Chosen

by Nancy Holder

“What?” Giles demanded.

  “Anya said you were The First,” Spike told him. “Said you were evil. You’re supposed to be all go-through-able.” He stood and walked over to Buffy.

  Giles stood as well, regaining his composure as he said, “Then what the hell did you tackle me for, you berk? What’s that supposed to do?”

  Spike was abashed. “I, uh, didn’t think of that.”

  “More importantly,” Giles continued, “you just hit me. Why didn’t your chip go off.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Spike looked down.

  Buffy stepped up to the plate. “Well, uh, when we were the Initiative . . .” She glanced at Spike, who looked back at her.

  “There was a choice . . .” he ventured.

  Buffy turned her attention back to Giles. “Right.” She bobbed her head. “Either repair the chip, or to remove it.”

  Giles was astounded. “You . . . had it removed . . . you removed the chip?”

  “Yeah.” Buffy went for innocent voice, innocent tone.

  “Had to make a choice,” Spike chimed in.

  “It really is okay,” Buffy assured Giles.

  “What’s a chip?” Amanda piped up.

  “They removed the chip?” Kennedy put in.

  In Chinese, the new Potential, Chao-Ahn, said, “I don’t understand a word any of you are saying.”

  * * *

  Buffy was accessorizing for school—V-necked red sweater, big good hoop earrings. Lookin’ okay.

  “You know this is very dangerous,” Giles said, stopping in the doorway, watching her.

  “Ah, you just heard the horror stories,” she said as she put the post on the back of the second hoop. “Wear hoops, they’ll catch on something, rip your lobe off. Lobes flying everywhere.” She cocked her head. “You mean Spike not having a chip. Free range Spike?”

  He did. “I have to ask. Why on earth did you make that decision?”

  She shrugged. “I guess it was instinct, like you were talking about.”

  “I made that up!” He walked into the room. “I knew the Bringer was there because his shoes squeaked.” He perched on the edge of her dressing table and gazed at her with real concern. “Buffy, it’s crucial that we keep these girls safe. I can’t count the dangers. The First, the Bringers, random demons, and now Spike.”

  “And the Principal,” she added helpfully.

  “What?” he demanded.

  “He was in the school basement, holding a shovel, acting evasive. Plus he’s got that whole ‘too charming to be real’ thing going on. I’m looking into it.”

  He rose and said dryly, “Oh, well, that sounds very responsible of you. Balances out the vampire-on-the-loose issue.”

  She rose as well and walked across the room, started folding laundry. “Nothing’s changed, Giles. Spike had a chip before, remember? When The First had him kill all those people?”

  “We have no idea if his chip was working then,” he said, then took off his glasses, a sign that he was quite stressed, weary, and flummoxed. “A new chip might restrain him should The First attempt to activate him again.”

  “Spike has a soul now,” Buffy arguing, facing him. “That’s what’s gonna stop him from hurting people.”

  “Buffy . . .” Giles began.

  “He can be a good man, Giles. I feel it. But he’s never going to get there if we don’t give him the chance.”

  She walked to her closet to put away the clothes. He came up behind her and said, very seriously, “Buffy, I want more for you. Your feelings for him are coloring your judgment. I can hear it in your voice.”

  Buffy sighed, and he pressed on. “That way lies a future filled with pain. I don’t want that for you.”

  “We haven’t . . .” she began, and then how could she go on? How could she talk about that with Giles? “Things have been different since he came back.”

  He did not skirt the issue. “It doesn’t matter if you’re not physical with each other any more. There’s a connection. You rely on him, he relies on you. That’s what’s affecting your judgment.”

  “You think I’m losing sight of the big picture, but I’m not,” Buffy assured him. “When Spike had that chip, it was like having him in a muzzle. It was wrong. You can’t beat evil by doing evil. I know that.”

  He walked out of the room, and Giles called after her calmly, “Well, I hope you’re right. You’re gambling with a lot of lives.”

  * * *

  Big tool, Xander thought admiringly, as he watched a massive saw cut through a metal pipe. He was in the El Niño lumberyard, where men where men were men and . . . wow.

  A very beautiful young woman was examining lengths of rope.

  Oooh, accent on length, he thought hopefully, and said, “Can I help? You seem kind of confused.”

  She eyed him. “You’re not wearing a green apron.”

  He gave her props for that. “Confused, but sort of randomly observant.”

  “Sorry.” She smiled at him. “I just mean . . . you don’t work here, right?”

  “Oh, right. Just helpful. I’m Xander.”

  “Lissa.” They shook hands. “And I guess I could use some advice. I can’t even figure out if I’ve got the right kind of rope.”

  “That depends on what you need it for,” Xander said pleasantly. “Something like functional around the house, or you, know, recreational.” That got a grin, so he continued in the same pleasant vein, “By which I mean, for example, boating or mountain climbing—not tying someone up for sexy, funky fun.”

  She laughed and he played off his embarrassment.

  “In conclusion, rope can be useful in various ways.”

  “I have a kayak,” she said, with a bit of sparkage.

  “Again with the random. I like it.”

  “Sorry. I need it to store my kayak. So I was thinking maybe I could sort of suspend it from the ceiling in the garage with ropes and a pulley or a winch thing.”

  “Not a bad plan,” he told her. “You’ll need stronger rope than that. Wanna have coffee with me later?”

  She was startled. “What?”

  “Oh, you’re the only one that gets to be random?” he asked.

  Oh, bingo . . .

  * * *

  Much with the creeping, as Buffy snuck into Principal Wood’s office and pretended not to realize that she was looking through the files on his desk.

  “Now, if I were a sign of being evil,” she murmured, “where would I be?”

  She had just tiptoed over to a big wall cabinet when Principal Wood called her name from the doorway.

  “Principal Wood,” she said with the big innocence. “It’s you.”

  “You looking for something?” he asked.

  Uhhh . . . “File folders,” she decided. “And mechanical pencils. Well, I want to write on a file folder with a mechanical pencil.”

  “The supply cabinet in the outer office has those things,” he said, not without warmth.

  “Oh. This isn’t a supply cabinet?” she asked, trawling on more well-intentioned oopsiness. “My bad. Okay. Thanks!”

  She started to leave, when he stepped in her way and said, “Hey, Buffy, what’re you doing tonight?”

  As if this were a test that she could easily pass she said, “Preparing for tomorrow’s counseling sessions?”

  He smiled faintly. “No, really.”

  “Watching a reality show about a millionaire,” she confessed.

  “Well, then . . . I’d like to take you out to dinner, if that’s all right with you. I mean, you don’t have to. I’m certainly not saying come to dinner if you enjoy having a job.” He chuckled, then realized what he’d just said. “You know, I may have to make up a document saying I didn’t just say that and have you sign it.”

  Buffy smiled at him. “Sure. I’d be happy to have dinner with you.”

  “Great.” He smiled back. “I’ll draw up the paperwork.”

  * * *

  Once she was gone, Robin shut his office door and pulled
the bloody handkerchief out of his pocket. He unfolded it, revealing the ornate bloody stiletto inside, and calmly and cautiously cleaned the blood off it. Then he opened up the cabinet Buffy Summers had been just about to open and pushed up the Dry-Erase board inside.

  His knives and swords were beautifully displayed and very shiny. A good fighter cherishes his weaponry, or so his mother’s Watcher had always said. And she should know . . .

  He slid the stiletto into its appointed place on the field of velvet, then closed up the cabinet . . . and went back to his day-job life.

  * * *

  In the living room, it was Willow’s turn to fold the laundry in their vast commune of Potentials and their socks and underwear —next field trip should be to Urban Out-fitters, not a graveyard, Buffy thought—as Willow asked cheerily, “So, he asked you out to dinner?”

  “Yeah,” Buffy said. “Isn’t that weird? I mean, he’s a principal. He’s a young, hot principal with earrings, but he’s a principal. Why do you think he asked me out. I mean, he could be interested, right?” she asked, flushing a little.

  “Yeah, sure,” Willow said, rolling socks. “You’re a frisky vixen.”

  “Or it could be work-related,” Buffy mused. “Maybe I’m getting promoted for doing such a good job.”

  Willow burst out in a flurry of giggles, then caught herself and said, “Oh, right. That makes sense, too.”

  “Or, maybe he knows that I suspect he’s up to something and he’s taking me out to kill me.”

  Willow considered. “Well, then, you’ll have to dress for the ambiguity.”

  “You know,” Buffy went on in that vein, “it’s not even that he’s acting suspicious. It’s just . . . there he is. On the Hellmouth. All day, every day.” She knit her brows. “That’s got to be like being showered with evil. Only from underneath.”

  “Not really a shower,” Willow agreed.

  “A bidet,” Buffy said, eyes wide. “A bidet of evil.”

  “Buff, if he’s really interested . . . are you interested back?”

  She blushed again. “I don’t know. he’s good-looking and he’s . . . he’s solid, he’s smart, he’s normal. So not the wicked energy, which is nice ’cause I don’t want to only be attracted to wicked energy.” Then she frowned and added in a rush, “Or what if he is wicked, in which case that’s why I’m attracted to him.”

  Willow smiled at her and drawled, “I’m gonna wait for that sentence to come around again before I jump on.”

  Buffy’s grin got bigger. “I mean, I think I like him. And he’d be good for me.”

  “Right,” Willow said sagely. “Help you move on.”

  Buffy frowned and said in a defensive tone, “Why does everybody in this house think I’m still in love with Spike?”

  “No,” Willow cut in, “I mean move from this imposed super-self-reliance. Let somebody else get close.”

  “Oh.” The front door opened and she was delighted for the distraction to get her out of the conversation. “Hey, someone’s here.”

  That someone was Xander, who entered much with the joy and said, “Guys, guess what happened.”

  “Buffy got a date!” Willow answered brightly.

  “No. I did!” Then he gave Buffy a friendly grrr look and said, “Fine. Way to steal my thunder.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “It if makes you feel better, it’s Principal Wood, and I think he’s aligned with The First.”

  Xander’s protective eyebrows shot up. “Also, like ten years older than you, right?”

  Loyally, Willow came to the rescue. “Which is like one hundred years younger than your type!”

  “Yay,” Buffy drawled. “Someone who doesn’t remember the Industrial Revolution.”

  “I think they’re going to end up making out,” Willow said confidentially. ‘Oh, Principal Wood,’ she’ll gasp, ‘I love your lack of wicked energy.’ ”

  Buffy threw socks at her. “Watch it, or I’m going to make you take about your new girlfriend who you hold hands with under the dinner table and think we don’t notice.”

  Willow reddened, changed the subject.

  “How about yours, Xander. Is she evil?”

  “Well, she’s interested in me, so there’s a good chance, but I’m hoping for the best,” he announced. “We’re going for coffee. She has a kayak.”

  Then Giles and the new Potential, Chao-Ahn, burst through the door. Both were carrying large and colorful shopping bags.

  “Dear Lord,” Giles said. “I hate that mall. The shop assistant are rude. And everything in the food court is sticky.”

  “That’s gotta be rough,” Xander said. “Getting pulled out of your home, being told you’re a Potential Slayer, not being able to bring anything.”

  “Yes,” Giles concurred, as Chao-Ahn looked on blankly. “And the language barrier is formidable. I was concerned that my Mandarin is a little thin, but as it turns out, she speaks Cantonese, which is . . . thinner. But we muddled through.” He beamed proudly. “And, as I suspected, ice cream is a universal language.”

  In Chinese, Chao-Ahn told them, “Like many from Asia, I am lactose intolerant. I’m very uncomfortable.”

  “She’s grateful to be in the land of plenty,” Giles translated. To the new girl, he said in a loud, slow voice, “Let go and put away your new clothes.”

  “Hey, Will, do you think you can do a computer check on Principal Wood?” Buffy asked. “See if you can find anything out?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” Willow looked at Xander. “Want me to check your girl out while I’m at it, Xand?”

  “Nope. I’m going in blind,” he told them both. “I’m going to be an optimist about this. Why go looking for trouble? If it’s gonna find you, it’s gonna find you.”

  * * *

  This was one microwave that wasn’t gonna have the clock part flashing on and off.

  Andrew was standing in the kitchen of Slayer Central with the instruction manual, hard at processing, when a voice from his murderous past said, “You don’t need a manual. It’s intuitive.”

  It was Jonathan. Or rather, The First masquerading as Jonathan. Andrew was terrified, and stared in horror.

  “There’s a button marked ‘Clock Set,’ for pity’s sake,” Jonathan continued. “What kind of a nerd are you? No wonder you crashed your jet pack.”

  “No,” Andrew said breathlessly. “Get thee behind me!” He whipped a cross out of his jeans pocket. “I rebuke thee. Take that, The First!”

  Jonathan rolled his eyes. “Look, you monkey.” He walked up to Andrew, extended his arm, and passed his hand through the cross. “Ooh, ahh, it burns as it ineffectually passes through me.” He lowered his arm. “I’m non-corporeal, remember? Also, not a vampire, so . . . a cross?”

  Abashed, Andrew put the cross down. “What do you want from me, Jonathan-slash-The First?”

  “I have an assignment for you,” Jonathan/The First announced.

  Andrew did not love that information. “I follow Buffy’s orders now. I’m redeeming myself for killing you, I mean, for killing Jonathan.”

  “Really? Why?” Jonathan laughed. “So you can earn a spot on her little pep squad? You think she’ll ever let you in? You’re a murderer.”

  “Confidentially, a lot of her people are murderers,” Andrew told him/it. “Anya and Willow and Spike.”

  “And yet you’re the only one she makes seek redemption. Does that seem fair to you?”

  Andrew shrugged anxiously. “I guess not.”

  “You know we’re headed toward a fight, don’t you? What do you think the world’s going to be like after that? Newsflash: There’s not going to be a Slayer gang any more. And as long as there is Evil, I live. And as long as I live, you can dwell by my side.”

  “That sounds nice,” Andrew said tentatively.

  Jonathan pressed his advantage. “Your assignment won’t be hard. They’re just little girls.”

  Shocked, Andrew blurted, “You want me to hurt the girls?”

  “Ju
st the Potential Slayers. The girls must die. It’ll be easy. Willow brought something to this house, something good, something you can use.”

  Andrew thought hard, then said proudly, “The new microwave!”

  “The gun,” Jonathan corrected him.

  * * *

  In the bathroom, Anya tried to scrub out the pizza or blood or whatever it was on Buffy’s blouse while they talked about her upcoming . . . event.

  “I don’t think it’s really a date,” Anya said, much with the scrubbing.

  “That’s why I chose a top that says, you know, I’m comfortable in an a stodgy office or a swinging casual setting, or killing you if you’re a demon.”

  “I was talking about this sham date of Xander’s,” Anya said heatedly. “I think it’s part of a plan to make me jealous.”

  “We’ll, it’s not working,” Buffy said, in a bid to support her.

  “Are you nuts? Of course it’s working. Observe my bitter ranting. Hear the shrill edge of hysteria in my voice . . . and go, leave me here to stew in my impotent rage. I have to pee.”

  Buffy walked out of the bathroom in her camisole, her ruined top in her hand . . . and Spike approached. Much fumbling with awkwardness. He had heard about her date, and then he said calmly, “I’m all right. Think I still dream of a crypt for two with a white picket fence? My eyes are clear.”

  “Thank you,” she said gratefully.

  “Never much cared for picket fences anyway. Bloody dangerous.”

  * * *

  And speaking of dangerous . . . Xander was in the coffee shop with the big fancy French cup, and no girl, because it was 8:30 exactly, the time of their date, and—

  There she was!

  Did you think I was going to stand you up?” she asked, when he seemed so thrilled that she was there right on time.

  “Well, it would be kind of karmic,” he admitted. “Forget it. I’m just glad you’re here. You’re going to love the coffee. Got myself a redeye; it’s black coffee with a shot of espresso. It’s kinda rough if you’re not used to that sort of—”

  She took it from him, tasted it. “It’s hot cocoa,” she said.

  Busted. “Well, sometimes I don’t sleep too good.” He made a face. “I just lost macho points, didn’t I.”

  She shrugged. “Hey, who wants macho? I like that you like hot cocoa.” Then she said to the water, “Redeye please.” To Xander, “Sounded good.”