At the moment the vampire dusted, she looked just like Willow.
She didn’t look like the monster who’d terrorized the world for the better part of a year.
There was no indication that she’d gouged a hole in reality with powerful dark magicks to pull forth an army of demons.
You would never guess she had personally killed thousands of people and caused tens of thousands more to be killed.
No, when she died, lit up from the inside by a blast that leveled a city block, she looked exactly like Buffy’s best friend, sweet freckled face tipped upward, eyes wide with shock.
Sometimes, the world-save-age gig totally sucked.
When Buffy felt that same silver fire light up in her own belly, felt the force of it drive her molecules apart in a million different directions—well, that sucked even more,
but at least it was familiar. She had some experience with death.
was an understatement, wasn’t it? Death was her gift, the first Slayer said. Her gift. Apparently, it hadn’t come with a gift receipt.
If it had, it would have gone right the hell back to the store. She felt like laughing whenever she thought about it, unless it was one of those days when she felt like crying.
She and death were intimately acquainted, although they hadn’t spent time together for a while. That’s how it is with old friends.
You meet up again, even after years, and it’s like no time has passed at all.
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