Chapter Two: Second Guessing

I feel better now, a day later. I'm not surprised. Considering how well I managed the first time my heart stopped, I should be back to normal in no time.

Well, as normal as I got even when I was normal. Which, come to think of it, was somewhere before never.

It's quiet in the infirmary now, me being the only patient and all. My bed sits across from the door at a slight angle, and I watch the prisoners walk by and try to make eye contact with as many of them as possible. It's my only way to gauge Faith's popularity in this joint.

Which is apparently slim to none.

They sneer through the window at me as they walk by, some sporting facial scars of which I'm assuming Faith was the honored presenter. Old women with more warts than teeth, twenty-year-old daddy's girls who look like forty-year-old prizefighters, tough broads with leathery brown skin with threats in their eyes as they stared at me.

Oh, God. Why did the Powers That Be do this to me?

I curl up in bed in the fetal position, soft and warm, and try not to imagine what's going to happen when I get out of here. They'll send me back to a cell, to gross food and an extreme lack of privacy, and I'll spend all of my time fending off prospective dates. This is not my idea of a good time.

When I fall asleep, I don't fight it. I'm crying too hard.

** "Don't be afraid." **

Her lips don't move when she says it, the girl with the dark hair in my dreams. I call her, and the other two girls with her, the Powers That Be, but I get the impression that's not who they really are. Messengers for them, maybe, but not as powerful. Simply guides, nothing more.

The brunette is thin, Dawn-thin, that gawky adolescent-girl version of thinness that's practically anorexic. Her wide black eyes sit behind a curtain of thick black lashes, the same inky blue-black as her straight, shoulder-length hair. The same outfit from the first time I met them cling to her scrawny body, a tan camisole, camouflage print pedal pushers, and black flipflops. A gold ankle bracelet flashes in the dim sunlight. She's far too pretty to be real.

The redhead comes close. She sits nearby, studying me like a curious puppy. A shock of red hair flops loosely over her own green eyes, dancing over freckled cheeks and a snub nose. Her baggy gray "Napster ... Good" T-shirt pools on top of her crossed legs, over dark blue jeans and bare feet. A pair of black and white bath flip flops lie not too far away.

The blond looks at me, or through me, I'm not sure which. Her cornflower blue eyes are the only flash of color in her pale, perfect face, round with baby fat but a future Elle in the making. White-blond curls wound unnaturally tight frame her face, and dangle over her handkerchief-print tank top and lavender paisley skirt. A silver pentacle hangs around her neck.

They smile at me. They did that last time we met. I'm not falling for it this time.

I sit up, avoiding knocking my forehead against the brunette's. She leans close, looking for something in me. I don't know what, but it can't be good.

I look around. We're by a waterfall somewhere, misty, dreamy. It can't be real.

I look down at myself. I'm me. I'm Buffy. Buffy clothes, Buffy body.

The brunette giggles, again without moving her lips. She raises one hand to her mouth, as if to hide her nonexistent laughter. She holds up her other hand, palm facing me, and says, ** "Are you sure you're still Buffy?" **

Something shimmers in the air, and what looks like a sheet of water, a sideways puddle, appears in front of her palm. I stare into it and gape.

A young woman with Buffy's cheekbones and lips stares back at me. But everything else is Faith -- the dark hair, the brown eyes, everything. I look at it and want to die all over again.

The redhead speaks this time. ** "I'm sick of bringing you back to life. I refuse to do it again." **

Okay, enough of the small talk. I sit up on my haunches and give them the resolve face I learned from Willow. I say, What's going on? I thought I was getting a second chance. You said there was a mistake and I'd get to go back.

The blond laughs, and bells chime in the air. ** "You will. Don't worry. We're pulling all the strings we can reach." **

** "You weren't supposed to die. That's true." ** The brunette, this time.

** "Someone else was to die." ** The redhead. She eyes me with disdain, as if I'm bothering her terribly by being here.

This isn't the SATs. I know the answer to this one without studying, and it pains me to say it. Dawn was supposed to die.

** "No, she was to be saved. We have great plans for her." ** The redhead says this with a bit of pride to it.

Great plans for her? I got the impression from the whole kill-Dawn-stop-Glory plan in the books that Dawn was designed for a short shelf life. Okay, officially lost, I say.

The brunette giggles and turns to the others. ** "See? This is why I like her better." **

A roll of the eyes from the redhead, before our gazes connect. ** "Sisters can be such a bother." **

I can't help but smile. I feel your pain, I say.

The brunette ignores us and says, ** "The monks worked for us. Well, sort of." **

I tense up at that. If the monks were going to come into the discussion right now, I wasn't sure I wanted to be a part of it.

** "They did what we told them to. They turned energy to flesh and sent the Key to the Slayer in the form of a sister." **

** "But we forgot to specify which Slayer." ** The blond blushes at that.

The redhead shrugs. ** "Our bad." **

Which Slayer? I don't get it. Wait, I say. Are you trying to tell me that Dawn was supposed to be sent to Faith?

The brunette nods, almost enthusiastically. ** "She is the Slayer. You are a Slayer. The line is now with Faith, not you." **

I suddenly have a mental image of Dawn as Faith's sister. Smoking pot. Doing drugs with truckers. Having sex against the back walls of cheap motels with guys named Bubba. And things only getting worse after Faith kills a man and gets sent to prison.

My voice is steely and hard when I ask how she was supposed to protect Dawn when she was in jail.

What I say and how I say it doesn't affect the girls at all. The blond shrugs as gracefully as she can lying down and says, ** "The monks altered your memories to fit Dawn into your life. They could have done the same with Faith." **

The brunette leans forward to look me in the eye again and asks, ** "Do you think Faith would have killed if she would have had a younger sister in tow?" **

Honest answer? At first, I think yes. Faith is a killer. Faith turned to evil. Faith was rotten to the core.

But a part of me is screaming that she had no choice. Well, all right. That she had a choice and picked the only one where she might be appreciated. She made a mistake. A different life than mine had her choosing the bad guys over us white hats. But if she had had Dawn ...

Honest answer? No.

The redhead nods. Good answer. ** "We agree." **

So what happens now, I ask.

The blond sits up, shakes out her blond curls and says, ** "We need you free. You're our strongest warrior, and we can't very well have you locked away in storage." **

How do they plan on getting me out?

** "We won't." ** The look in the brunette's eyes indicates that someone else is going to do the job for them. ** "But when you need a hand, we'll start pulling more strings. And trust me, you'll know when we're doing it." **

They smile at me for the last time, and that's when I wake up.

Chapter Three