A camp in the Chiltern Hills, England.

"Sir!"

General de Boers nodded at his second in command. "Sit!" Once his subordinate had obeyed, he continued, his harsh accent betraying his Afrikaans origins. "Your report?"

"All companies have reported in. The concealment spells held, none of them were detected," his second in command replied, his own clipped tones indicating Sandhurst training.

"Excellent," De Boers nodded in satisfaction. Twenty years ago he’d been the head of South Africa’s elite forces but the rise of the kaffir Malenda had put paid to that. After fleeing his homeland one step ahead of a war crimes tribunal he’d spent the next few years working as a mercenary in South America and Asia. Five years ago he’d been approached by an intermediary offering unimaginable wealth and power. Since that day he’d tirelessly recruited and trained a small army of elite soldiers drawn from numerous nations including South Africa, USA, UK, Germany, Russia, Japan, China, Iran, Saudi Arabia, Iraq, and Israel. Soldiers drawn together over national, religious, and ideological boundaries by the lure of millions. Over the past month, his men clandestinely entered the country, using the nation’s private airfields and illicit landing posts, those who had facilitated their arrival murdered to ensure there was no trail. And now was the time to strike. "We’re ready to move out?"

"Awaiting your order," his second-in-command paused, a grimace marring his matinee idol looks. "Sir, our scouts caught a trio of hitchhikers. What are your orders?"

De Boers blinked, momentarily shocked that his subordinate would bring such a trivial matter to him. "Shoot and bury them. Dismissed!"

"Yes sir!" the junior officer, rose, saluted, and marched out. Alone in his tent again, de Boers looked around and smiled. A mansion filled with three score super-amazons? A challenge even for a General with four hundred highly trained killers under his command. He wondered if it would be enough.

In two nights he’d find out.

* * *

Giles looked up at the knock on his door. "Hello?"

"It’s me, Giles. Can I come in?"

Giles smiled as he recognised the voice coming through the door. "Door’s always open for you, Riley."

"Thank you," the door swung open and the Iowan farm boy walked in. Giles nodded towards the chair at the opposite side of his desk. After shooting him a grateful smile, the soldier sat down.

"And how are your duties proceeding?" he queried.

"The new security equipment has all been installed."

"Excellent," Giles smiled before sobering. "And how goes the new training?"

The soldier shrugged his powerful shoulders. "They’re all taking to it with the expected ease." Giles’ proud smile dissipated at the UN military operative’s next comment. "The only question remains is how will they react if they have to shoot humans? After all Faith didn’t react at all well…" Riley paused. "But I’ve had some thoughts about that, if you’d like to hear them?"

"By all means," Giles agreed.

"The act that pushed Faith over the edge was the accidental killing of the deputy Mayor," Riley shrugged, his face apologetic. "Sorry, I don’t think Buffy ever told me the man’s name?"

"Allan Finch," Giles supplied with a heavy heart.

"Thanks. And yet by this time, Buffy had killed a number of humans, including the high school swimming coach and assassins, without suffering any apparent side-effects. But," Riley looked vaguely bemused. "Faith would seem the most hardened of the two."

"I’d concur with that assessment," Giles nodded.

"So why did she go off the rails?" The American continued before he could comment. "What if the Slayer spell protected Buffy from the after-effects of killing evil humans in self-defence, but not Faith from her accidental Slaying? In fact," the soldier leaned forward, eyes gleaming, "perhaps the conflict between her Calling compelling her to protect innocents and her actions triggered her nervous breakdown."

"Good lord," Giles croaked as he stared at the young man sat opposite. Sometimes it took an outsider’s perspective on a conundrum to solve it. It was only a theory but to his ears it made perfect sense. "Riley, I -."

His eyes widened in shock when an eardrum-bursting explosion shook the building, flinging him to the ground. Head swimming, he accepted Riley’s hand to struggle to his feet. Glancing up, he looked into the soldier’s troubled eyes. "We’re under attack," the young man declared.

"No really," Giles raised an eyebrow. "And I thought that building-shaking explosion was just an attack of wind."

* * *

Dana’s eyes shot open. She looked wildly around her darkened room, its bare walls giving no clue as to what had awoken her. She smiled slyly as the noise continued and realisation set in. "Oh the pain."

Soon her high-pitched cackling was echoing around her tiny cell.

* * *

De Boers nodded in clinical satisfaction as his troops swarmed over the massive building’s outer walls. Everything was going according to plan. His smile withered when the lawns surrounding the mansion erupted in a series of explosions, tearing through the first wave of men, showering their visceral body parts over those troops lucky enough to escape the mines. "Damn it," he muttered before raising and speaking into his loud-hailer. "Advance, men!"

Eventually some of his troops reached the front door. After hurriedly but efficiently placing charges, the mercenaries withdrew to a safe distance. A few seconds later, the portal exploded inwards. His smile now returning, De Boers moved forward.

* * *

Riley looked at the dapper Englishman, seeing the tension he felt reflected in his companion’s eyes. "You get the non-combatants down to the shelter, I’ll organise our defences."

Frustration briefly flickered in the Watcher’s eyes before he curtly nodded. Obviously being unable to be involved in the battle rankled, but the former Sunnydale High librarian knew where his duty lay. As did Riley. "Very well. And good luck."

"Good luck to you too sir." Exiting the office at a run, the two of them split up and hurried to their posts.

* * *

Roger Whyndham-Pryce paced his quarters, fuming over an earlier conversation with the upstart that laughingly called himself his boss. This time it had been those bloody yank intruders and their godforsaken modifications to one of England’s oldest forts. Bloody disgraceful.

"They’ll be a reckoning." Shaking his head, he took a few calming breaths before approaching his heavily stacked book shelves and selecting a volume. Sitting down on his antique armchair, he poured himself and began to read, sipping carefully at the scalding drink as he did so.

BAAA! BAAAA! BAAAA!

"Damnation!" Roger thundered as the recently-installed alarm system blared into life. The klaxon boomed through the previously serene room, blasting his eardrums, and shocking him into spilling his piping hot tea into his lap and onto the book. "Bugger!" Roger glared down at the book. A first edition of ‘"The Pickwick Papers’ ruined, and it was all that usurper’s Giles’ fault. Like everything else that had gone wrong with the Council over the past decade.

But it ended now. Reaching into his bedside drawer, he opened the secret panel at the back and pulled out the .38 hidden there. His smile widened as he checked the weapon was loaded. He might die tonight, but that was insignificant next to using the chaos to kill Rupert Giles. Only then would the stain be removed from his family honour. He started to hum his favourite hymn as he took some spare rounds and shoved them in his pocket. It wouldn’t be long now.

* * *

De Boers followed his troops through the darkened fortress, eyes narrowing at the carnage that greeted him. Booby traps, ambushes, it was all adding up to a far higher body count than he’d originally envisaged. "Most unsatisfactory," he muttered.

Drawing his gun, he shoved open a wooden door to his left and walked in, eyes searching for any sign of trouble. The vast chamber was dominated by a long table surrounded by a score of high-backed chairs, the room’s walls lined with portraits. He smiled slightly; he recognised this room from intelligence reports. "The Council Briefing Room," he muttered. Deciding to search for papers, he closed the door behind him, and strode further inside.

* * *

Riley moved ghost like through the castle’s warren of secret passageways, darting out to ambush the intruders before disappearing back into the tunnels. His eyes narrowed as he recognised a brutish, thickly-built figure from the UN. wanted lists. Seeing the man enter the briefing room, he took his chance and hurried across the corridor in pursuit.

* * *

Lorne wheezed as he ran through the darkened corridors, the sound of gunfire and explosions making his head pound worse than Keith Moon’s drums during a concert. He shook his head even as he hurried around another corner. He loved a fight as much as the next cowardly empathy demon, but he was as out of place at a fire fight as DMX at the local Klan meeting.

He skidded to a halt at the sound of humming coming from a near-by room, its discordant tone jarring his senses. "Oh no," he groaned. Just what he needed, now he’d have to be all fired stupidly noble. "If this gets me killed Angelcakes, you’ve got yourself a ghost," he promised. Quelling the urge to ignore what he was sensing, Lorne crept to the slightly ajar door of the room the humming was coming through and peered in.

His heart flipped flopped in his butt at the sight of Roger Whyndham-Pryce loading a revolver while humming the tune to ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. "Well this isn’t good," he murmured before turning and hurrying back in the direction he’d come, back towards the fighting.

He had to get help and fast.

The White House Briefing Room, Washington DC.

The president nodded as his entire cabinet minus the vice-president and secretary of state rose upon his arrival. "Hello everyone, please sit," he ordered, "this is no time to stand on ceremony." He himself quickly sat down, noting the drawn looks on the men and women sat on both sides of the room’s long table. "Any clues on who’s caused this? Islamic fundamentalists?"

"No sir," the head of the CIA shook his head. "Our human intelligence sources have come up with no evidence supporting that theory. Indeed," the life-long agent hesitated, "we’ve received unconfirmed reports that the Islamic terrorist group leaders and their backers have also been hit."

"Uh," he pursed his lips together, "that’s something at least. If true."

"Our satellites confirm the CIA’s reports," put in the NSA’s chief, "there’s been increased activity on email accounts and cellulars owned by known Islamic terrorists. All indicating anger and bewilderment at various hits on their assets. In some cases blaming us."

"Um," he leaned back in his seat before turning to the Secretary of the Treasury. "Have those VIPs I ordered been taken into protective custody?"

"Yes," the man hesitated, "sir, if I might protest. The Secret Service was never meant to protect private individuals."

"I know, John. But these people are fundamental to our people’s well-being." Dismissing the man’s complaints, he turned to the Attorney-General. "Any leads on who’s behind these attacks?"

The Attorney-General tugged nervously on his tie before replying. "The FBI, AFT, DEA, Homeland Security, the US. Marshals, and local units have come up with no substantial leads," the nation’s top law officer finally admitted.

"Damn it, Allan!" he exclaimed. "Does the phrase ‘top priority’ mean nothing around here?"

"Sir," he glanced towards the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. "What little intelligence we have seems to lean towards the conclusion that the attacks both here and abroad are linked. Perhaps you should consider declaring martial law."

Martial law. He shuddered inwardly at the images that this phrase conjured up and the terror that enacting it would cause an already increasingly uneasy populace. "No," he shook his head. "At the moment this has been limited to precision attacks. If it escalates I’ll consider it then, until then no. But," he paused in contemplation, "draw up plans for the rapid withdrawal of our troops from all foreign nations, including Iraq. And I’d like some studies on the effect of martial law on the economy, the country, and morale. And keep looking for a source, people. Once we’ve found it, I don’t care if I have to send in SWAT, the SEALs, or nuke the damn bastards, we’re putting them out of commission permanently!" A strained silence followed his outburst. Gathering himself, he continued. "Who else has been hit?"

"South American drugs barons, oriental crime lords, religious leaders, industrialists, international power-brokers." The CIA director shook his head. "It would be quicker to say who hasn’t."

"And the Council?" he queried, bringing up the age-old body that historically only the president and the head of his counter-intelligence unit had known about for the past few centuries.

The CIA’s director shot the puzzled-looking cabinet members a nervous glance before replying. "We’ve heard nothing from them."

"Damn it!" Now more than ever he wanted a drink, but decades of sobriety couldn’t be tossed away so easily.

"Might I also suggest that until this crisis is over that you, the vice-president, Vice President, Speaker of the House, and the leader of the senate, not be in the same place at any one time."

A long silence followed the National Security Advisor’s suggestion. Conscious that every eye had turned to him, the President took a moment before slowly nodding. The implied admission that the Secret Service might not be able to protect them was a bitter pill to swallow, but given current events had to be considered. "Add the Secretary of State, Homeland Security, Defence, and yourself to that list," he agreed before standing. "Ladies, gentlemen. You have work to do. Get to it."

* * *

NATO HQ, Brussels, Belgium.

"Gentleman," Jaap de Hoop banged his fist on the desk before him. "Gentlemen!" he was relieved when silence fell at his roar. "Gentlemen," he continued at a lower volume, "we are here to discuss the recent rash of assassinations. Let’s come to some sort of order."

He looked around the room, seeing a number of frightened faces. But then it was hardly surprising. Many of them had lost friends to the mysterious power that was attacking them and they were far from familiar with murder striking directly at them. Crime was something that blighted the lower classes, not daring to strike at them.

Until now.

Gathering himself, he continued. "Now, I have a report from Cardinal Brooks of the Vatican," he turned towards the guest, "Cardinal?"

A gasp went up as the heavily bandaged man was wheeled to the podium, his left leg torn off by what the religious man claimed was a demon attack on the Vatican. A ridiculous claim, except the right side of his face had also been clawed off and the vast majority of the Swiss Guard who patrolled the small city-state had also been ripped apart, some so disfigured that they were unrecognisable save from dental records.

Troubling times indeed.

* * *

UN. Security Council, NY

The Secretary-General’s heart thumped as he made his way into the council’s chamber, conscious that the eyes of all 15 representatives were fixed on him. Never since the UN’s formation had they faced such a threat. And yet, he couldn’t tell the members the full, horrible truth, not without starting a worldwide panic that would be impossible to control. Indeed, he seriously doubted there was anything they could do but pray. The power to deal with what was terrorising the world lay in other hands. "Ladies, gentlemen," he nodded taking his seat at the head of the hoof-shaped table. "I wish to call this meeting to order."

"Sir," the UN representative from Japan spoke into his mike, his halting English masking a keen mind. "All of our intelligence services have received reports of attacks on not only our own sovereign soils, but also of many other nations," the Oriental glanced around the hushed room. "It is clear that these attacks are all the workings of a single organisation. But which one? None of the Islamic terrorist groups have the resources and influence to carry this range of attacks out. There’d be no profit in an international crime cartel doing this. Indeed a number of them -."

The man’s voice trailed off as an aide rushed over to him. His eyes widened as he read the note that had just been passed to him. "Ladies, gentlemen. It appears a fresh wave of attacks have been launched."

"Against who?" queried the French ambassador.

"It appears the leaders of the world’s intelligence services have been targeted this time."

* * *

EU, Brussels

"Yes sir," the British foreign secretary nodded as his PM finished giving him instructions, "I understand, sir," he agreed into the mobile. "I’ll ring back immediately," he promised before hanging up and looking towards the two Special Branch agents sat opposite him in his limo, neither their muscles nor the guns under their left armpits hidden by the cut of their custom-made suits. The two men were newly added to his security detachment, but given the troubled times they found themselves in, his inner socialist hadn’t protested their addition, rather had been gladdened by their addition. "Let’s go."

"Yes sir," one of the granite-jawed thugs rapped on the tinted window. A second later and the door swung open. The man jumped out. "Ready sir."

The EU security guards rushed down the steps to meet him, shoving aside what few press there were there, the majority doubtless off covering what assassinations had been leaked to the press. Half-way up the steps he was joined by his counterpart from Italy, the man’s own security following closely behind. After a rushed exchange of greetings, the Italian got down to business. "We’ve had a rumour that the head of your Free-Masons has joined the murdered lists, is this correct?" He nodded tersely, his counterpart’s face sagged. "Ah, I went to Oxford with him. Good man, he’ll be missed. Any idea on what’s causing this?"

"No," he lied. "Our intelligence services don’t have a clue," that was true at least, "yours?"

"No," the Italian stopped as the doorman opened the Parliament building’s front door. "There’s rumours that the French and Germans are going to use this crisis to push for the earlier creation of the Rapid Reaction Force."

"That’s all I need." He groaned. The British press would have kittens at just a whiff of that, more grist to the mill of those neo-fascist Eurosceptics who dared to the righteousness of their tearing down of Britain’s insidious national pride. And it wasn’t as if a Rapid Reaction Force could help against what they faced. Squaring his shoulders, he took a breath as he stepped into the building. Somehow he thought things were going to get a lot worse before they got better.

* * *

CIS, Minsk, Belarus

"It’s true is it?" Vladimir Rushailo queried as he hurried into the Commonwealth of Independent States’ headquarters, his assistant running beside him, their armed security marching around them, their hard eyes skirting the near-by shadows for any sign of trouble, and their fingers stroking the triggers of their sub-machine guns. He supposed it should make him feel safe, but it didn’t.

He didn’t think anything would make him feel safe again.

"Yes, sir," the pretty girl he’d hired as much for her decorative quality as her shorthand replied. "We’ve just had a confirming report in. First Deputy Director Brezhnev was murdered in St. Petersburg. Him and three men security team were," the woman’s voice trembled, "ripped apart. As if they’d been attacked by a pack of wild animals."

He shuddered. "If only it was wild animals," he muttered as he reached the doors of the headquarters. He didn’t know what great illness was assailing the world, but he knew it was powerful and stank of evil, causing a stain that he doubted would ever be washed away.

* * *

Arab League, Cairo, Egypt.

"We must strike back at the infidels!" exclaimed the Syrian delegate. "The Americans must pay!"

"No!" exclaimed the Jordan representive, rising from his seat. "It is those Zionist pigs! They dare to strike into the very heart of our nations! Killing those who fight for our freedom!"

Amr Mossa raised his hands. Such was the esteem he was held in, the diplomats quickly silenced. "Peace be with you," he softly counselled before raising his voice. "You all know me, I am no lover of either the Zionist or the Great Satan. But there is no evidence that either are behind these attacks. Indeed, our own sources have indicated they have suffered their own not inconsiderable losses. I would counsel for moderation until we have more information."

"Better to wait and strike wisely, than act rashly and escalate the situation," put in the Libyan delegate, making their earlier agreed comment.

"Quite so," Amr nodded at his supporter.

"Then what do we do!" demanded the Algerian member. "We must have action!"

"Watch your borders," he counselled. "Watch them like hawks."

* * *

Assembly Of The African Union

Olusegun Obasanjo looked around the raging council room, heart breaking. All around stood armed guards, three times their normal number, such was the crisis. All the work he and his predecessors had done, destroyed by some new, unnamed but terrible horror. After a long, rattling breath he spoke, his hands firmly gripping the podium before him.

He couldn’t think of his family, of the unimagined monsters he’d seen tearing them apart as his guards dragged him to what passed for safety.

Petra spun around as the door crashed open, her action copied by her companions, only to stop when she recognised the interlopers as Mr. Harris, Mr. Wood, and her fellow Slayers. "Room secured, sir," she resisted temptation to salute.

Her knees almost buckled at the one-eyed man’s smile. "I can see that. Well done," the American looked around, "well done all of you." Petra blushed at the praise. The Sunnydale hero’s face turned serious. "Now-."

The hotel door burst open and a pair of security guards rushed in. They were met by Wood who caught the first with a thumping kick to the groin. The man gurgled and began to double up. Wood grabbed the winded man by the collar and shoved him into his colleague’s path.

Eyes widening, the security guard attempted to stop but crashed into the other man, sending him stumbling helplessly forward. Wood leapt into the air, catching the unfortunate second man full in the face with a roundhouse kick, knocking him flat out. The first man was up to his knees when Wood caught him with a downward cross to the temple, likewise knocking him out.

"As I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted," Xander nodded towards Wood before looking at the bed. "Let’s get that moved shall we? Martina? Petra?"

Her fellow Slayer joined her in flipping over the room’s four-postered bed, revealing the trapdoor beneath. For a long second they all stared at the heavy wooden door. Eventually Xander flung the door open, revealing a set of torch lit steps leading downwards. "Let’s go."

* * *

"Master! Master! Master!"

Master Argo’s head snapped up when one of his minions flung the double doors to his throne room open and charged in. "What is the meaning of this disturbance?"

The minion, a thickly muscled Rodaz by the unusual name of Clint, quailed at his roar before dropping to one knee, his gaze fixed downwards. "M…my apologies, mi’ lord, but we’ve been invaded."

"Invaded!" Argo’s eyes bulged and breath came in shocked gasps. In sixteen centuries the Order’s headquarters had remained impregnable. And now it was attacked while under his stewardship. His two hearts started to pound erratically. "Who dares!" he thundered.

The Rodaz’s reply hit him like a thunderbolt. "Slayers, it’s the Slayers!"

* * *

Pavel Baros’ eyes widened as he slammed on his patrol car’s brakes, pulling the car to a screeching halt. "I….it’s not possible."

"And yet there it is," his partner, Karel Neved, whispered.

"W…what do we do?" Baros asked, unable to tear his eyes away from the terrifying apparition before them. The seven foot tall, fur covered monster in the road most definitely couldn’t be a werewolf, no matter how much it looked like one. The beast was flipping over parked cars, ripping lampposts out of the ground and pitching them through shop windows, and punching holes through walls. At least it hadn’t attacked humans. Yet.

"Calling for back-up would be a start," Karel suggested.

"Good idea." Eyes still fixed on the gigantic beast before them, Baros reached for the radio before pausing. "What do I say?"

For a second his question was met by silence. "Help would be a start," his partner commented.

* * *

Xander swallowed as he reached the bottom of the steps, entering the stone-paved corridor, its walls were adorned with colourful tapestries depicting blood-curdling scenes of murder and torture, while the cloying stench of incense hung heavy in the shadowy air, clogging up the lungs of him and his companions. "Home, sweet home," he muttered sarcastically before turning to the others. "Martina, Petra, with me. The rest of you know what to do."

Even as he gave out his instructions, he checked his armament of shotgun, grenades, automatic, and broadsword. "I knew I should have packed my rocket launcher," he sighed before turning towards his companions. "Lets go."

* * *

Xander wiped at the sweat beading down his forehead, the subterranean hell’s stifling heat making his clothes stick to him. Over the past few torrid hours, they’d fought their way through a horrifying collection of demons. But now, he glanced at the thick wooden doors before them, they’d reached their target, the Order’s main chamber. "Ready?" his two companions, their faces dirty and streaked with sweat and their eyes nervous, nodded. "Get back!" he slammed a lump of C4 onto the door before retreating and putting in a pair of ear plugs.

A half second after he’d put in the second plug and the door exploded inwards, ripping the door off its hinges as it flew into the darkened room beyond. Coughing slightly at the resulting smoke, Xander removed his ear plugs before nodding to his Slayer escort. "Be careful," he warned before stepping into the chamber.

The walls of the pentagonal meeting hall were lined with portraits of demons, probably former Order rulers. The darkly stark room was dominated by a central stone dais upon which stood a bare-looking throne.

A cowled figure sat on the throne. Despite its long robe, Xander could tell the sat figure had an Olympian set of muscles. He swallowed when the figure stood, revealing its towering height. "Have you come to pay homage?"

Xander’s blood chilled at the monster’s hiss. "Actually," he eased the hammer back on his shotgun. "We’re here to kill you."

The monster’s teeth gleamed in the darkness. "Then do it!"

* * *

Wood winced as an ogre punched him in his left shoulder, his arm erupting in pain. Biting back a scream, he slid under the misshapen beast’s thundering haymaker, the punch shattering a brick in the wall behind him. He retaliated with a back-handed sword swing that ripped into the monster’s left thigh.

Blood gushed out of the ogre’s meaty limb. The pain of his attack turned the monster berserk; its roars threatening to burst his ear-drums, the ogre snatched his sword out of his hand and flung it clattering to the ground. Then he grabbed Wood in a crushing bear-hug. Which given the ogre’s body odour was a lot closer than he wanted to be.

"Argggh!" Wood flailed at the ogre’s hideous face, trying to punch his way loose. It was like punching stone, his knuckles bruising even as his vision blurred and ribs creaked until the ogre’s crushing assault.

He gasped as the pressure was suddenly released and he was unceremoniously dumped on the ground. Blinking his eyes clear, he looked up in bemusement.

His confusion cleared as he watched the decapitated monster fall to the ground beside him. Ruby looked down at him from behind where the demon had stood, the aptly named flame-haired Slayer’s face crinkled in concern. "Are you alright?" I’m sorry I didn’-."

He waved the freckle-faced Slayer to silence as he stumbled to his feet. "I’m fine," he smiled. "Thanks to you." His smile withered as he thought about the others. What about them, were they alright? "Are the last of the explosives planted?" The cheerleader nodded. "Great, let’s get out of here."

* * *

Oz growled as he powered into a side street, turning down into an alley, his wide shoulders scraping the walls flanking him and his paws slapping against the alley’s cobblestones.

He had to give it to Xander, his diversionary plan had worked. Altogether too well. It seemed as if half of Prague’s police force was hunting him. He’d had visions of pitchfork-wielding mobs hunting him down like something out of a Hammer horror film, but they hadn’t come true. Yet.

Smelling a pair of sweating, trembling policemen waiting in ambush at the far end of the alley, he charged out, tore the open-mouthed patrolmen’s pistols from their hands, and smashed their heads together. Dropping the unconscious men to the ground, he hurried to the place he’d hidden his change of clothes.

* * *

Xander recoiled instinctively when the roaring finger leapt to his feet, knocking his throne over in the process. The demon tore his robe off, revealing the powerful physique of a gargoyle complete with leathery, bat-shaped wings fixed to its v-shaped back. The loin-clothed monster stared down at them, the hatred in its yellow eyes chilling in their intensity, and made even worse by the sight of its forked tongue lolling over its teeth. "WHO DARES!" screeched the mammoth demon.

Xander hesitantly raised his free hand. "Uh, that would be us." This was a very bad idea.

The gargoyle screeched again before leaping off the dais and towards them, wings furiously flapping. Xander raised his shotgun and fired.

The order master was flung backwards by the consecrated ammo, crashing to the ground in an ungainly heap at the foot of the dais. "See," Xander beamed at his companions, "that wasn’t-." His voice trailed off when the grey-skinned monster clambered to its clawed feet, green viscera oozing out of a gaping wound, but the baleful glare in its eyes undimmed. "Oh crap."

"Aieeee!" The monster lunged forward.

"Wait!" The two Slayers leapt to meet it, ignoring his shouts for caution, and were swept aside by the bulldozing demon’s rampage at him. Xander tried desperately to re-load his shotgun but before he had chance, the monster had its claws around his throat, choking him as it smashed his head into the wall behind. "I recognise you," the demon hissed. "Xander Harris. The least of the Scoobies."

"Is that right?" Xander’s hackles rose at the gargoyle’s dismissive tone. Although at the moment, he gurgled for air, it was hard to argue with the assessment. Both because he was easily getting his ass handed to him and also because he was struggling to breath. "But still," he drew his automatic and fired at the monster, "I managed this!"

The top quarter of the monster’s head was torn off by the shot, splattering blood everywhere. The demon shrieked as he flew backwards, crashing onto the ground. Xander’s eye widened as the monster started to rise. "Oh, give me a break!" he complained, his voice still hoarse from his near strangulation.

The two Slayers appeared behind the gargoyle, their swords slicing through the demon’s hamstrings. The gargoyle fell to his hands and knees. Xander levelled his automatic and fired. The round smashed into the beast, tearing what remained of its head off its shoulders. Xander looked towards the Slayers. "Remember when I tell you not to run, don’t. I’m," Xander rubbed at his aching throat, "attached to my throat."

"Just not your eyes apparently?" queried one of the Slayers.

Xander shot the Slayer a glare. "Now I know how Giles felt," he muttered before raising his voice. Let’s get out of here and back to England." He just hoped everyone else’s mission went well.

"Hello," he didn’t bother with a smile, it seemed so trite today, after all that had happened today, "I’m Trevor MacDonald and this is the ITV Evening News on 24^th May 2005. Today, Britain was hit by a wave of freak earthquakes, the cities of London,. Edinburgh, Glasgow, Manchester, Newcastle, Liverpool, Cardiff, and Leeds all suffered tremors measuring between 4 and 7 on the Richter Scale, causing widespread damage. Seismologists are at a loss to explain this rash of quakes." He paused for a second. "The prime minister will be making a statement later and the government has set up a help line for those worried about loved ones-."

* * *

"Hello, I’m Bob Schieffer and this is the CBS Evening New on the 24^th May 2005," he smiled into the camera before assuming a sombre expression. "The governors of Kentucky, Alabama, Georgia, and Tennessee have all declared states of emergency and called out the National Guard after widespread rioting between black and white youths in many of the four states’ major cities." He paused to glance at his note before looking back into the camera. "And now for a report from our correspondent on the ground, Allen Pizzey. Allen, any news on what exactly caused the violence?"

* * *

"Hello, I’m Akiro Hase, and this is G60 Minutes on the 24^th May 2005." He struggled to keep his calm for the sake of the millions watching Japan’s highest rated nightly news program. "From the hours of 3:00 to 7:00 AM, Osaka was hit by a storm of perhaps as many as fifty meteorites causing widespread damage. The hard-pressed emergency services have estimated loss of lives exceeding 50,000. Later in the program we’ll have a report from our man on the scene, but first, to help us perhaps understand how and why this is happening, here’s one of Japan’s most renowned weather experts, Rikki Inoki. Hello, Rikki."

The greying scientist forced a smile. "Hello. The truth is, the scientific community are at a loss. Nobody has no idea what caused this. Some have suggested that the destruction of the ozone layer has caused this, but I find that unlikely."

"Could it be the military perhaps?" he suggested.

The scientist shook his head. "It’s highly unlikely that ours or any government have the means or technology to create the havoc we’ve experienced today."

* * *

"Hello, I’m Bruno Masure and this is 20 Heures Le Journal on 24^th May 2005." He paused for a second. "Today, our country descended into chaos when a messianic figure predicting the end of the world galvanised our country’s youth into rioting. Paris, Marseille, Lyon, Nice, Strasbourg, Bordeaux, and Nantes have all been affected and the police have been called in to subdue rioters, in some cases using CS-gas and water canons. In a moment, we’ll get on the spot reports from Paris and Lyon, but first a report from Phillipe La Breton from the police on just who this ‘prophet’ is, Phillipe?"

"Hello, Bruno," his colleague greeted him, a grave look on his face. "An hour ago and the police released a statement about the head trouble-causer. This information was apparently gleaned from the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire. It identified the rioters’ leader as an Andre Paul, a forty-six year old pipe-fitter with a history of religious fanaticism and mental illness dating back to the early 80s. The police are however baffled as to how such a man, described as a nonentity, has gained such influence so quickly."

* * *

"Today has been a shocking day the world over," Maria Miel forced a smile into the camera. "Hello I’m Maria Miel and this La 2 Noticias de TVE on the 24^th May 2005. And it has been no exception here, in Madrid. Today, the capital city has been bombarded by a rain of frogs, thousands of the amphibious creatures have somehow fallen from the skies." She shook her head before turning to the man sat beside her. "With me I have Jose Guerrero, our science correspondent." She paused to look at her notes. "Jose, does the science community have any idea what has caused this?"

"No," the scientist’s smile was as forced as her earlier one. "They have no idea."

* * *

* * *

"Hello, I’m Oleg Breznevh, and this is Vremya News on 24^th May 2005. Today Moscow, St. Petersburg, and a number of other cities have been hit by acts of co-ordinated violence. Government buildings, power stations, and media outlets, including our own offices, came under attack from groups of heavily armed men." He paused to glance at his notes. "And now to our security correspondent in Moscow, Boris Drezeh. Boris, has any motive been uncovered for the violence?"

"It appears a group of disaffected oligarchs attempting to overthrow our beloved president were behind these attacks, Oleg."

"And these men were extremely well-trained?"

"Yes," the reporter nodded. "Most of those captured have admitted to formerly being members of the world’s special forces."

"Any further information on just how many attacks and how many men were involved?" he queried.

"Yes," the security correspondent nodded. "According to a statement issued by the government, there were thirty-seven attacks in ten cities by groups ranging from twenty to fifty in size on government buildings, media outlets, and power stations. In addition," the reporter’s face paled, "there were sixteen assassination attempts on high-ranking political figures, including President Putin himself. These attempts have ranged from car bombs, road minings, and sniper attacks, and have left five men dead and another two critical."

"And what measures have the government ordered to counteract these attacks?" he queried.

"Aside from foiling the sabotage attempts and taking the mercenaries into custody, there is a rumour the government has placed bounties on the heads of no less than fourteen Russian billionaires currently living aboard."

"Really?" Oleg’s jaw dropped. That he hadn’t known. "Any information on which specific oligarchs?"

The reporter shook his head, his face grim. "Not as yet."

* * *

"Hello, I’m Manuel Ruido, and this is Jornal Nacional on 24^th May 2005. Today, the authorities are struggling to contain an outbreak of water poisoning in Sao Paulo, which has resulted in dozens of deaths and several thousand people being rushed into hospital. And now to our reporter on the scene, Fia Lindo. Fia," he turned his attention to the striking beauty on a satellite link, "any news on a death toll?"

Lorne groaned as he recognised the figure hurrying towards him. He’d almost been caught twice in his search for assistance. But this person was almost as bad as the hired killers. "Between a rock and a hard place," he muttered. Whatever that meant. Humans, they made about as much sense as Christian rock. Steeling himself, he stepped out of the shadows. "I need your help."

The figure started, halted, and looked furtively over his shoulder before looking back at him, an eyebrow raised sarcastically. "If you need directions," the man pointed over Lorne’s shoulder, "the bunker’s the other way. Now, if you don’t mind-."

"It’s Giles," Lorne interrupted, a note of desperation entering his voice, "he’s in trouble. Whyndham-Pryce is going to use the fight as an opportunity to kill him."

"Ripper?" Ethan’s face paled momentarily before regaining its usual nonchalant mask. Still waters indeed. "Well I’ve never liked that arrogant bugger. I’d like a chance to spit in his eye. Which way?"

* * *

De Boers shuffled through the papers neatly piled on the desk, squinting slightly in the half-light, wishing he could turn the full lights on, but not wishing to risk detection at this delicate point. Hearing the click of the door behind him, he glanced over his shoulder but saw nothing. Deciding he mustn’t have closed the door properly, he walked over and shoved it shut. Nodding in satisfaction, he turned back to the desk, intent on carrying on his investigation.

And froze at the arm around his throat and the gun muzzle shoved in his ear. "General Dieter De Boers," a deep American accent whispered in his other ear. "No. 7. on the UN’s Most Wanted List. I’d like to say it’s a pleasure, but," he swallowed at the click of the automatic being cocked, "my mother didn’t raise any liars."

Desperation surging through his veins, he snatched at the man’s hand, knocking it upward, even as it fired. Plaster fell from the ceiling where the bullet hit.. At the same exact moment he drove his head back into his assailant’s mouth, eliciting a surprised gasp. Spinning around, he drew his own gun only to have it kicked out of his hand. Snarling ferally, he lunged at the younger man, a tall, good-looking boy, hoping to barrel him over with his heavier bulk.

* * *

Andrew skidded to a halt at the sound of approaching footsteps, boots thudding onto the carpeted floor, almost falling on his backside. Unable to make anything more than panicked, bleating sounds, he looked around desperately for somewhere to hide.

Seeing a darkened doorway, he bolted to it and tried the door. If it was locked, he was done for…..

He let out a relieved gasp when the door swung soundlessly open. Counting his lucky stars, he hurried inside, quietly closing the door behind him. Looking around, he found he was in one of the classrooms used to teach Slayers the academic side of their Calling. But not a history of comic books like he’d sagely suggested.

Seeing the suit of armour by the door, Andrew hurried over and slid into the narrow hiding place behind it, right hand still clutching tightly to the meat cleaver he’d been carving the night’s meal with when the alarm had blared out. His heart tightened when the door swung open and a slight figure ran in only to relax when he recognised Dawn. He opened his mouth to hiss to his friend.

And closed it again when a trio of burly men charged into the room and encircled the former Key.

* * *

"Oh bollocks!" Giles cursed as he looked around the bunker’s occupants. All the support staff, cleaners, kitchen staff, and researchers had made it to the bunker, leaving the battleground clear for those experienced in such things. But no Andrew. And far more worryingly, no Dawn.

Turning, he headed for the door. "Hold on!" Willow grabbed his arm. "You can’t go out there! It’s madness!"

He turned to the red-haired witch. "I know, Willow. But I promised Buffy I’d look after her." Ignoring the witch’s continuing protests, he turned and hurried out of the bunker, slamming the heavy door behind him.

What seemed an eternity later and he was heartily regretting his promise. Since leaving the bunker, he’d been travelling the castle’s darkened passageways searching for Dawn. There’d been no sign of the younger Summers girl, but plenty of the on-going carnage – the sound of fighting, power-burns on the wall, and even the occasional corpse. He himself had ambushed one group-.

"Hello, Rupert."

Giles started at the voice behind him only to belatedly relax when he recognise the cultured tones. Turning, he looked at his portly deputy. "Roger!" he hissed as he looked around the shadowy dormitory he’d been vainly searching. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. "Why aren’t you in the bunker?"

"Oh, I’ll get there." He gasped when the sneering Watcher pulled out a revolver and aimed its muzzle at him. "But I’ve got some important business to deal with first."

* * *

Riley groaned as the heavy-set South African charged him. Stupid, very stupid, he cursed inwardly. He really shouldn’t have been caught by the general’s sneak attack.

Gathering his thoughts, he sidestepped the South African’s rush, grabbed the war criminal’s collar, twisted, and flung the soldier face-first into the wall. Spinning around, he crashed a right into his adversary’s kidneys.

"Aaaah," the general gasped before falling to his hands and knees. Riley stepped over the man and raised his hand to deliver a karate chop to the deck.

"Shit!" he yelped when the general grabbed his right foot and yanked, knocking him onto his back.

The general was on him instantly, punching him again and again, his weapon forgotten in his animalistic fury. Ignoring the pounding he was receiving, Riley wrapped his legs around the South African’s portly body and squeezed. The mercenary grunted and attempted to rear up, but he held firm, his hands reaching up to grip the sides of the older man’s face and stab his thumbs into his rival’s eyes, gouging them.

The man’s eyes squelched under his attack, and the mercenary’s mouth opened in a scream but he cut him off with a fist to the throat. The general’s craggy face purpled. Riley grabbed him beneath his chin and on the top of his head and twisted. He winced slightly at the resulting crack before shoving the now limp body off him, and clambering to his feet. He laughed when caught a glimpse of himself in the window opposite. He looked a mess with his bleeding and broken nose, rapidly closing right eye, and cut bottom lip. But, he glanced down at the corpse at his feet, he was still alive.

* * *

Andrew quaked in his hiding place as the three thugs surrounded his friend, their expressions leering as they commented on the nubile teen’s beauty. "Cor," drawled a thick-set cockney, "she’s a bit of alright ain’t she?"

"Aye laddie, she is," agreed a wry Geordie, normally Andrew had trouble understanding them, but tonight he was all too terribly clear. "Get your kit off lassie."

"Spoils of war," agreed the third man, a short but hefty Texan.

"Aiee!" Suddenly Dawn launched herself into the air, exploding into a roundhouse kick her sister would have been proud of. The blow smashed into the cockney’s face, splattering viscera onto previously pristine suit of armour Andrew was cowering behind.

"Bitch!" The moment Dawn’s feet touched the ground, the Geordie caught Dawn with a backhand slap to the face, knocking her to the floor. "Like it rough do you? Well," the man kicked the former key in the stomach making her gasp for air, before leaning over her, "that can be arranged."

The sound of clothing ripping jarred Andrew out of his horrified stupor. Reaching out a shaking hand, he shoved the suit of armour. The moment it smashed to the ground, he charged out of his hiding place to confront the three hired killers as they turned towards him.

His cleaver slashed sideways, ripping through the Geordie’s throat with the same brutal ease he’d torn through Dawn’s blouse just seconds ago. Andrew’s ears burst under the twin assaults of the Geordie’s screams and the deafening boom of a gun firing.

He spun around to face the Texan unable to believe that the gunman had missed in such a confined space. Han Solo never would have. The Texan’s eyes widened in an almost comical fashion when he charged the man, and slashed with his cleaver, slicing him from ear to ear.

The Texan gurgled, blood foaming out of his mouth as he fell to his knees. "You crazy bugger!"

Andrew turned at the voice to see the Cockney rising from the floor, gun in hand. Quickly weighing up his options, Andrew took the only chance left to him, and raised the cleaver above his head, and threw it. The Cockney screamed when the cleaver didn’t hit him in the heart as he’d planned, but slammed into his left arm, almost ripping his arm off at the elbow, spewing blood everywhere, and causing him to drop his gun. Andrew nodded as the still shrieking man fell on his back, strangely detached from the vicious skirmish he found himself in. He stepped forward, intent on finishing the thug off.

And gasped when a great lethargy engulfed him, his legs buckling beneath him. He screamed as he hit the floor, pain roaring through him. Looking down, he saw the Texan’s hadn’t in fact missed. A bullet had torn through his stomach, his blood-stained entrails leaking out of the gaping wound. "So cold," he muttered. It all seemed so distant, as if he was watching this happen to someone else.

"Oh no." A shirtless Dawn knelt by him, tears rolling down her face. "Andrew."

"Sorry," he gasped, his own tears starting to fall as his body spasmed. "Tried to be a hero. Guess," he laughed, "I’m a better super-villain."

"Don’t," Dawn wiped at her red eyes, "you dare. That was the bravest thing I ever saw."

"Really?" Andrew smiled proudly. Then he giggled as he noticed something. "My first boobies," he pointed at Dawn. "They’re even nicer in the flesh." And then he died.

* * *

Dawn’s strained laugh turned to a choked sob when he realised Andrew had died. After a few seconds holding the corpse, she became dimly aware of the surviving mercenary’s pained wheezes.

Heart hardening, she picked up one of the dropped guns, and stood. Eyes filling with horror, the mercenary attempted to crawl away from her. "Mercy."

Dawn didn’t need to see Andrew’s corpse to know her answer. "No." Her ears rang with the gun’s retort even as her tears continued to flow.

* * *

"What are you doing you dozy bugger?" Roger rejoiced at the upstart’s confusion. "This is hardly the time-."

Covering the distance separating them at a run, he slammed his revolver’s heavy butt into the younger man’s forehead, knocking him to the ground. He aimed the weapon at his fellow countryman, savouring the helpless rage in Giles’ eyes. He wished he had time to break the sod, but at least he’d get to finish him off.

"Go on Rog, give it to him!" Hearing a voice, he spun to his left, aiming his gun at Ethan Rayne; the smirking chaos mage leant against the wall by the door. "Hold on," the younger man raised his hands in surrender, eyes filling with alarm. "I’m just ‘ere to watch that uptight prissy get his comeuppance, keep your eye on him!"

Roger instinctively turned back to Giles, promising himself to deal with Rayne afterwards. He looked down at his target.

And screamed at the cobra writhing around the wrist of his gun-arm. Shrieking in terror, he dropped the gun and leapt backwards. His eyes widened when the snake disappeared. A trick, he snarled at Ethan before stepping towards his dropped weapon.

He grunted when something heavy crashed into the back of his head, knocking him to his hands and knees. Seeing the gun beside him, he reached for it but Ethan kicked it away, tutting sarcastically. "Naughty, naughty."

Looking up, he saw the green-skinned demon friend of the vampire helping Rupert to his feet. "You’ll all pay," he blustered.

"I doubt that," pain erupted in his side when Ethan kicked him in the guts. The chaos mage glanced towards the supposed Council head. "You alright, Rupes?"

The former Slayer’s Watcher stared at Rayne. "How? Why?"

"Partially to see that look on your face," the renegade wizard chuckled before sobering. "Life wouldn’t be the same without you to bedevil. Besides," Roger’s hackles rose at the disdainful look Rayne shot him, "buggering up his plans was just the icing on the cake."

Rupert shook his head. "Same old Ethan," his nemesis took the gun from Ethan before glancing down at him, a terrifying look in his eyes. "your son was worth ten of you." All at once he knew what Giles intended. He opened his mouth to beg, saw the man’s finger squeeze the trigger.

* * *

Ethan hid a wince when Ripper shot Roger in the head, exhibiting the cold-bloodedness that had in turn excited and terrified him. His heart fluttered at the grateful look the Watcher shot him. "Thank you, Lorne, Ethan."

"Think nothing of it old bean," he replied casually, his heart thundering. After all, what choice had he had? Given the chance of saving the life of the man he’d secretly loved for three decades?

* * *

"Andrew’s dead?" Giles whispered. Seven Slayers, twelve Watchers, and fourteen Council troops had all died in the battle for the keep. And of course Wells.

He was shocked by his sense of loss. How much he’d miss the boy’s cheerful self-delusion and oblivion. The way the youth ran their kitchens with surprising and tasty efficiency.

Looking around the devastated Council grounds, he could see the pain he felt reflected on the others’ faces. "Giles," he looked towards an ashen faced Willow. "What are we going to do about the corpses and building damage?"

"I said not now!" he thundered, his frayed temper finally snapping. Seeing the witch flinch, he opened his mouth to apologise but was interrupted by the ringing of his mobile playing ‘God Save The Queen’ by the Sex Pistols. Mouthing ‘sorry’ to the red-haired woman, he pulled out his phone and glanced at the number on the display. His eyes widened in recognition. Turning the phone on, he placed it to his mouth and spoke. "Hello?"

* * *

"NOO!"

Seeing the head Watcher’s legs buckle, Riley raced forward, grabbing hold of the Englishman as he fell. "It’s alright, Giles!" he soothed over the others’ shocked screams. But looking at the Watcher’s broken face he doubted it would ever be alright again.

Return To Ravages Of Hell