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Harbingers of Beatrice

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Angel dreamed.

A vast array of images, shapes, and colors blurred into one distorted picture of fragmented reality. And all through it, she was there. There to laugh and mock. There to remind him of what he wanted. She was his lone consistency in his inconsistent world.

It would feel to give in. And he wanted to.

But he wouldn’t. He was a champion. And that was the way things were.

Angel dreamed.


Buffy dreamed.

There was nothing distinct or particularly memorable about what she saw, yet dreams could never be taken lightly.

She saw monsters, blood, and fangs. She saw herself running through corridors without end. She saw a great grandfather clock that announced its hours with ethereal chimes. She saw her sister—a sister? She didn’t have one of those. Wasn’t supposed to have a sister. It wasn’t right.

Dawn. Not real. She wasn’t real. She never had been.

Only she was. And she was the Key. She was what stood between now and eternity. Dawn’s survival, her protection, was what the world—what the universe—depended on for continued existence. She was real. She was Buffy’s sister. She was Dawn.

The ticking would not end.

Beat the clock. That was what life had amounted to. Beat the clock. Racing down endless hallways, knowing despite how fast she ran, she would always be too late. Nothing could change that. Nothing.

The ticking would not end.

Buffy dreamed.


Spike dreamed.

And the dream was always the same.

He saw what he had become. Wanting, desiring, craving the enemy. The thing that would always be just outside his reach.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Not for him. The chip couldn’t change who he was. He felt it with every drive. What he always had been, in some regard or another, what always would be. The monster.

He had killed. He wished he still could. He had torn the still-beating heart of many a virgin. He had stalked the shadows. For over a century, he had torn the world apart, and enjoyed every minute of it.

And here he was. Going against his own nature. Everything he had always believed himself to be. A slayer of slayers. A vampire of his own creation. A demon. A monster. A creature of the night.

He was a being of evil, and yet with every minute he suffered, he wanted her. Saw her. Bloody well needed her.

Needed the Slayer.

Perversion in the worst form of the word.

He would never have what he wanted because it was wrong.

It didn’t mean the dreams would stop.

Because of her.

The Slayer.


Spike dreamed.