When Angel had committed his team to fight the Black Thorn army, he hadn't quite realized the full scope of the battle they'd be facing. He'd imagined a few hours' struggle in the rainswept night: he, Spike, and Illyria swarmed by a mob in a familiar alley.
Unfortunately, the Black Thorn sent not a mob, but all forty thousand of Archduke Sebassis' soldiery: more than any one alley could hold. More than any three warriors could defeat in nine hours of darkness, unless they could each slay one demon every 2.5 seconds.
When others-- Slayers, Hunters, hockey-stick-wielding wizards, spandex-clad freaks, military uniforms, and more-- began joining in, he was both baffled and relieved. He hadn't known so many heroes existed in the world. But as the fight wore on-- and on-- for days under unnatural cloudcover, he sank into exhausted disbelief. Godzilla ate the dragon? A yellow-and-black Camaro provided cover fire? Sure. Whatever.
The fight swallowed them all; in the end, only one remained standing.
"One vampire left," the designer-clad blonde sighed. "Too bad; he's kind of a Baldwin."
Angel's last sight, as he sprawled half-conscious, was Cher Horowitz's shapely leg... driving a spiked wooden heel into his chest.