Opening.
The main entrance to Sunnydale High School. Night lights are on inside. From outside, there’s a muffled, distant barking of dogs.
The school hallways are deserted, dark, and silent. The only light comes from the display case with the school trophies. Closed doors to empty night classrooms line both sides of the hall. The double doors separating the corridors are closed. No one is here to disturb their peace at this hour.
A dark, empty classroom — a human skeleton model stands in the corner, so this must be the biology room. The horizontal blinds on all the windows are closed. But the blinds in the lab section of the room are open, and in the moonlight you can see the skeleton of a four-legged animal, jars with skulls, and who knows what else scattered across the tables.
A window shatters at the desk where a jar with a human or primate skull is placed. Someone has decided to break into the school at night.
Outside the window stands a guy in a leather jacket, next to him a girl with white hair. The girl’s face shows a hint of fear — or maybe she’s just a little anxious about breaking into the school at night, and in such a barbaric way. It seems like it’s all a bit too much for her.
The guy reaches his hand through the broken window and turns the inside latch. He swings the sash outward; the girl helps him, though her face still shows clear unease.
Girl. Are you sure this is a good idea?
(It’s obvious she doubts they should be sneaking into the school.)
Guy. It’s a great idea. Now, come on.
(His voice, in contrast, is full of confidence.)
The guy quickly climbs onto the windowsill and into the dark classroom. The crunch of broken glass under his feet is clearly audible.
After making their way through the biology classroom, the guy quietly opens the door. He cautiously peers out, then enters the corridor with a confident but alert stride. The girl practically runs after him as he pulls her along by the hand.
Girl. Do you go to school here?
Guy. I used to. Up above the gym — it’s so cool. You can see the whole town.
In the dim light filtering through the narrow windows of the doors, we can see the pair more clearly. The guy wears a leather jacket, a yellow T-shirt with a turned-down collar, and some dark trousers. He’s in an excited state, full of anticipation. The situation itself seems to thrill him — he’s alone with a young, beautiful girl, and they’re doing something forbidden. Especially since the girl looks a bit scared, which lets him feel like a hero. The blonde girl wears a white shirt and tights, with a dark knee-length dress over them.
Girl. I, I, I, I don’t want to go up there.
(She stammers and smiles shyly.)
Guy. Oh, you can’t wait, huh?
(He takes a step toward her; now they’re just inches apart. The atmosphere grows quite intimate.)
Girl. We’re just gonna get in trouble.
(She looks at him with a coy, seductive gaze, as if she’s starting to flirt with him. He looks down at her, eyes like a predator’s — she’s his easy prey.)
Guy. Yeah, you can count on it.
(He tilts his head; their faces draw closer. But just as their lips are about to touch, the girl suddenly turns around. She’s frightened — it looks like she heard some sound deep in the school’s corridors.)
Girl. What was that?
Guy. What was what?
Girl. I heard a noise.
(Both of them peer into the darkness.)
Guy. It’s nothing.
(He answers confidently from behind the girl, tilting his head to see her face, to watch her reaction. He’s now just inches away from her.)
Girl. Well, uh, maybe it’s something.
Guy. Well, maybe it’s some thing.
(He deliberately rephrases her, dropping his voice to a whisper to scare her even more. He leans in even closer and uses his fingers to suggest something paranormal, heightening the atmosphere of fear.)
Girl. That’s not funny.
(She parries his sarcasm and pushes him away, playfully slapping his chest.)
The guy, realizing she’s actually quite scared, steps back and glances around the corner of the corridor.
Guy. Hello?
(Naturally, no one answers. He turns to the girl, spreading his hands.) There’s nobody here.
The girl walks past him but stops, standing with her left side to him and peering into the darkness. Her voice sounds a bit calmer as she asks:
Girl. Are you sure?
Guy. Yes, I’m sure.
(He seems a bit annoyed that the intimate moment is slipping away, but keeps his composure. He walks behind the girl and leans toward her, though he can’t see her face.)
Girl. Ok.
(Her voice is now almost completely calm. She suddenly turns to face the guy. Her delicate, feminine face transforms beyond recognition — yellow wild eyes, a thickened nose with heavy folds, and sharp teeth in an open maw. The school corridor echoes with her beastly roar as she sinks her fangs into the guy’s neck, turning him from hunter to prey in an instant. He lets out a muffled cry of pain. The pair sink to the floor. The sound of the vampire girl drinking his blood can be heard.)
Main Section
Buffy sleeps fitfully in her pristine white bed, tossing and turning slightly.
Buffy’s dream. A cave or grotto, lined with dozens of burning candles — some standing alone, others clustered in antique candlesticks. A hand holds a lit torch, but we can’t see the person behind it — if it’s even a person at all.
The scene shifts to a nighttime graveyard: a tomb or a gravestone topped with a carved angel figure, now set against a lighter, perhaps pre-dawn sky. A gravestone with a stone figurine of a child on top, bearing a photograph of an unknown man. A skull. A golden-looking statuette — perhaps stone — of a dancing figure. The head is out of view, making it hard to tell if it represents a human, a deity, or a demon.
The image shifts again, revealing the figurine in full. It appears to be Nataraja — also known as the Dancing Shiva, an iconic Hindu depiction of Shiva performing the Tandava, the cosmic dance. This dance embodies the cycle of creation and destruction in the universe; it signifies victory over ignorance and evil, as Shiva dances atop the defeated demon Apasmara. It represents the union of opposites: life and death, order and chaos, creation and destruction.
Consciously, Buffy is unlikely to know anything about Shiva — but her subconscious is telling her of the inevitability of her difficult fate as the Slayer.
Nataraja gives way to the image of a horrific vampire. He stands with legs wide apart, arms outstretched to the sides — a gesture symbolising his intent to embrace the entire world, to plunge it into chaos.
This vampire’s image abruptly shifts to a wall with a carved face. A vampire’s hand bursts through the wall, though the vampire itself remains unseen. A girl watches the hand — we see a glimpse of her blonde hair, her left ear, and an earring. Most likely, it’s Buffy herself.
A vampire in a simple shirt and waistcoat lights candles with a torch. A demonic or vampiric hand adjusts a metal buckle on a belt. A horned demon’s head with red eyes. Another demonic or vampiric hand — more precisely, the claw of the left index finger — rests on the blade of a knife.
Buffy tosses in her sleep again, still in her bed.
A hand — seemingly human — clutches a Catholic cross, as if trying to ward off evil. A heavy, ancient tome with the word VAMPYR in tarnished gold or aged copper lettering. The book lies either on a table or on a concrete floor; Buffy’s hands — most likely her own — frame its edges. She opens the book. On the right page, an illustration shows three figures in a forest, brewing something in a large cauldron over a fire. The left page is only partially visible, preventing us from reading its contents — only fragments of sentences can be seen.
Another illustration in the book depicts a winged, humanoid demon standing on the ground, leaning on a greatsword or bastard sword thrust into the earth.
In her left palm, Buffy holds a small box containing a Catholic cross on a chain. She lifts it with her right hand as, in the background, a horde of either the dead or vampires moves forward. Here and there, a blurred glimpse of a toothy maw appears in the dream. A vampire’s face. A clawed demonic hand rests on the head of a person — or a vampire — whose face remains hidden from view. The graveyard returns, with vampires grinning triumphantly.
Suddenly, the profile of that same horrific vampire reappears. He turns sharply with a roar.
Buffy wakes up from a nightmarish dream.
She jolts awake from a chaotic nightmare, breathing heavily. It’s clear she’s in that unsettling moment when you’re technically awake, but the dream still has its grip on you.
Mom (calling from downstairs). Buffy!
Buffy. I am up, mom.
(She rises in bed with a sleepy sigh. A large box, seemingly full of clothes, sits next to the bed — a clear sign they’ve just moved into this house.)
Mom. Don’t want to be late for your first day!
Buffy (quietly, more to herself). No… Wouldn’t want that.
A new day begins at Sunnydale High — and for Buffy, it’s her very first. In front of the main entrance, the schoolyard is bustling with students rushing across the street. Two yellow school buses drive by. A black Jeep pulls up across from the main entrance. Buffy’s mom is behind the wheel; Buffy sits in the passenger seat.
Mom (a bit excited and drawn-out, smiling). Ok.
Buffy steps out of the car with a sigh, her face tense — she’s clearly nervous and anxious.
Mom (calling after her, still smiling). Have a good time.
Buffy turns around, and her mom leans across, resting on the passenger seat.
Mom (hopefully, giving a thumbs-up). I know you’re gonna make friends right away. Just think positive.
Buffy nods and closes the car door — but there’s no answering smile on her face; she’s too nervous.
Mom (calling out again). And, honey…
Buffy turns. This time, her mom gives her a pleading sort of smile.
Mom. Try not to get kicked out.
Buffy (nodding, finally smiling). I promise.
Mom (almost inaudibly). Ok.
(Mom nods and returns to the driver’s seat.)
Buffy turns, glances around — then, as if making up her mind, heads toward the school entrance.
Boy (in brown trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt, clumsily trying to skateboard through the crowd, backpack swaying on his back). Excuse me. Coming through. Pardon me. Excuse me. Whoa! (Girls scatter out of his way.) Excuse me. Can’t stop. Please move. Whoa! Excuse me…
As Buffy climbs the steps, the skateboarder notices her and lets out an unmistakable «Wow!» Distracted by Buffy, he keeps going — and of course, he crashes right into the stair railing and falls.
Boy (rattling off quickly as laughter erupts around him). Oh God! I’m Ok. I feel good.
A pretty girl in a plaid skirt walks past him up the steps, grinning — clearly amused by the scene. She fixes her hair and pauses.
Boy (still on the ground, brightly). Willow! You’re so very much the person I wanted to see.
Willow. Oh really? (She’s clearly happy to see him, practically beaming.)
Boy. Yeah.
(He finally gets up, and they walk up the steps together. Willow looks at him with an open, loving smile.)
Boy. You know, I kind of had a problem with math.
Willow (expression shifting to concerned focus — it’s clear she takes her studies seriously). Uh, which part?
Boy (with a goofy grin). The math.
(This earns him another loving smile from Willow.)
Boy. Can you help me out tonight, please? Be my study buddy?
Willow (still smiling, playfully). Well, what’s in it for me?
Boy (trying, making it sound like it’s obvious). A shiny nickel.
(He laughs, and it’s clear this is just their friendly banter.)
Willow (with genuine care in her voice and face). Ok. Do you have theories in trig? You should check it out.
Boy (puzzled). Check it out?
Willow. From the library, where the books live.
(Her words, tone, and smile make it clear that such things — and this boy — just don’t mix. They both know it, and it’s part of their shared joke.)
Boy (playing along). Right. I’m there. See? I wanna change.
Jesse. Hey, hey!
(A boy in a pink T-shirt approaches them. He and Willow’s friend shake hands.)
Boy. Hey, Jesse. What’s what?
Jesse (enthusiastically, poking the skateboarder in the chest). New girl.
(Willow walks alongside, looking at them with interest.)
Boy. That’s right. I saw her. Pretty much a hottie.
Willow. I heard someone was transferring.
Boy. So tell.
Jesse (confused). Tell what?
Boy. What’s the sitch? What do you know about her?
(Both he and Willow look at Jesse expectantly.)
Jesse (shrugging, a bit lost). New girl…
(The skateboarder’s eyebrows shoot up at this wealth of information.)
Boy (disappointedly). Well, you’re certainly a font of nothing.
Buffy is sitting in the principal’s office. Through the open blinds, you can see a building across the way — its first floor features elegant brick arches. It seems to be part of the school.
Principal (reading in a monotone voice, pacing his office). Buffy Summers. Sophomore. Formerly of Hemery High in Los Angeles.
(He walks to his chair, about to sit down. He looks up from Buffy’s file and smiles at her.)
Principal. Interesting record.
(His tone makes it clear he’s not actually interested in what’s written. To him, this is just another dull, routine file among hundreds of others.)
Principal (sitting at his desk, surprising Buffy by tearing her multi-page file in half). Quite a career.
(Buffy flinches in surprise, her face showing utter confusion.)
Principal (wearily yet solemnly). Welcome to Sunnydale.
(He places his hands on the desk and leans slightly forward, genuinely trying to be friendly.)
Principal (with a mentoring air, deliberately rearranging the torn file on the desk to emphasize his words). A clean slate, Buffy. That’s what you get here. What’s past is past.
(He clasps his hands together. A warm, sincere smile appears on his kind face.)
Principal. We’re not interested in what it says on a piece of paper.
(These words make Buffy smile — though a bit tensely. She still doesn’t quite believe she’s being welcomed so warmly at her new school — especially by the principal.)
Principal (turning back to the torn file, intending to read something from her past that Buffy feared he’d find — something to show her it won’t change his stance). Even if it says… Whoa.
(Something he sees abruptly changes his expression.)
Buffy (smiling, leaning forward uncertainly, trying to offer a reasonable explanation for whatever he’s just read). Mr. Flutie…
Principal. All the kids are free to call me Bob.
Buffy. Bob…
(But he cuts her off again.)
Principal. But they don’t.
(He tries to piece together the torn papers so he can read more of the file.)
Buffy (struggling for the right word, then finishing). I know my transcripts are a little… colorful.
Principal (interjecting, trying to tape the file back together). Hey, we’re not caring about that. Do you think, uh, “colorful” is the word?
(His voice now sounds a bit worried, and he puts special emphasis on the word “colorful”.)
Principal (offering his own word). Not, uh, dismal?
Buffy. Wasn’t that bad.
Principal (clearly shocked). You burned down the gym.
Buffy. I did. I really did, but… But you’re not seeing the big picture here. I mean, that gym was full of vampi…
(She catches herself just in time, but the principal is already looking at her in surprise.)
Buffy (finishing lamely). …uh, asbestos.
Principal (regaining his composure). Buffy, don’t worry. Any other school… they might say “watch your step” or “we’ll be watching you”, but that’s just not the way here. We want to service your needs and help you to respect our needs. And if your needs and our needs don’t mesh…
(He tucks the taped-together file back into the folder and closes it with a snap — making Buffy flinch nervously. Relief, understanding, and even sympathy for the principal appear on her face. After all, he’s simply turned a blind eye to something that would’ve earned her a full lecture on “proper behavior” from any other principal.)
Buffy exits the principal’s office, lost in thought. The hallway is crowded with students. Two of them — a tall guy and a girl — walk toward Buffy. They’re so absorbed in each other that they don’t notice her, and the girl bumps into Buffy.
Buffy (apologetically, as things tumble out of her bag onto the floor). Ooh! Sorry.
Girl (quietly). That’s ok.
(The girl keeps walking with her boyfriend. The same guy who was skateboarding earlier sees what happened and pushes his way between them to help Buffy.)
Buffy sighs, kneels down, and starts gathering her things back into her bag.
Boy (crouching beside her, awkward with his choice of words). Can I have you?
(Buffy’s eyes widen in confusion as she looks at him.)
Boy (nervously laughing). Uh… Can I help you? (correcting himself)
Buffy (with relief, a smile replacing her confusion). Uh, thanks.
Boy. I don’t know you, do I?
Buffy. I’m Buffy. I’m new.
Boy. Xander… is… is me. (He’s clearly out of his depth. It’s obvious he likes the new girl and is nervous.) Hi.
Buffy (smiling — Xander has a way of making girls laugh). Oh, thanks.
Xander (hesitating, with a nervous laugh). Well, uh… Maybe I’ll see you around. Maybe at school… Since we (pauses; nervous laugh) both… go there.
Buffy. Great.
(They both stand up.)
Buffy. It was nice to meet you.
Buffy blinks in confusion and walks away. Xander’s awkward manner has left her a bit bewildered.
Xander stays where he is, feeling utterly foolish about how his introduction to Buffy went.
Xander (talking to himself, clearly mortified by his choice of words). We both go to school. Very suave. Very not pathetic. (He notices something Buffy left on the floor and calls after her.) Oh, hey!
Xander (picking up a wooden stake, clearly puzzled). Hey! You forgot your… stake.
But Buffy doesn’t hear him — she’s walking quickly down the hallway. Xander stands there, holding the wooden stake, watching her go with a look of utter confusion.
A classroom. A teacher’s hand writes Black Death on the chalkboard.
Teacher. It’s estimated that about 25 million people died in that one 4-year span. But the fun part of the Black Plague is that it originated in Europe how? As an early form of germ warfare. If you’ll look at the map on page 63, you can trace the spread of the disease. Into Rome and then north…
(Buffy glances around — she’s the only one without a textbook. It’s bad enough being the new girl; she doesn’t want to draw the teacher’s attention by not having a book.)
Classmate (smiling, sliding her textbook toward the middle of the desk so Buffy can see). Here.
Buffy (relieved). Thanks.
Classmate. Sure.
Teacher. And this popular plague led to what social changes? Steve?
(Before Steve can answer, the bell rings and students start packing up.)
Classmate (the girl who shared her book, extending her hand). Hi, I’m Cordelia.
Buffy. I’m Buffy.
(They shake hands.)
Cordelia. If you’re looking for a textbook of your very own, there’s probably a few in the library.
Buffy (clearly still getting her bearings in the school). Oh, great. Thanks. Where would that be?
Cordelia (gesturing for Buffy to follow). I’ll show you. Come on.
Cordelia. So, you’re from Hemery, right? In L.A.?
Buffy. Yeah.
Cordelia (in a dreamy voice, clearly a fashionista). I would kill to live in L.A. — that close to that many shoes.
(Buffy laughs knowingly.)
Cordelia. Well, you’ll be OK here. If you hang with me and mine, you’ll be accepted in no time. (She’s confident, knows her worth, and knows she’s popular.) Of course, we do have to test your coolness factor. (Clearly sees herself as an expert in this matter.)
(Buffy walks beside her, listening and smiling at the pauses.)
Cordelia (sizing Buffy up, then asking). Vamp nail polish?
Buffy (unsure, almost asking if she’s right). Um, over?
Cordelia (rolling her eyes). So over. (Immediately fires off another question.) James Spader?
Buffy (confidently, openly smiling now). He needs to call me.
Cordelia. Frappachinos?
Buffy (just as confidently, no longer smiling — either focused on answering correctly or genuinely interested in these questions). Trendy, but testy.
Cordelia (drawling out the name). John Tesh.
Buffy. The Devil.
Cordelia. That was pretty much a gimme, but you passed.
Buffy (like someone who just passed an important exam). Oh, good.
(Cordelia laughs in satisfaction.)
Buffy approaches the school water fountain. Cordelia follows. But the fountain is occupied — Willow is bent over it, drinking.
The contrast between the three girls is immediately clear, even though they’re the same age. Cordelia is dressed fashionably, elegantly, tastefully — more like a grown-up beauty. Buffy is also well-dressed and clearly a beautiful girl. Willow is dressed a bit childishly, clearly not one of the fashionistas — she still looks like a kid.
Buffy smiles at Willow, but Cordelia looks down on her.
Cordelia (drawling out her name, making Willow stop drinking). Willow. Nice dress. (emphasizing the word nice).
(Poor Willow straightens up, looking scared. She stares at Cordelia like at a terrible threat and wipes her mouth. Cordelia steps closer, and Willow visibly grows more nervous.)
Cordelia (voice full of poisonous mockery). Good to know you’ve seen the softer side of Sears. (She clearly means Willow shops at cheap stores.)
(Buffy turns to her with a disapproving expression, but Cordelia doesn’t see it.)
Willow (shyly, stuttering with tension, glancing between Buffy and Cordelia). Uh, well… well, my mom picked it out.
Cordelia (delighted to keep pressing the poor girl with her taunts). No wonder you’re such a guy-magnet.
(Now that Buffy looks at Cordelia, it’s clear she sees what kind of person this fashionista is. She doesn’t like how Cordelia treats Willow.)
Cordelia (not asking, but stating). Are you done?
Willow (only now realizing what Cordelia meant). Oh!
(She turns and quickly walks away, leaving the fountain free for Cordelia.)
Buffy watches Willow go, clearly sympathizing with her. Cordelia moves to the fountain and stands facing Buffy, her back to the departing Willow.
Cordelia (didactically). If you want to fit in here, the first rule is know your losers. Once you can identify them all by sight, they’re a lot easier to avoid.
(Buffy nods, smiling uncertainly, but her gaze keeps returning to Willow.)
Willow exits the hallway, stops, and glances back at Buffy. She’s clearly a simple, quiet girl. She doesn’t linger or stare at Buffy for long — quickly disappears through the door, nervously fiddling with the dangling ends of her backpack straps. Cordelia calmly leans over the fountain for a drink. School life goes on — groups of students stand here and there, chatting, all wrapped up in their own problems, no one noticing that someone just got hurt right in front of them.
Buffy and Cordelia walk through the open half of a double hallway door into another section of the corridor.
Cordelia (continuing her stream of advice). And if you’re not too swamped with catching up, you should come by the Bronze tonight.
Buffy (giving her a blank look). The who?
Cordelia (repeating with a smile). The Bronze. It’s the only club worth going to around here. (She adds another round of explanation.) They let anybody in, but it’s still the scene. It’s in the bad part of town.
Buffy (a hint of concern on her face, as if vividly imagining what such a part of the city might look like). Where’s that?
Cordelia (with a chuckle). About a half a block from the good part of town. We don’t have a whole lot of town here.
(Buffy politely smiles at Cordelia’s joke.)
Cordelia (enthusiastically). But, um… You should show.
Buffy. Well, I’ll try. Thanks.
(The bell rings, and the girls turn in different directions.)
Cordelia (pleased, clearly looking forward to it). Good, so… I’ll see you at gym, and you can tell me absolutely everything there’s to know about you.
(She walks off toward her class, clearly in anticipation.)
Buffy (out loud). Great. (Then, turning away, she adds — but this time to herself.) Oh, that sounds like fun.
She approaches a pair of double doors, each with a small round window like a ship’s porthole. Above the doors is a sign reading “Library”. Cordelia had led her straight to the destination, just as promised. Buffy opens the doors and steps inside hesitantly.
Buffy (calling out). Hello?
(There’s only silence in response.)
She walks past the counter where the librarian is supposed to be — but no one’s there. Buffy scans the library space, but there’s no one there either.
The entire library is made of brown-painted wood. In the middle of the small open area ahead stands a wooden table, with four wooden chairs pushed up to it. On the table sit four beautiful golden lamps. Their gilding glints in the sunlight streaming through the window in the right wall. Under one of the chairs sits an unremarkable black plastic bin — an oddity amidst such decor.
A meter and a half from the table, on the right and left, rise wooden staircases with railings leading upward — but not all the way to a second floor. They only go up about a meter and a half. The railings of both staircases curve together into a single semicircle, beneath which sits a matching semicircle of low bookshelves surrounding the table with the golden lamps.
Beyond the railings lies the main library space, filled with tall bookshelves packed with books.
Buffy (speaking each word distinctly, still taking in the modest expanse of the library). Is anybody here?
(She places her hand on the counter, its light surface stacked with piles of books and topped with an open newspaper.)
Buffy leans in closer to the counter and notices a photograph in the newspaper — it shows three boys of different ages. Someone has circled the photo with a red marker; beneath it reads the caption: “Local Boys Still Missing.”
Buffy (startled, as someone places a hand on her left shoulder; she flinches and whirls around sharply). Oh! Anybody’s here.
Librarian (calmly, politely, adjusting his glasses). Can I help you?
(The man is dressed in a gray suit and shirt with a tie. Under his jacket he wears a dark vest over a striped white shirt. A watch with a leather strap adorns his left wrist. Behind him is now visible a small 2 × 3 meter room enclosed by a metal grate.)
Buffy (hesitantly). I was looking for some… well, books. I’m new.
Librarian. Miss Summers?
(Curiosity and interest show on the obvious librarian’s face.)
Buffy. Good call! Guess I’m the only new kid, huh?
Librarian (with a distinct British accent, impeccable manners). I’m Mr. Giles. The librarian. (It’s already obvious, but he clarifies anyway.) I was told you were coming.
(Mr. Giles moves briskly behind the counter.)
Buffy. Great. So, I’m gonna need Perspectives on 20th Century…
(But the librarian cuts her off. He’s now standing behind the counter, facing Buffy.)
Mr. Giles. I know what you’re after.
(With these words, he pulls a thick, ancient folio from beneath the counter and sets it down with a resonant thud. On its thick leather cover is the inscription: VAMPYR. It looks like the very book Buffy saw in her dream.)
Buffy (slowly backing away, understandable fear on her face). That’s not what I’m looking for.
Mr. Giles (surprised). Are you sure?
Buffy (firmly, eyes fixed on the book with alarm). I’m way sure.
Mr. Giles (raising his eyebrows). My mistake.
(He slides the book back beneath the counter. Meanwhile, Buffy quickly makes for the doors.)
Mr. Giles (starting to ask). So, what is it you sa…
(But he doesn’t finish the word — by the time he’s put the book away, Buffy has already reached the doors. Mr. Giles watches her go with a puzzled expression.)
The girls’ locker room. Schoolgirls stand by their lockers. A red-haired girl steps out from behind a locker, followed by what appears to be her friend.
Red-haired girl. The new kid? She seems kind of weird to me. What kind of name is Buffy?
(Just then, another girl walks by and greets the redhead — adding a touch of irony to the scene: the redhead, who bears an extremely unusual name herself, is surprised by Buffy’s name.)
Passing girl. Hey, Aphrodesia.
Aphrodesia. Oh, hey.
Friend (joining the conversation as they stop by their lockers). Well, the chatter in the caf is that she got kicked out — and that’s why her mom had to get a new job.
Aphrodesia. Neg.
Friend. Pos! She was starting fights.
Aphrodesia. Negly.
Friend. I heard from Blue, and she said…
(But the girl doesn’t finish her sentence. She opens her locker — and a boy’s body falls out onto her. The boy is dead. The girl lets out a hysterical scream of terror.)
Willow, wearing white tights and a plaid dress, sits on a bench in the schoolyard. She takes a paper lunch bag out of her backpack. Carefully, she pulls out a zip-lock plastic bag containing two sandwiches and places it on her lap. A gentle breeze plays with her smooth, beautiful hair; her face is serene. She doesn’t notice Buffy approaching from behind.
Buffy (approaching). Uh, hi. Willow, right?
(Willow looks up from her lunch, her eyes wide with surprise as she sees Buffy.)
Willow (nervously). Why? I… I mean, hi. Uh, did you want me to move? (She clearly assumes Buffy is now part of Cordelia’s crowd — and if so, nothing good can come from her approach.)
Buffy. Why don’t we start with “Hi, I’m Buffy,” and then let’s segue directly into me asking you for a favor. It doesn’t involve moving. (She sits down on the same bench, to Willow’s right.) But it does involve hanging out with me for a while.
Willow (shifting uncomfortably on the bench). But aren’t you hanging out with Cordelia?
Buffy. I can’t do both?
Willow (anxiously). Not legally.
Buffy. Look, I really want to get by here. (Trying to explain her intentions.) New school. And Cordelia’s been really nice… (She feels a bit awkward and adds:) To me, anyway. But, um, I kind of have this burning desire not to flunk all my classes. (She also takes out her lunch bag.) And I heard a rumor that you were the person to talk to if I wanted to get caught up. (Her face shows a friendly smile, and her tone hints at a genuine desire to be friends with Willow.)
Willow (brightening up). Oh, I could totally help you out! If you have 6th period free, we could meet in the library.
Buffy (startled). Oh, no. (She sees the puzzled look on Willow’s face and quickly adds:) Uh, we can meet some place quieter. Louder. Uh, that place just kind of gives me the wiggins.
Willow. Oh, it has that effect on most kids. (supportively) I love it, though. It’s a great collection, and the new librarian is really cool. (She speaks with obvious enthusiasm, her face showing genuine admiration for the new librarian.)
Buffy. He’s new? (Her question sounds more like she’s just drawn some conclusion about the librarian.)
Willow. Yeah, he just started. He was a curator at some British museum — or the British Museum. I’m not sure, but he knows everything, and he brought all these historical volumes and biographies… Am I the single dullest person alive? (Her enthusiasm fades as she notices Buffy’s expression of mild confusion. She ends her rapturous monologue with this self-deprecating question.)
Buffy (sincerely, with a smile). Not at all.
Xander (jumping unceremoniously onto the back of the bench, while his friend Jesse approaches from the front). Hey! You guys busy? Are we interrupting? (Then placing his feet on the bench between Willow and Buffy). We’re interrupting. (answering his own question)
(Willow is clearly delighted to see both of them, she really likes the way Xander's behaving.)
Buffy (stopping eating her yogurt). Hey, hey.
Jesse (happy, as Xander tosses his backpack to him). Hey there.
Willow. Buffy, this is Jesse, and that’s Xander.
(Buffy looks at Willow, noticing how she looks at Xander.)
Xander (dramatically). Oh, me and Buffy go way back. Old friends, very close. Then there was that period of estrangement, where I think we’re both growing as people, but now here we are, like old times. I’m quite moved. (Buffy just blinks in astonishment at this nonsense, but she seems to like his humor and rewards his joke with a smile when he looks at her.)
Jesse. Is it me, or are you turning into a babbling idiot?
Xander (nervously shaking his knees). No, it’s, uh, it’s not you.
Buffy (with a sincere smile). Well, it’s nice to meet you guys. (After a short pause, she adds with a questioning look at Willow:) I think.
Jesse. Oh, you know, we wanted to welcome you, make you feel at home… unless you have a scary home. (He gestures toward Xander to take over.)
Xander (walking around the bench and approaching Buffy, holding the wooden stake she left on the hallway floor). And to return this.
Xander (holding the stake between his thumb and forefinger, playfully swaying it). The only thing I can think… Is that you’re building a really little fence.
Buffy (taking the stake). Aha, no, um... A-actually, it was for self-defence. Everyone has them in L.A. Pepper spray is just so passe. (She clumsily tries to explain why she carries a sharpened wooden stake in her bag.)
Xander (now sitting on the bench again, between Buffy and Willow). So, what do you do for fun? What do you like? What do you look for in a man? Let’s hear it. (He stares intently into her eyes.)
Jesse. Do you have any dark, painful secrets you’d like us to publish?
Buffy. Gee, everyone wants to know about me. How keen.
Xander. Well, not much goes on in a one-Starbucks town like Sunnydale. You’re pretty big news.
Buffy. I’m not. Really.
Cordelia (appearing unexpectedly, her tone hinting that she could easily make them leave — she’s clearly in charge here). Are these guys bothering you?
Buffy (quickly, sincerely). Uh, no.
Willow (trying to shield Buffy). She’s not hanging out with us.
Jesse (stepping up to Cordelia as if they’re old friends). Hey, Cordelia.
Cordelia (cutting him off before he can say more). Oh, please. (Then, turning to Buffy:) I don’t want to interrupt your downward mobility, but I just wanted to tell you that you won’t be meeting Coach Foster… (She gestures to show the length of hair on the person she’s describing.) The woman with the chest hair… Because gym was canceled due to the extreme dead guy in the locker. (She finishes her announcement with enthusiasm over the big news.)
Buffy (face showing real concern). What?
Willow (clearly unsettled). What are you talking about?
Cordelia. Some guy was stuffed in Aura’s locker.
Buffy. Dead?
Cordelia (gesturing animatedly with her free hand, textbooks in the other). Totally dead. Way dead.
Xander (sarcastically). Not just a little dead then?
Cordelia (irritated). Don’t you have an elsewhere to be?
Jesse (turning to Cordelia). You know, if you need a shoulder to cry on — or just to nibble on…
(Cordelia simply turns away from him, showing clear disdain.)
Buffy. How did he die?
Cordelia (shrugging). I don’t know.
Buffy (still concerned). Were there any marks?
Cordelia (looking at Buffy as if she’s crazy). Morbid much? I didn’t ask.
Buffy (gathering her things quickly). Um, I gotta book. I’ll see you guys later.
(She stands up and walks away quickly, a worried expression on her face.)
Cordelia (more to herself, looking questioningly after Buffy). What’s her deal?
Buffy sneaks up to the locker room doors. She glances around to make sure no one’s watching. She tries the handle — it’s locked. With a swift motion, Buffy rips the handle off along with a chunk of the door panel and steps inside.
The boy’s body, covered with a woolen blanket or plaid throw, still lies on the floor. Buffy pulls the blanket aside and sees what she’d been dreading — two deep puncture wounds on the boy’s neck.
Buffy (in frustration, shaking her head). Oh, great.
Buffy bursts into the library and immediately demands:
Buffy. OK, what’s the sitch?
Giles (peering out from behind a bookshelf in the main library area). Sorry?
Buffy (pressing on). You heard about the dead guy, right? The dead guy in the locker?
Giles. Yes.
(He emerges from behind the shelves, books in hand — as one might expect.)
Buffy (walking briskly, almost running, up the stairs to the main part of the library). ’Cause it’s the weirdest thing. He’s got two little-little holes in his neck and all his blood’s been drained.
(Giles and Buffy approach each other, coming almost face-to-face. Giles’s expression is one of genuine surprise.)
Buffy (feigning exaggerated astonishment). Isn’t that bizarre? Aren’t you just going “ooh”? (She’s making it clear that, to an ordinary, uninitiated person, her words should sound terrifying and strange.)
Giles (calmly, in his composed manner). I was afraid of this.
Buffy (spreading her hands). Well, I wasn’t. It’s my first day. (She’s trying to convey to Giles that this is not what she expected to find here.) I was afraid that I was gonna be behind in all my classes, that I wouldn’t make any friends, that I would have last month’s hair.
(Giles sets the books down on a shelf, but Buffy’s words make him turn and look at her. He clearly doesn’t understand what she wants from him; at the very least, he looks thoroughly perplexed.)
Buffy. I didn’t think there’d be vampires on campus. And I don’t care. (She tries to adopt a tone that brooks no argument — one that makes it clear she has no intention of tying her life to the world of vampires ever again.)
Giles. Then why are you here?
(His tone makes it clear to her that she didn’t come to him by accident. If she truly intended to stay out of vampire-related matters, she wouldn’t have come to him. She wouldn’t have delivered this “loud” speech, wouldn’t have gone to the girls’ locker room — a crime scene — wouldn’t have searched for puncture wounds on the victim’s body. But she came to him, which can only mean one thing: she knows who she is. She can’t let vampire mayhem go unpunished.)
Buffy (stammering, all her earlier confidence and assertiveness gone). To tell you that… I don’t care, which I don’t, and have now told you, so… (But her face plainly shows that she doesn’t believe her own words. Her speech has grown muddled and hesitant, her voice quieter — Giles’s question has thrown her off balance, has even put everything in its proper place.)
Buffy (ending her now-uncertain speech). Bye. (She turns to leave the library.)
Giles (hurriedly, adjusting his glasses). Is he… will he rise again?
Buffy (turning around — she hasn’t gone anywhere yet). Who?
Giles (clarifying the obvious, with a tone of “what else could we possibly be talking about?”). The boy.
Buffy. No. He’s just dead. (She states the fact, but her eyes dart about — the way a student’s do in class when they’re not at all sure their answer is correct.)
Giles (pressing on, without losing his manners). Can you be sure?
Buffy (reciting as if from a textbook). To make you a vampire, they have to suck your blood, and then you have to suck their blood. It’s, like, a whole big sucking thing. Mostly they’re just gonna kill you. Why am I still talking to you? (She wonders aloud, surprised at herself. She starts to leave again, already beginning to run down the stairs, but Giles stops her once more with a question.)
Giles. You really have no idea what’s going on, do you? You think it’s coincidence your being here?
(Buffy has already made it down to the lower part of the library. Giles braces his hands on the railing to keep talking to her.)
Giles (pointing off to the side, his tone shifting in an effort to convince Buffy — to make her understand she can’t simply turn her back on what fate has in store for her). That boy was just the beginning.
Buffy (sharply, through gritted teeth). Why can’t you people just leave me alone? (Her whole demeanor says she just wants to live an ordinary life.)
Giles (lowering his voice). Because you are the Slayer. Into each generation a Slayer is born. (He looks Buffy square in the eye; his voice changes. He speaks like someone trying to hammer an important truth into another person’s head.)
(Giles walks toward the stairs to come down where Buffy stands.)
Giles (quickly descending toward Buffy, his composed manner on the verge of breaking — the urgency of making Buffy understand who she is and what she must do is too great). One girl in all the world, a chosen one, one born with the strength…
Buffy (finishing Giles’s line in unison, adding a flippant “blah, blah, blah” — showing zero respect for words that have been recited from generation to generation, words any Chosen One should treat with due reverence). And skill to hunt the vampires, to stop the spread of their evil blah, blah, blah. I’ve heard it, OK? (She finishes wearily.)
Giles (with a bewildered smile). I really don’t understand this attitude. You’ve accepted your duty. You’ve slain vampires before.
Buffy. Yeah, and I’ve both been there and done that, and I’m moving on.
(Giles sees that the headstrong Buffy has regained her composure and is about to leave. So, with a gesture, he asks her to hold her horses and hurries into a small room, all the while asking her a question.)
Giles. What do you know about this town?
Buffy (sardonically). It’s 2 hours on the freeway from Neiman-Marcus?
Giles (peeking out from his little room). Dig a bit in the history of this place, and you’ll find a steady stream of fairly odd occurrences. I believe this whole area is a center of mystical energy — that things gravitate toward it that you might not find elsewhere.
(Giles exits the room with an armful of books and sets them on the table where Buffy has perched.)
Buffy. Like vampires.
Giles (leaning toward Buffy so their faces are about 20 cm apart, trying to impress upon her how serious all this is). Zombies, werewolves, incubi, succubi… Everything you’ve ever dreaded was under your bed but told yourself couldn’t be by the light of day. They’re all real. (He finishes ominously, lowering his voice.)
Buffy (mockingly). What, you, like, sent away for the Time/Life series? (She’s letting Giles know she doesn’t take him seriously. How can a teenager take seriously a man in a tweed jacket who looks like he stepped straight out of the 1950s? She deliberately compares him to the cover and style of the Time-Life Books series — to show how old-fashioned and out-of-touch he seems to her.)
Giles (stuttering). Oh, w-well, yes.
Buffy. Did you get the free phone? (She asks out of curiosity and irony — a pointed jab at Giles. Buffy sees him as the kind of person who’d fall for an old-time phone company scam: they offered a “free” phone, but it required signing a long-term contract with high monthly fees and unfavourable terms. With this line, Buffy makes it crystal clear she’s a modern person — she doesn’t order books by mail or fall for cheap advertising gimmicks. She can’t take him seriously because, in her eyes, he’s a naive member of the older generation who still believes in deceptive ads.)
Giles (restrained, a bit flustered — it’s hard to find the right response to such sarcastic teenage banter). Uh, the calendar. (He settles on a simple, straightforward answer. He’s not naive — he just has a different approach to life. As a Watcher and a librarian, his job is to study past events and track their possible recurrence in the present using calendars and records.)
Buffy (nonchalantly). Cool. (She jumps off the table.) Wait, OK. First of all, I’m a vampire Slayer. (She makes it clear that all these books are none of her business.) And secondly, I’m retired. (She adds this to make sure he finally understands that vampires are no concern of hers either.) Hey, I know. Why don’t you kill them?
Giles (embarrassed). I am a Watcher. I haven’t the skill.
Buffy (with heavy sarcasm). Oh, come on. Stake through the heart, a little sunlight — it’s like falling off a log. (She finishes her mock lesson with an idiom, ironically implying that it’s all incredibly simple.)
Giles. A Slayer slays, a Watcher…
Buffy (finishing his sentence with a tone and emotional charge that leaves no doubt about her meaning). Watches? (Her implication is clear: how cleverly the Watchers have arranged things — while the Slayer risks her life, they just sit behind their books, putting on an air of responsible authority.)
Giles. Yes… No! He trains her. He, he prepares her.
Buffy (forcefully). Prepares me for what? For getting kicked out of school? For losing all of my friends? For having to spend all of my time fighting for my life and never getting to tell anyone because I might endanger them? (She’s not asking — she’s practically accusing Giles of robbing a simple girl like her of a normal life. Giles recoils in shock at her words, but he seems to understand what she means.) Go ahead! Prepare me. (Buffy practically throws these last two lines in his face. But Giles just stands there, stunned by her outburst. Buffy smirks with an expression that says, “Well, nothing to say now, huh?” and turns toward the exit.)
Giles (almost whispering, with feeling). Damn. (He runs after Buffy. He can’t let things end like this. He must convince her, no matter how difficult it may be.)
(From behind the stacks in the upper part of the library, Xander emerges, clutching a trigonometry textbook to his chest.)
Xander. What? (That’s all he can say. It’s obvious he overheard everything Giles and Buffy were talking about.)
Giles (speaking loudly as he rounds the corner into the hallway, then immediately glancing around warily — they’re no longer in the library and need to keep their voices down, as the school corridors are full of students who know nothing of vampires and other horrors of the night). It’s getting worse!
Buffy (stopping reluctantly). What’s getting worse?
(Giles takes her by the shoulders and leads her to the opposite wall of the corridor, away from other students.)
Giles (trying to control himself, speaking quietly and restrainedly — but it’s clear his research into Sunnydale’s history, its events and tragedies, has led him to some terrible conclusion. His anxiety makes it hard to keep his tone measured. He braces his hands on his hips and continues in a more mentor-like tone). The influx of the undead, the supernatural occurrences. It’s been building for years. There’s a reason why you’re here, and a reason why it’s now. (He points at the floor as he speaks, giving the last phrase heightened emotional weight and urgency.)
Buffy (calmly). Because now is the time my mom moved here. (She starts to walk away again.)
Giles (not giving up, following her). Something’s coming. Something… Something… (He abruptly braces his hand against the wall right in front of Buffy, forcing her to stop. She halts, and he continues.) Something is… is gonna happen here. Soon.
(It seems Buffy has actually listened and isn’t about to leave after all. Giles removes his hand from the wall and straightens up. Buffy turns to face him.)
Buffy. Gee, can you vague it up for me?
Giles. The signs, as far as I can tell, point to a crucial mystical upheaval very soon. (The school bell rings.) Days. Possibly less.
Buffy (disbelievingly). Oh, come on. This is Sunnydale. How bad an evil can there be here?
At the main entrance to the school, students are walking and chatting, and a school bus passes by. It’s an ordinary, peaceful day — and Buffy’s words seem perfectly reasonable, in stark contrast to Giles’s seemingly exaggerated sense of panic.
But at the very same time, somewhere deep underground, in a cave that looks like a long-buried temple, candles are burning. This is the cave from one of Buffy’s nightmares. A man in a suit, holding a torch, walks through the dim space, lighting unlit candles and torches. Against a stone wall, in the faint glow of the flames, sits a balding old man. Somewhere nearby, someone breathes heavily and rasps, the sound mingling with the steady drip of falling water.
«The sleeper will wake», a heavy male voice intones.
Through a pipe from the city’s sewer system, more figures enter the cavern — followers of some kind of cult?
«The sleeper will wake», the same voice repeats. «The sleeper will wake».
A powerfully built man in a white shirt and waistcoat approaches a pond roughly three meters in diameter. He is the one who has been repeating the phrase all along. He crouches by the edge of the water, and in the flickering light, his face is revealed to be that of a vampire — twisted and unnatural.
«The sleeper will wake», he says once more. Then, with a look of maniacal hatred, he adds:
«And the world will bleed».
He raises his gaze to the cavern’s vaulted ceiling and proclaims, louder this time:
«Amen!»
Around his neck hangs a thick chain, like the collar of a faithful dog.
It’s getting late in the afternoon, and Buffy is in her room. She holds some hangers with dresses up against herself and checks her reflection in the mirror — clearly getting ready for a night out at The Bronze.
Buffy (looking in the mirror, referring to how she’ll look in a black dress). Hi, I’m an enormous slut!
Buffy (trying on a white dress). Hello, would you like a copy of The Watchtower? (She adds, sounding disappointed.) I used to be so good at this.
(Her mom walks into the room.)
Mom. Hi, hon.
Buffy. Hey. (She tries to sound positive, but it doesn’t quite come off.)
Mom. Are you going out tonight?
Buffy. Yeah, I’m going to a club.
Mom (slightly concerned). Oh. Will there be boys there?
Buffy (with irony). No, Mom, it’s a nun club.
Mom (trying to soften her tone — she doesn’t want to put pressure on her teenage daughter). Well, just be careful.
Buffy (smiling). I will.
The mom looks quite cheerful — as if she’s got some happy news she’s eager to share with her daughter. It seems like some joyful revelation is bubbling up inside her.
Mom. You know, I think we can make it work here.
(Buffy turns to her with a questioning expression, still rifling through her clothes in the closet.)
Mom. I’ve got my positive energy flowing. I’m gonna get the gallery on its feet. Oh, uh, we may have found a space today.
Buffy (sincerely). That’s great.
Mom. Oh, and that school is a very nurturing environment, which is just what you need.
(At this, Buffy turns around a bit uneasily.)
Buffy (dropping her chin). Well, actually…
Mom (quickly adding, raising her hands with a friendly smile). Not too nurturing. I know. You’re 16. I’ve read all about the dangers of over-nurturing.
(Buffy walks over to her mom, her eyes downcast.)
Mom. It’s hard. New town and everything. It is for me, too. (She lets Buffy know she feels the same discomfort from the move.) I’m trying to make it work. (She sounds a bit pessimistic, but then rephrases herself, adopting a more positive tone.) I’m going to make it work.
(She takes Buffy’s hands in hers — a simple human touch and mutual support are exactly what’s needed when immersed in a new environment.)
Buffy (childlike, smiling at her mom’s encouragement). I know.
Mom (stroking Buffy’s hair). Oh, you are a good girl, Buffy. You just fell in with the wrong crowd. But that is all behind us now. (She says this hopefully, bringing Buffy’s hands closer to her. Buffy’s face shows distress and sadness — her mom is mistaken in her assumptions. She doesn’t know the real reason Buffy burned down the gym at her old school, nor what path her daughter has actually taken.)
Buffy (firmly). It is. (It’s unclear whether she’s trying to convince her mom that everything’s behind them or reassuring herself.) From now on, I’m only going to hang out with the living… (She starts positively, but immediately catches herself on the word “living”, quickly — albeit clumsily — correcting herself.) I mean, lively… people.
(Buffy glances at her mom with a startled look, as if afraid her mom might guess what she really meant.)
Mom (nodding contentedly). OK.
(Buffy hurriedly turns her back to her mom so she won’t see her expression — which clearly says, “I almost messed up, almost gave away my secret.”)
Mom. You have fun.
Buffy gives her a grateful smile, turning her face to her mom for a moment. When Buffy turns back to the outfit she seems to have settled on, her lips twist into a grimace. It’s as if she’s silently saying, “Guess I’ll have to go out in this.”
Buffy walks along the sidewalk in evening Sunnydale. Neatly trimmed lawns border the street, dotted here and there with ornamental shrubs and small trees. Their long shadows stretch across the pavement and the grassy strip between the sidewalk and the road.
Behind her, a man in black trousers and polished black shoes steps onto the tiled sidewalk. He begins to follow Buffy.
Buffy pauses briefly and turns her head slightly, then resumes walking. It’s clear she’s either heard or sensed her pursuer. She steps onto a concrete path beside a house, catching the glow from its windows. Now her outfit is more visible: black boots and pants to match, a light blue jacket-style blouse with buttons and a turned-down collar. The blouse is fastened only at the bottom one or two buttons, revealing a white tank top or T-shirt underneath.
Buffy is focused, clearly running through her options for dealing with her follower. She turns into a deserted alley cluttered with bins and rubbish. A cat’s yowl echoes through the air. Buffy breaks into a light jog, glancing around to assess her surroundings.
Her pursuer follows slowly into the alley — a young, handsome man in a crisp white shirt worn untucked, with either a long jacket or an unbuttoned coat. He moves cautiously, stealthily, his gait almost feline. From his slowed pace and the way he scans the scattered debris, it’s clear he can’t see Buffy.
He prowls along the alley, peering behind each dumpster, searching for her. Meanwhile, Buffy watches him from an unexpected vantage point — she’s balancing upside down in a handstand on a metal pipe resembling a gymnastic bar. The pipe is high above the ground, out of her pursuer’s line of sight; he’s scanning only the most obvious hiding spots.
What normal girl would think to hide from a stalker on an overhead bar three metres off the ground? Yet this reveals Buffy’s unconventional thinking — and she isn’t really hiding anyway.
As the pursuer steps directly beneath the bar, Buffy drops down, gripping the pipe with her hands. Using gravity and momentum, she builds force for a powerful strike.
Her feet slam into the man’s shoulder blades. He pitches forward, rolling across the ground. Buffy lands beside him with gymnast-like precision. She plants her right foot on his chest, pinning him down.
The man exhales with a low, raspy chuckle, eyeing Buffy with curiosity — and even a hint of amusement.
Man. Is there a problem, ma’am? (He speaks as if he hadn’t been following her at all — as if she’d attacked him for no reason.)
Buffy. Yeah, there’s a problem. Why are you following me?
Man (with clear implication). I know what you’re thinking. But don’t worry. I don’t bite.
Buffy removes her foot and steps back, her expression thoughtful. It’s understandable — this man clearly knows about vampires. More than that, he seems to know who she is. As soon as she releases him, the man rises. Buffy holds a ready-for-combat stance, which seems to amuse him; he grins at her. He straightens his clothes and, with a calm demeanour and a smile, says:
Man. The truth is… I thought you’d be taller, or bigger muscles and all that. Oh. (He sighs, rolling his neck — clearly feeling the impact of Buffy’s kick.) You’re pretty spry, though. (He places a hand on his neck, which evidently aches from the kick and fall.)
Buffy (no hint of sharing his friendly tone). What do you want?
Man (eyes closed, face showing traces of pain in his back and neck). The same thing you do.
Buffy (lowering her arms, dropping her combative posture). OK. What do I want?
Man (stepping forward, tone turning serious). To kill ’em. To kill ’em all. (His lips twist into a knowing smile — one that confirms he knows exactly who she is.)
Buffy (as if to say, “Sorry, you’ve got the wrong idea. We’re not on the same team.”). Sorry. That’s incorrect. (She adds with irony, reworking a typical game-show phrase: “Sorry, that’s incorrect. But you do get a lovely parting gift.”) But you do get this lovely watch and a year’s supply of Turtlewax. (Then, in a serious tone, making it clear she wants no allies or missions — just a normal teenage life:) What I want is to be left alone!
Frustrated by yet another intrusion into her teenage world, Buffy strides quickly toward the alley’s exit.
Man (calling after her as she passes him). Do you really think that’s an option anymore? (He turns to face her.) You’re standing at the Mouth of Hell, and it’s about to open. (His tone is ominous.)
Buffy stops and faces him. The man reaches into his coat, prompting a flicker of tension — she doesn’t know what he’s retrieving.
Man (serious). Don’t turn your back on this. (He pulls a small black box from his inner jacket pocket and tosses it to Buffy. She catches it as he continues:) You’ve got to be ready.
Buffy (all irony gone, looking slightly bewildered). What for?
Man. For the Harvest. (A brief smile flickers across his face, then vanishes.)
Buffy lowers her gaze, absorbing the man’s cryptic hints. She looks up again.
Buffy. Who are you?
Man (pausing for effect). Let’s just say… (He draws it out, savouring the mystery, then adds:) I’m a friend. (He begins to walk away, signalling he’s said all she needs to hear.)
Buffy (calling after him). Yeah, maybe I don’t want a friend.
Man (glancing back with a faintly amused smile). I didn’t say I was yours. (He clearly knows how to shroud himself in mystery and leave others with more questions than answers.)
The man departs, leaving Buffy alone. She looks down at the box he tossed her. (On her index finger, she wears a large cherry-coloured ring.) She opens the box. Inside, resting on white fabric lining, lies a Catholic cross on a chain. The cross and chain gleam — either silver or a silver-like metal. She’s seen this cross before — in a dream.
Here's the link to the Part 2 https://dzen.ru/a/aaWtM-Zu1hCuIn5C