Spike lay on the table, on his back, his eyes closed, breathing slowly and deeply. He was trying to recover from his latest session of Warren’s experiments. Cautiously, painfully, he pulled himself up to a sitting position, and swung his legs over the side of the table. He fought the usual wave of nausea and dizziness, waiting for the spots of color in his vision to fade.

Warren had left the room twenty minutes before. Every session it got a little worse, a little harder to recover from the agony and weakness.

He was sitting on the edge of the table nearest the computer desk. When he finally made the attempt to get to his feet, too soon obviously, he stumbled and nearly collapsed, catching himself on the desk to keep from falling to the floor. In the attempt, he managed to knock a stack of papers off the edge of the desk, sending them fluttering to the floor.

Fear came over him as he dropped to his knees on the floor to hastily retrieve them with trembling hands. If Warren came downstairs and saw this, he would assume the worst. He would accuse him of going through his things, and he would surely be punished again. After the hours of torment he had just endured, he couldn’t bear the thought of more.

As he hurried to put the stack back together, thinking with despair that he had no idea in what order they were supposed to be, and Warren would kill him when he found out, and…

Suddenly he froze as something on one of the pages caught his eye.

*Buffy*.

The sheet in his hand bore the Slayer’s name, over and over in various places, and as Spike quickly scanned it, more afraid for Buffy than for himself, his eyes widened in horrified realization, as the full impact of Warren’s plan hit him.

“So this is what takes you so long, huh?” Warren’s voice behind him startled him, and he jumped, dropping the paper to the floor and turning quickly to face his master, standing over him with an irritated expression. “I knew I was giving you too long after our sessions.”

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head, his mouth going dry with fear. “No, I – I didn’t…it was an accident…I…I fell, and…”

“Didn’t ask you to write me a book, Spike,” Warren smiled coolly, then glared at him as he said. “Didn’t ask you to explain at all, actually. You see any problems with this little scene, then?”

He nodded, confused and unsure as to whether he was supposed to respond. Warren was angry because he had spoken without permission, but he had just now asked him a question. Was he supposed to respond, or not? “Yes, Master,” he whispered, trying to be as respectful as possible. “Shouldn’t have spoken. I’m sorry, Master.”

Warren reached out a hand expectantly, and Spike obediently placed the stack of papers in his hand. Warren glanced at the one on top, and his smile widened. “You had to go sticking your nose in my business, didn’t you?” he smirked. “And I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Spike could feel his anger, long buried under fear and pain, rising up within him at the thought of what Warren was planning to do to Buffy. Dangerous, deadly anger… dangerous and deadly for him, if Warren saw it. He kept his eyes down, fighting for control of his emotions.

Warren must have been able to tell that he was trying to hide something, because he snapped suddenly, “Look at me.”

Spike reluctantly obeyed, meeting Warren’s eyes, hoping his fury and hatred didn’t show. Warren just looked at him for a moment, trying to read his expression.

Then he reared back and backhanded him, hard, across the face, knocking his head back into the desk.

Spike fought the darkness in front of his eyes, needing to stay conscious, some part of him insisting that he had to be alert, aware, he had to help Buffy…

“You can’t help her, Spike,” Warren’s soft voice spoke, suddenly very close to him, and Spike jerked back against the desk instinctively in his fear. “You can’t do anything to stop this. And you know it. She’s gonna be mine...just like you’re mine…” Warren laughed softly then, and amended, “Well, not *exactly*…” The suggestive leer in his voice made Spike want to hit him…kill him…rip out his throat…he realized that an unconscious growl was rumbling in his chest, a moment too late.

Warren gripped his throat and slammed his head back hard against the desk again, his eyes blazing with rage. “Is that a threat, Spike? Are you threatening me?”

Swallowing hard, Spike shook his head, his eyes closed. “N-no,” he whispered. “No.”

“Good,” Warren said in that deceptively soft voice, “because that would be really stupid, Spike. Wouldn’t it?”

He nodded as best he could against the hard hand at his throat, and choked out, “Yes.”

Warren released him with a little shove, standing up again, his eyes still on him, full of anger and menace. Placing the papers back on the desk, he reached down and effortlessly hauled the weak, dizzy vampire to his feet. Between Warren’s incredible strength and the alarming amount of weight Spike had lost due to his slow starvation, Warren had no trouble dragging him up the stairs and out of the basement.

He made a point of locking the basement door behind him, before slinging Spike to the floor a few feet away from him. He slowly advanced on him, glaring down at him without a word. Then he kicked him, hard, in the ribs, smiling cruelly as he coughed, choking on his own blood.

“This isn’t over,” Warren said softly. “You have a real attitude problem today, Spike. And I’m gonna help you get over it. When I get back. Right now…well…I’ve got a big night ahead of me.” His smile was cruel, his tone suggestive, and suddenly Spike realized with fear that Warren was ready to carry out his heinous scheme.

Warren left him there on the floor, stalking out of the house, Spike’s black leather on his retreating form adding insult to the injury he had just inflicted. Spike’s mind was racing, trying to think of something, anything he could do to help Buffy.

As strong as Warren was now, he would easily be a match for the Slayer. And he was trapped here, unable to leave the house, certainly unable to fight Warren even if he could. What could he possibly do to help her?

A feeling of despair washed over him, as he sat there on the floor, cursing his own utter powerlessness. Then, slowly, he raised his head, an idea dawning in his eyes as he turned them toward the stairs. It might cost him his life, he realized, with a soft, bitter laugh. *Not that that’s worth much at this point.* But it would save Buffy – give her back the ability to beat Warren.

Maybe there was something he could do after all.


“Ok, Will. No, that’s ok. You’ve been trying really hard, I know, it’s not your fault… just…” Buffy paused as her friend began apologizing again for her unsuccessful attempts at finding Warren’s new lair.

She had tried a locator spell, but it turned out that it didn’t work on vampires. Then she had thought of checking the city records to look for any recent property purchases of houses out in the country. But if Warren or his friends had purchased the house Spike had mentioned, they had used a false name, because there was no record.

With a sigh of frustration, Buffy hung up the phone and went to sit on the couch between Dawn and Xander.

“No luck, huh?” Xander sounded genuinely disappointed for her.

Buffy gave him a small, sad smile of gratitude. True to his word, although he clearly disagreed with Buffy’s decision to help Spike, he had still been very supportive and helpful, doing anything she had asked of him and putting in suggestions where he could.

So far, nothing had yielded results.

“We’ve just got to try harder,” Dawn said firmly, a determined gleam in her eyes. “It’s not like the answer’s just gonna show up on our doorstep. We’ve got to…”

At that moment, a loud crash sounded from the foyer, and all three rose to their feet, Buffy going into a defensive fighting stance automatically. The front door had been kicked in and had landed across the stairs.

Warren stood in the doorway. Smiling.

“Hey, guys. The party just arrived,” he smirked as he stepped through the door.


“Dawn, get in the kitchen,” Buffy ordered, her voice trembling with rage.

“You might wanna stick around, little sis,” Warren sneered. “It’s gonna be quite a show.”

“Go!” Buffy repeated, turning for a moment toward her sister, who hesitantly obeyed. Turning back to Warren with a tight, angry smile, the Slayer shrugged and explained, “I don’t like to expose her to violence. Especially of the me-being-violent variety. Gotta set a good example and all.”

“That’s disappointing,” Warren replied. “I love an audience.”

The suggestive leer on his face and in his voice was infuriating to Buffy. She charged him, drawing back her fist for the first blow.

He beat her to it.

An incredibly powerful blow to her face sent her crashing into the coffee table, hitting her back hard. She let out a groan as she hurriedly pulled herself to her feet. Xander had immediately stepped between her and Warren when he had seen her go down, standing protectively over her.

“Xander, get out of here!” Buffy snapped, concerned for his safety. If Warren could do that to *her*…

Xander ignored her, facing Warren bravely, though he had to have known he didn’t stand a chance.

Warren dropped him with one blow, knocking him unconscious and stepping over his crumpled form toward Buffy. “Just the two of us,” he smirked, glancing at her fallen friend, and toward the kitchen door where Dawn had disappeared.

“Yeah,” she muttered in response, gearing up to attack again. She spun into a kick aimed at his side, but he only caught her ankle and yanked hard, slamming her down onto the floor again.

And as she struggled to rise, while Warren stood there, laughing, not even winded, she realized with a sinking feeling that this was not a fight she was going to win.


Spike struggled, limping, up the stairs to Warren’s room. Urgently searching the dark room for something he could use, his eyes fell on the nightstick Warren had used to threaten him when he had first arrived here, sticking half-way under Warren’s bed. He crouched down painfully and picked it up, testing its weight in his hand. Standing back up straight was equally painful; Warren’s kick must have cracked a few ribs, he realized.

He had not realized how truly weakened he really was, until he tried to lift the thing and found it difficult. True, it was a heavy weapon, but in his former state, it would have been nothing for him. Now, it was a strain on the languishing muscles of his arms, fatigued and shaking from the recent torture.

He turned toward the glass case on the desk, enclosing the orbs. It was a long shot; it was possible that he was wrong and these were not even the source of Warren’s strength, after all. But it was the only chance he had to help Buffy, to save her from Warren’s sick little plot.

With a hiss of pain through his teeth at the motion, and an extreme effort, he raised the stick over his head and slammed it down with all his strength into the case. Panting with the exertion, he steadied himself with a hand on the desk and looked at the case to gauge his results.

The case was shattered, but still intact. One more blow did it, and the case fell to pieces on the desk and the floor. Spike carefully took the two orbs in his hands, wondering what effect they might have. He felt nothing; whatever process Warren had gone through to transfer their power to the ring he wore must have affected them. Still, he would not have locked them up in the case in the first place if they did not still hold *some* sort of power.

Spike set them carefully on the desk beside the shattered remnants of the case, and raised the nightstick in his hands again, his breathing labored, his chest and stomach screaming with pain; he knew he had pushed himself almost to the limit. But just another few moments, and he would be done, able to rest. He had to finish this. He brought the weapon down hard onto the orbs, and was pleasantly surprised that they were easily crushed under the admittedly weak blow, as easily as glass Christmas ornaments.

Hoping desperately that his actions would have the results he suspected they would, he collapsed to the floor, breathing heavily, on his hands and knees.

*Ok, Slayer,* he thought grimly to himself. *The rest is up to you.*


Buffy fought to pull herself back up, bracing her arm against the coffee table for leverage, winded by the impact of her fall. Warren came at her again, leveling a kick at her side. She rolled quickly out of the way, barely avoiding the blow, and in an instant was back on her feet, facing him, scared and unsure now, but determined not to go down without giving him the fight of his life.

Then, she saw his fist flying toward her face, and there was no time to dodge it, and she knew if the blow was anywhere near as powerful as the others he had dealt, it would knock her out cold.

It wasn’t.

The drastically lessened force of his punch snapped her face to the side momentarily, but did not even come close to knocking her down.

She turned her face back to look at him, and saw the stunned expression on his face, as if he was just realizing the same thing she was. She smiled slowly. Whatever energy was powering Warren’s little rampage, it seemed the battery had just run out.

“Ow,” she complained with a little grimace of annoyance. “That kinda stung a little.” Her eyes narrowing into slits of menace, she drew back her own fist and struck the boy across the face, hard, sending him staggering backward into the wall.

She advanced on him quickly, delivering a couple more quick, strong blows to his face and stomach, and he dropped to his knees on the floor. Buffy roughly yanked him back to his feet, twisting his arm up behind his back and shoving his face against the wall.

“I’m really glad you stopped by, Warren,” Buffy smiled. “I’d been thinking we needed to have a little talk. Since we kind of got interrupted last time.”

Warren’s mind was spinning. This was not the way he had expected it to turn out. At first he could not figure out what had happened, how his strength had suddenly failed him at this crucial moment.

Then he realized what must have happened, and his eyes narrowed in anger. Powerless in the hands of a very pissed off, now very strong Slayer, he could do nothing to stop her as she manhandled him into her living room and shoved him down on the couch.

The only outlet for his rage at the moment was not in this room, he realized with the hint of a vindictive smile about his lips.

The Slayer and her friend, who was just starting to come around from the knock-out punch he had taken, missed the smile, in all the excitement.

They also missed the hand that Warren slipped into his pocket, closing around the tiny device he kept there, pressing the button, and locking it down.