began to cry. So many years, watching and hoping that their baby girl would wake up. Hoping she would come back, away from the imaginary "Sunnydale" and the things that bound her to it. Hoping she would be their daughter again.

That hope was dead, killed by mistake on a cold, stainless table. Buffy's vacant expression had never changed.

"Maybe now she's in a better place." Hank murmured, not really sure how to react. He hadn't truly had his daughter for years.

Soundless tears streamed down Joyce's cheeks as she wept for her child. She held her husband closer.

"Maybe she already was."

Why, oh why, didn't I take the blue pill?

-Matrix