Dawn spreads over the sky and the sharp splotch of sun hurts my eyes. I sit at the window seat, my cheek pressed against cold, dirty glass and bits of tape that cling to it in the shape of Xs. My hand clutches a bowl of slushy oatmeal that Catharine handed to me a few minutes ago, its edges brown and burnt. It looks so disgusting that I'm pretty sure my stomach would reject it should I try and force it down my throat.

Seeing my distaste, Raisa mutters, “It's the best way to keep your strength up. Eat it.”

I glance to where she sits in the corner by the door, a wiry, tense mass of strength.

“I'm not hungry.”

Catharine's sleek fall of brown hair glints in the morning light. “It would be better,” she begins softly, “if you ate it, Buffy. You have a long day ahead of you.”

“Where's your headquarters?” I change the subject swiftly, curling my legs beneath me.

“We don't have a specific one,” Raisa's mouth twists. “Unlike regular Resistance fighters, there is no need to teach us battle techniques. Instead, we are taught basics. How to hold an alias, how to fire a gun—“

I wince imperceptibly, probing the patch of flesh near my left breast. “Guns aren't big on solving problems.”

“They just create more,” Catharine nods. “I agree with you. Unfortunately, it is a necessary evil.”

“But… we're Slayers. We're supposed to be using our bodies. Not our trigger finger.”

Raisa laughs derisively. “People aren't to know we're Slayers. That could create more problems than a thousand guns ever would.”

“Who does know we're Slayers?” I inquire, finally taking a bite of the rolled oats. They are cold and faintly salty, but otherwise have no discernible flavour, which is a relief. “I mean, are we in… hiding or something?”

“Didn't Whistler tell you anything?” Raisa sneers, obviously annoyed.

Catharine frowns at her. “She probably didn't get debriefed. You know how they depend on our contact to do that. Buffy—we are in hiding. From many different things. When you were recruited, I'm sure they told you you'd be working for the Resistance, yes?”

“Um, yeah…?”

“What they didn't tell you is that this is a secret branch of it,” Raisa puts in, standing and stretching her arm above her head. “Humans don't know we exist of course—“

“Wait a second,” I laugh shortly. “We are human.”

Raisa's eyes flash for a moment. “Is that a fact?”

I shiver, feeling as if icy fingers are crawling up my spine. “Yes it is,” I retort. “Besides, what do you mean a secret branch? Aren't we hired out by the Watcher's Council? They must have some sort of affiliation with the British army.”

Catharine gasps. “They really told you nothing.”

“What do you mean?” my eyes narrow.

“What she means,” Raisa hisses, “is that the Watcher's Council is exactly what we are hiding from.”

“Excuse me?”

“Buffy…” Catharine bites her lip. “It's not as if we know very much. When I was called, three years ago… everything was different. Soon though, everything just became very muddled – when the war began… my Watcher--- he did not tell me what side I was fighting on. I assumed—“

“You joined the army?” I break in.

“At my Watcher's urgings, yes, I did. I began the training and everything seemed all right,” Catharine responds quietly. “I wanted to help my country… after all; I'm not just a Slayer.”

“I understand,” I say softly.

“Do you?” she murmurs. “I was deceived, anyhow. My Watcher—he sold me into the service of the German Army.”

“Your Watcher?” I reply incredulously.

“Yes,” Catharine whispers, looking away.

“Don't make her talk about it,” Raisa snaps. “The long and short of it is that the Watcher's Council isn't exactly waving signs that say, 'Hitler's a bad man!'”

“So they're more on board with the, 'Hitler? Yay!' signs, then,” I sigh, slumping back against the window and setting the bowl of oatmeal to my side. “How many Slayers in Training have they caught?”

“No one's sure,” Raisa explains. “Who knows how long they've been gathering them? Whistler's trying to find them as quickly as he can… but there's just not enough of him to go around. We've got other people helping of course— Jane's in France—“

“Who's Jane?” I inquire.

“My brother,” Catharine smiles.

“Oh—the one who you went out with,” I giggle in Raisa's direction.

She scowls. “If you choose to be juvenile, you're going to get us all killed.”

“Give me a break. I was just teasing.”

“We don't have time for that. We have to get you ready for your meeting with Angel.”

My breath hitches. “Tell me about him.”

Catharine grins. “He's gorgeous. Like a dark Prince in a fairytale.”

“I'll bet,” I whisper. “How long have you known him?”

“He's been a contact of ours for about a year,” Raisa answers. “Very taciturn. A vampire with a soul… though I'm still not sure how that works. All I know is that he was recruited by Whistler—“

“So he and Whistler are friends?”

“No, not that I know of,” Raisa frowns, her brow creased in thought. “I don't think they've met, but Whistler knows of him. You must as well—wouldn't your Watcher have told you about him?”

“His name as a vampire was Angelus—the one with the Angelic face. He changed it when he was—I think he was actually cursed with a soul. He didn't seek it out voluntarily,” Catharine supplies. “Have you heard of him?”

My stomach gurgles and I shift in the seat, feeling a little queasy. “A bit.”

“He had quite a reputation,” Catharine says whimsically. “Like a novel, really. Such long adventures, filled with loneliness and despair—“

“And lots of murder and mayhem,” Raisa interrupts with a sardonic glance at her friend. “We can't forget that.”

“He's different now,” Catharine assures me. “I see it in his eyes. There's a lot of pain in them.”

I remember that pain too well, and shrug. “Oh yeah?”

“I don't see any torment,” Raisa begins to do sit ups, her movements smooth and controlled. “But he's a dedicated member of the cause, or so Whistler tells us. Apparently he's very concerned with helping Slayers. Which I suppose is admirable, since there aren't many who want to help us.”

Catharine takes her bowl and goes over to the rusty ceramic sink. She begins to run the water and wisps of steam rise from the crystal stream. “There most definitely are not many. Most would rather harvest us. Train us to kill. We're a dying breed, Buffy.”

“Usually I'd say she's being her usual dramatic self,” Raisa puts in with a wry smile. “Unfortunately, she's right. We need all the help we can muster.”

“So what do you do, exactly?” I ask, gazing out of the window in the direction of Somerset. Home. I need to get home. My hands twist together as I think of all the things that could have happened in the night I've been gone. Giles searching, Willow and Xander researching, Dawn staring at the door as if it will open at her command. Spike—Spike lost.

Catharine's melodic tones break into my reverie. “We don't do anything especially different than the regular Resistance. But we are in deeper hiding. Usually we are sent on missions to France, actually. More often than not however we assist in training the soldiers in battle techniques, we pass intelligence to those in France and… well, other things that you will learn as we go along.”

“We're not really supposed to patrol,” Raisa says. “But we do anyway. After all, vampires don't stop coming just because it's wartime.”

“But usually they're the ones starting the wars,” I whisper, attempting to grasp the notion of a world that is not under siege by some dark demon force—but rather… by other humans. “Its funny that we managed to screw it up this time.”

“Very funny,” Raisa replies sardonically.

“You know what I mean,” I snap back, without feeling. “We're trained… we're trained to fight demons. Demons I may not understand… but at least—they have a reason. It's because they're evil. What does it mean when its us who are doing it?”

“I think it means we've got a lot to learn,” Catharine comments, her bow shaped mouth curved in a smile without any humour. “But isn't that always the way? We're an engine without a spark. We need something to get us on the right track.”

Startled for a moment by her words, I close my eyes and flashes of a church flit behind my eyelids. Glint of his flesh burning and the cross hanging heavily over his arms and chest. ((Aren't we just a sodding engine?)) Shaking my head, I glance out the window at the corner where Catharine's brother sells newspapers.

“Does Parr know what you do?”

She nods. “I had to tell him. My Mother—she has a slight problem with alcohol, you see. Parr looks after her more often that not, and I had to explain to him why I couldn't come by as much.”

My heart hurts for a moment. “I'm sorry.”

“Why should you be?” Catharine asks with a half-smile. “At least I have them alive and well, which is more than can be said of most families.”

“What happened to your father?” I inquire gently.

She shrugs. “He died before I was born. Mother doesn't speak of him- it's very mysterious. Like a novel. I used to wonder when I was young if they had a great love affair and that's why she turned to the drink after he died. I like to believe that is what makes her do it.”

“It's nicer to have a reason,” I sympathize and she nods.

“Makes things clearer.”

“Facts are the only things that make situations clearer,” Raisa remarks coolly. “I don't think making up a bedtime story helps anyone.”

“What's the matter?” I tease her. “No one ever told you stories when you were little?”

“No,” she responds shortly and my smile fades. “Now can we get a move on? Cathe, lend Buffy some clothes. We've got to show her the training center—and she can meet Angel there.”

+ + +

We cut a wide swathe as we walk down the road. Now properly attired for the times in a knee-length black and white plaid skirt and a black blouse, I fiddle with the constraining bun Catharine swept my hair into and feel as if I'm going to fall over in the tottering high heels.

((“I feel like I'm 30 years old,” I muttered to her as I pulled on the clothes.

She clucked her tongue. “Why you put your hair in such an unflattering style is quite beyond me.”))

As we walk down Somerset, I glance at her. “Have either of you scouted out the Watcher's Council building—for ways to get in secretly?”

She looks horrified. “First of all, lower your voice. Secondly, of course not. Don't you understand what they would do to us should we step foot on their property?”

I feel sick suddenly as I remember the feeling of soaked cloth against my nose. “Try and drug you?”

“That's only the beginning,” Raisa says in a low voice. “So you'd better stay away.”

“Did I say I was going there?” I respond snappishly. “All I want to know was if you two had ever been inside. Might give us some clue as to what their weaknesses are.”

Raisa finally nods approvingly. “Good thinking.”

“Why is that good thinking?” Catharine inquires, looking confused. “I shouldn't imagine that anything to do with that building is safe. You're not entertaining any ideas of going in there, are you? Because that would only amount to disaster.”

“If we had a plan, I don't see why it's such a terrible idea,” Raisa replies. “You're scared of them, Cathe, and I understand that—but we have to find some way of finding out what their plans are. Who knows how long this fucking war will go on?”

Catharine appears pained. “Couldn't you use British swear words? They sound much more dignified.”

Raisa grins, her slightly pointed teeth sharp in the morning blush of dawn. “I'm Russian.”

“So shouldn't you be a cold bitch?” I ask. “Oh…wait.”

Laughing, Raisa locks eyes with me. “We're beginning to understand each other.”

“Are we?”

She nods. “Insult for insult, Buffy. You have to match me or I'll eat you alive.”

“I'll remember that.”

Looking at me calmly, she tilts her head. “Will you? I wonder if you let anything touch you. You seem like you're just passing through. We don't know much about you, Buffy.”

“What do you need to know?” I ask casually, a chill passing through me.

“Oh, nothing,” Raisa says with a deceptive smile. “I was just making conversation.”

“Its best we don't know much about you anyway,” Catharine puts in, sending a questioning glance in her friend's direction. “Keeping a low profile is key.”

“How about not forming any personal attachments?” I joke. “I'm well versed in that golden rule.”

“What about that boyfriend you said you had?” Raisa asks suspiciously.

“Do you think I wanted to spend one more minute with two crazies?” I grin. “You're not too quick on the uptake, are you?”

“Quicker than you'd think.”

“Ah, here we are,” Catharine announces, looking relieved.

I glance at the building we're in front of, surprised, as I hadn't even been watching where I was going. It's a tall, concrete structure, rising at least fourteen floors from the street. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I gaze up at the rows of taped Xs lining the windows, the blacked out shuttered and the few pots of flowers baking in the morning heat.

Momentarily disappointed I mutter, “Thought it might be fancier.”

Catharine giggles. “Its better inside.”

“Speaking of…” Raisa intones, leading us down a flight of steps set in the street to a door down below. Punching a code into the complicated series of locks decorating the side of the wood panels, she opens the door and steps inside. “Most think this is an apartment building. That is what you will say when anyone asks where you live. That way if you are seen entering it, it won't seem suspect.”

As we walk, I notice the tunnel we're traversing appears to be leading at an angle down to the ground. “Is it under—'

“Yes,” Catharine interrupts. “It's simply safer that way – especially for the vampires that work for us.”

“That's vampires, plural?” I inquire, surprised.

“Sometimes they enlist a Fang Gang or two for extra work. I'm not sure what kind, though.”

Catharine's slim, pale hand reaches out and grasps the doorknob as we reach the end of the tunnel. Inserting a key into the lock, she moves aside for me to pass her. As we step through, I catch a quick glimpse of shining cabinets and rows upon rows of guns.

“Holy shit!”

“Exactly what I said when I walked through here the first time!” Raisa crows. “You owe me, Cathe.”

“You're both vulgar,” she sniffs.

“I can't believe this place!” I exclaim, turning around and round as I absorb all of the sights. The domed ceiling rises far above our heads, to form a huge circular ceiling, upon which is painted “We Are Protectors” in a deep crimson. On all available wall-space is bolted a glass cabinet holding every kind of gun imaginable.

Running my hands over their sleek surfaces, I barely hear Raisa and Catharine calling, “We'll be back! Have fun communing with the weaponry!”

Mumbling, “I will,” I walk over to the triangular shaped island in the center of the room. Bending down, I scan the contents within the hollowed out structure. Books carefully placed in alphabetical order (Oh, Giles, you would love this), stacks of artillery shells encased in tiny boxes, swords, axes, thick coils of rope and papers. Pressing my nose to the smudge-free glass, I attempt to discern what is written upon them.

“They're Jewish papers,” a voice says from behind me. A voice I would know anywhere.

Steeling myself, I spin around, adopting a casual expression.

Angel leans in the doorframe, his eyes widening a little as he stares back at me. He looks leaner, his muscles sleek in his black pants and smooth black sweater. Scanning his milky pale features, I marvel at how he has changed so little in over sixty years. His hair, however…

“No longer gelled into submission,” I murmur. “That's an improvement.”

“What?” he questions, startled.

“Nothing. Just talking to myself,” I whisper.

“So you're one of those,” he half-smiles and my heart lurches. “An introverted Slayer. I haven't met many.”

“And you're not meeting one now,” I shoot back. “You must be Angel.”

“How did you know?” he asks, taking a step closer to me.

“Raisa and Catharine told me to look for someone gorgeous and brooding. Since there doesn't seem to be anyone like that around, you're him by default. The pale skin and all.”

A grin plays on his lips for a moment before it quickly disappears. “They told you I was a vampire?”

“With a soul,” I shrug. “No big.”

“Most don't see the difference,” he responds.

“I'm not most,” I retort. “As long as my neck stays fang-free, I have no issues at all.” Involuntarily, my fingers stray to the collar of my blouse. Pressing a palm to the sticky warmth beneath my hairline, I feel for the faded scar rising slightly from the surface of my flesh. “Besides, I hear that you're on our side.”

“I am,” he agrees and his eyes dart to my betraying movement. “I take it you've been bitten before?”

“Once,” I nod, omitting the other times. I'm still not sure they even counted. None left scars but that one bite. “Wasn't fun.”

“Is it supposed to be?”

Raising my eyebrows, I walk closer to him. “Isn't it for you?”

“Wasn't it,” he corrects. “And, not really.”

I gaze at him and he looks rueful.

“All right, that was a lie.”

I smile. “You don't have to lie to me. I'm Buffy, by the way.”

“Catharine told me,” he murmurs. “You're from America?”

“California,” I nod. “Have you been there?”

“I used to live there—I came here to help. A while ago.”

“What made you?”

“Can't I want to help?” for a moment he looks faintly angry and my belly twists.

“It's not that,” I shake my head. “But why put yourself in the middle of all of this—its not exactly a big barrel of safety.”

“Why do you?” he counters.

“I'm the Slayer,” I respond without thinking. “Its what I do.”

“Catharine's the Slayer,” he corrects me. “It's strange though—you—“

“What?”

Looking uncomfortable, he shifts position. “I can smell you—you just… you smell very powerful. Not exactly normal coming from a Slayer in Waiting.”

Glancing down, I avoid the magnetic pull of his eyes and lift my shoulders. “Maybe its just my really expensive perfume?”

He chuckles softly. “Maybe.” Taking another step closer, he leans in and grasps my hand in his. His palm is like cool silk against mine as he whispers, “But I can smell that too.”

Our eyes lock as my head jerks up.

“It was nice to meet you,” I mutter under my breath.

“I'll see you tonight for your first assignment,” Angel replies quietly. “Watford Street, below the Church. Raisa will give you directions.”

“Gotcha.”

“Goodbye, Buffy.”

A thought occurs to me suddenly. “Are you my contact or just Raisa and Catharine's?”

“I didn't say I was yours,” he says low as he leaves the room. “Let's just say…I'm a friend.”

I begin to shake, falling against the counter for support. My hands skid across the slippery surface as vomit swells in my throat. Lowering myself to the floor, I kneel as I'm praying and bend my head to the slick marble.

“Someone please find me,” I cry softly, my tears as hot as burning stars falling on my cheeks. “Someone please…I want to go home.”

+++next