Buffy walks past a long, single-storey building clad in corrugated metal that looks like weathered slate. The door ahead is open, and a group of young people stands nearby. A young girl in a dress approaches two guys lingering by the entrance. Across the street, about three metres from the building, several cars are parked. Music and live singing spill out from the open doorway.
Well, this must be The Bronze — though the place looks more like a half-century-old abandoned warehouse than a trendy nightspot.
Buffy reaches the entrance just as a few couples arrive too. She pulls a bill from her pants pocket and hands it to the bouncer — a burly man standing guard at the door.
Inside, The Bronze is packed with young people. Right by the entrance sits a pool table with a red felt surface. Behind it, a staircase leads up to a sort of platform overlooking the main floor. The lighting is naturally dim, with table lamps sporting large lampshades scattered across some of the tables.
Buffy turns left, passing a pillar that supports the platform. To the left of the pillar sits a beautiful wicker swing — just big enough for one person. Straight ahead lies the raised stage where a young band is playing.
Couples and groups of friends dance, laugh, chat, stand, or sit together. Buffy stops amid the crowd and glances around. It’s probably not easy for her — she doesn’t know anyone here, and she’s come alone. She sways slightly to the music, studying the people around her.
At the far end of the room stands a guy in a leather jacket. With a joyful expression, he waves in her direction. Buffy actually jumps with excitement and waves back enthusiastically. You can understand her relief: it’s such a lift when someone seems interested in you, when you’ve caught someone’s eye. Especially in a new town, at a club where you don’t know a soul. Especially when your life is pure chaos — when you’re not allowed to live a normal life, forced instead to battle vampires and other forces of evil, forced to bear the weight of being The Chosen One.
But then, the bitter realisation hits: the guy isn’t waving at her at all. Buffy turns, awkwardly lowering her hand, and sees another young man nearby. Clearly, they’re friends — they’ve just waved to each other, probably having arranged to meet up at the club.
Buffy smooths her hair, lowering her hand to recover from the awkward moment. It’s obvious she’s disappointed, even a bit sad. She keeps moving to the music for a moment, but only out of inertia. Then, spotting something — or someone — she heads in that direction.
Seated at the bar is Willow, dressed nicely but simply: a brown cardigan over a black dress with white polka dots. Willow is alone too, looking both downcast and focused. She seems absorbed either by a light snack in a small red container or by her own thoughts.
Buffy (practically bouncing over). Hey!
Willow (turning in surprise, genuine joy on her face). Oh, hi! (She’s clearly happy to see Buffy.)
Buffy circles behind her and takes a seat on the stool to Willow’s right. Willow turns her head to follow Buffy’s movement.
Buffy. Hi. Oh, you’re here with someone? (Buffy asks cheerfully.)
Willow (quickly shaking her head side to side). No. I’m just here. (Her smile fades momentarily, but then she adds with an affectionate grin, tilting her head slightly:) I thought Xander was going to show up.
It’s clear Willow feels both awkward and a little proud to admit she’s waiting for Xander. She obviously likes him but her expression suggests it’s a secret, a personal secret she’s just shared, however slightly, with Buffy.
Buffy (leaning in with genuine interest). Oh, are you guys going out?
Willow (with a touch of sadness). No, we’re just friends. We used to go out, but we broke up.
Buffy. How come?
Willow (accusatory tone directed at Xander). He stole my Barbie.
Buffy raises her eyebrows in astonishment — who’d have thought?
Willow (clarifying, completely without irony). Oh, we were 5.
This adds an extra layer of comedy: Willow speaks about her breakup with Xander as if it were a serious romantic split, not a childhood squabble over a doll. But to Willow, it clearly meant a lot — and she still feels the sting of their now-platonic relationship.
Buffy (eyes wide with surprise, turning back to her drink). Oh.
Willow (with an endearing, childlike expression). I don’t actually date a whole lot… lately.
Buffy. Why not?
Willow (frustrated). Well, when I’m with a boy I like, it’s hard for me to say anything cool or witty — or anything at all. I… I can usually make a few vowel sounds, and then I have to go away.
Her frustration makes it clear she has fairly low self-esteem.
Buffy (laughing, trying to cheer her up). It’s not that bad.
Willow (serious). No, it is. I think boys are more interested in a girl who can talk.
Buffy (concluding firmly). You really haven’t been dating lately.
Willow (smiling with light, good-natured envy). It’s probably easy for you.
Buffy. Yeah, real easy. (Her light tone vanishes. She lowers her eyes to her drink, stirring it with a straw, lost in thought.)
Willow. I mean, you don’t seem too shy.
Buffy (lifting her chin, full of energy.) Well, my philosophy... (then pausing — not everyone wants to hear unsolicited advice or life philosophies. After a beat, she asks more gently:) Do you want to hear my philosophy?
Willow (eagerly). Yeah, I do. (Her voice, tone, expression, and body language all show she genuinely wants to hear what Buffy's gonna say. In shy Willow’s eyes, Buffy is the picture of a successful girl — especially when it comes to dating.)
Buffy (concise). Life is short.
Willow (quietly, thoughtfully). Life is short.
A flicker of mild enlightenment crosses her face — even though she’s almost certainly heard this before. It’s the kind of moment when a well-known truth hits home for the thousandth time, but at the right moment — when you’re truly ready to embrace its meaning.
Buffy (shrugging). Not original, I’ll grant you, but it’s true. (Then she elaborates, explaining exactly what she means:) You know, why waste time being all shy and worried about some guy — and if he’s going to laugh at you? Seize the moment, ’cause tomorrow you might be dead.
Willow. Oh, that’s nice. (Something clears in her eyes. She likes Buffy’s philosophy.)
It’s interesting that Willow has no idea the last line — ’cause tomorrow you might be dead — carries a special weight coming from the mouth of The Slayer.
Buffy glances up and is surprised to see Giles standing on the upper level of the club, amid the crowd of young people. The school librarian, a man in his early forties — what on earth is he doing in a youth club?
Buffy (quickly sliding off her stool). Um, I’ll be back in a minute.
Willow (sadly, yet seemingly accustomed to not-great treatment from other schoolgirls). Oh, that’s OK. You don’t have to come back.
Willow might think Buffy doesn’t want to be in her company — especially since Buffy already knows Cordelia. Or perhaps Willow doesn’t want to hold Buffy back with her unpopular presence, lest she damage Buffy’s reputation. Or maybe Willow interpreted Buffy’s words and actions as meaning she actually wants to continue the evening without Willow — but won’t say so directly, to avoid hurting her feelings. It’s hard to say what’s going through Willow’s mind at this moment. One thing is clear: she’s used to spending time alone.
Buffy stops and looks at Willow with a smile before speaking again. She clearly understands what made Willow say she doesn’t need to return. In Buffy’s smile, it’s as if she’s saying: «Willow, that’s ridiculous. I’m not ashamed of your company, and I find you interesting. When I say I’ll be back in a minute, I don’t mean I want to get away from you. I genuinely mean I’m only stepping away for a short while».
Buffy. I’ll be back in a minute.
«Seize the moment», Willow murmurs thoughtfully after Buffy has left, then turns to look at the people around her. A hint of determination flickers in her eyes — she’s ready to take some action.
Buffy weaves through the crowd and climbs the stairs to the second floor. She approaches Giles, who’s leaning on the railing, watching the young people enjoying themselves below.
Buffy (with a provocative, awkward question, making Giles turn to her with a slightly stunned look). So, you like to party with the students? (She adds with an innocent expression:) Isn’t that kind of skanky?
Giles (restrained, clearly unhappy to be there). Uh, right. This is me having fun. Watching clown hair prance about is hardly my idea of a party. I’d much rather be at home with a cup of Bovril and a good book.
His tone suggests he’s not there for pleasure — he’s forced to endure this unfamiliar, even unpleasant environment.
Buffy (sarcastic, poking fun at his British stiffness and lack of emotion). You need a personality, stat!
Giles (leaning toward Buffy, gesturing emphatically at the crowd below, as if reprimanding a distracted student). This is a perfect breeding ground for vampire activity. It’s dark… It’s crowded… Besides, I knew you were likely to show up, and I have to make you understand. (He leans in closer, his tone that of a displeased mentor:)
Buffy (nonchalant). That the Harvest is coming, I know. Your friend told me.
Giles (startled). What did you say?
Buffy. The Harvest. That mean something to you? ’Cause I’m drawing a blank.
Giles (louder, tense — the loud music makes it hard to concentrate). I’m not sure. Who… Who told you this?
Buffy (now a bit flustered, trying to explain who told her about the Harvest — her tone clearly shows she didn’t like the guy). This guy… (She describes him with an intonation that makes it clear he rubbed her the wrong way:) Dark, gorgeous in an annoying sort of way. I figured you two were buds.
Giles (short and firm). No.
He’s clearly intrigued by the informant’s identity, but after a brief pause and visible thought, he decides another question is far more urgent.
Giles. The Harvest. Did he say anything else? (His face is painted with clear concern.)
Buffy (slowly, but clearly focused on something else). Something about Mouth of Hell. (Then, with vivid expression and intonation:) I really didn’t like him.
She turns away and leans on the railing, looking down. Applause and happy shouts rise from below — the crowd clearly enjoys the band’s performance. Giles turns away too, but in the opposite direction, his face etched with deep concern and thoughtfulness. He clearly doesn’t like what he heard from Buffy — neither «The Harvest» nor «Mouth of Hell».
But he’s distracted by the sounds of the excited, enjoying crowd below, and his expression shifts. He walks around Buffy and stands to her right, curiosity now lighting his features. Leaning on the railing, he addresses Buffy — both of them looking down at the dancing and socialising people.
Giles. Look at them, throwing themselves about, completely unaware of the danger that surrounds them.
Buffy (serious, even a bit dreamy and envious, no irony in her voice — just a young girl’s thoughts aloud, a girl whose life will never be the same). Lucky them.
She’s not speaking to inform Giles of her opinion — these are just the musings of someone who hasn’t just peeked behind the curtain of normal life, but has stepped through it and knows exactly what lies beyond.
Giles (as if genuinely considering Buffy might be right). Or perhaps you’re right. Perhaps there’s no trouble coming. The signs could be wrong. (But then he adds:) It’s not as though you’ve been having nightmares.
The serenity vanishes from Buffy’s face like a gust of wind.
Giles turns to Buffy, fixing her with an intent, probing gaze. It’s now perfectly clear he’s almost certain she’s seen something in her dreams. He’s a very intelligent man, an extremely detail-oriented Watcher. He notices how Buffy’s expression shifts the moment he mentions nightmares.
Meanwhile, down below, Cordelia stands among the oblivious crowd, surrounded by her friends. She’s wearing a beautiful, form-fitting dress with short sleeves and a low neckline. In her hands, she carries a fashionable handbag and a glass of some drink.
Cordelia (her friends listening with wide-open mouths). My mom doesn’t even get out of bed anymore, and the doctor says it’s Epstein-Barr. I’m like, “Please — it’s Chronic Hepatitis, or at least Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.” (She adds this nonsensical flourish:) I mean, nobody cool has Epstein-Barr anymore.
It’s hard to imagine what else these girls talk about. One can only feel sorry for any normal person who accidentally overhears their meaningless chatter.
After finishing her bizarre monologue, Cordelia turns her attention to her glass — or perhaps ponders what else she could say along the lines of “I’m awesome, and everything in my life is amazing.”
Jesse (Xander’s friend, popping out from behind the crowd with enthusiasm, clearly intending to approach her). Hey, Cordelia!
(One might think Jesse and Cordelia are good friends.)
Cordelia (with an artistically exaggerated expression of utter disgust, as if to say “How utterly tiresome he is,” she turns to her friends). Oh, yay — it’s my stalker.
Jesse (bouncing up to Cordelia with energy, stepping into what’s usually considered a friend’s personal space — or even closer). Hey, you… You look great.
(He boldly props his left hand against the support pillar Cordelia’s leaning against — edging into intimacy, more like something a boyfriend would do than someone she regards with condescending disdain. Yet Jesse exudes full confidence that Cordelia can’t resist his charm. He strikes a rather swaggering pose, sipping mineral water from a bottle and glancing at her.)
Cordelia (hinting the conversation is over and he should take his leave). Well, I’m glad we had this little chat.
Jesse (as if nothing’s amiss, even swaying a bit to the music). Listen, uh, you know… you want to dance, you know?
Cordelia (tilting her head to the side, looking him in the eye — but her question sounds more like a scornful “With someone like you? Never.”). With you?
Jesse (clearly seeing himself as quite the catch, the kind any girl would love to dance with). Well, uh, yeah.
Cordelia (mimicking his tone). Well, uh, no.
(She flashes him her brilliant, flawless smile — but in this context, it means “We’re from different worlds, oddball.”)
Cordelia (turning to her friends, pushing away from the pillar and starting to walk off). Come on, guys.
Jesse (after Cordelia’s already walked away). Fine. (Then, to himself, trying not to let his spirits sink:) Plenty of other fish in the sea.
(He scans the people around — mostly girls, of course — and adds in a self-encouraging tone:) Oh, yeah, I’m on the prowl. Witness me prowling.
On the upper platform, Buffy and Giles walk steadily along the railing. Buffy still holds her drink in her hand. Her tone makes it clear they’re in the middle of a discussion about her attitude toward being The Chosen One.
Buffy (they stop; Buffy leans her left elbow on the railing, Giles facing her). I didn’t say I’d never slay another vampire. (She shifts, leaning on both elbows.) It’s not that I have all these fluffy bunny feelings for them. I’m just not going to get extracurricular with it.
Giles leans on the railing with his back to it.
Buffy (lightly touching Giles’s sleeve, her tone reassuring — I’m on the good side, don’t worry). You know, if I see one, sure…
But Giles whirls around to face her, interrupting her. His eyes and movements betray clear dissatisfaction.
Giles. Will you be ready? (He both reprimands her attitude and worries for her at the same time.) There’s so much you don’t know about them, about your own powers. A vampire appears completely normal — until the feed is upon them. Only then do they reveal their true demonic visage.
His expression, tensed body, and voice convey not hatred, but a deep understanding of the real threat vampires pose.
Buffy (her tone much softer than before, as if she’s starting to see Giles in a new light). You’re like a textbook with arms. I know this.
Giles (continuing in the manner of a strict mentor). The point is, the Slayer should be able to see them anyway — without looking, without thinking. (He presses on.) Well, can you tell me if there’s a vampire in this building? (He directs Buffy’s attention to the people below.)
Buffy (distantly, with the air of someone not particularly interested). Maybe.
Giles (firmly). You should know. Even through this mass and this din, you should be able to sense them. (He pauses before the word “din” — clearly struggling to find an appropriate term without resorting to coarse language. He clearly considers the music, singing, and dancing in the club unworthy of cultured words. But he composes himself, maintaining his manners. Then, gesturing with his eyes toward the crowd below:) Well, try.
Buffy looks at Giles — she doesn’t seem eager to engage in his “game”. But she turns her gaze to the revelers on the main floor. Giles continues:
Giles. Reach out with your mind. You have to hone your senses, focus until the energy washes over you, until you… you feel every particle of…
Buffy (cutting him off, pointing at someone below — clearly she hasn’t even tried to listen to Giles’s instructions, just scanned the crowd, trusting her own eyes). There’s one.
Giles (taken aback, trying to follow the direction Buffy pointed). Where? (He clearly expected a longer explanation about proper focus and concentration.)
Buffy (pointing to a guy in an old-fashioned jacket and a red-and-white shirt with the collar turned up, sleeves rolled to the elbows). Right there, talking to that girl.
Giles (smirking, absolutely convinced Buffy’s mistaken; his face shows he’s about to launch into a lecture). You don’t know…
Buffy (interrupting him, exasperated — this is obvious!). Oh, please! Look at his jacket. He’s got the sleeves rolled up, and the shirt? Deal with that outfit for a moment.
Giles (dropping his mentor tone). It’s dated?
Buffy (explaining, aware that Giles himself is long out of touch with fashion). It’s carbon dated. Trust me, only someone living underground for 10 years would think that was still the look.
Giles (hesitating, stunned by what just happened). But you didn’t… hone.
It’s clear he expected a completely different approach from The Slayer. In his vision, his expectations, Buffy should have concentrated, trusted her senses, and detected the vampire’s energy. Instead, she relied on sight and logic — an approach that could get her killed.
He realises that in a crowd, in a noisy environment, in a complex situation, this method will simply fail her. Her way of identifying a possible vampire is no different from how an ordinary, uninitiated person would search — and that worries him deeply.
Buffy continues to watch the supposed vampire talking to a girl. The girl turns slightly — and Buffy recognises Willow.
Buffy (with feeling). Oh, no!
Giles notices her change of expression and follows her gaze. He, too, sees that the old-fashionedly dressed guy is talking to Willow. She’s smiling, laughing, chatting with him. Even though they can’t hear what they’re saying, it’s clear how at ease she feels. One might be happy for her — seeing that Buffy’s advice has done her good — if they weren’t both so worried that she’s talking to a vampire.
Giles (beginning). Isn’t that…
Buffy (answering his unfinished question). Willow.
Giles. What’s she doing?
Buffy. Seizing the moment.
But it’s what she doesn’t say that matters more. Her voice and expression clearly show she’s mentally cursing herself — and blaming herself. After all, it was her advice to Willow to live in the moment.
Buffy turns and hurries downstairs to prevent a potential crime. Giles stays where he is, clearly bewildered. He’s obviously not used to acting so impulsively, without a preliminary plan. He’s a Watcher, not a Slayer, after all.
So Giles hesitates — now seeming to decide to follow Buffy, now looking anxiously down at Willow and the supposed vampire.
Meanwhile, the old-fashioned-looking guy is already leading a blissfully happy Willow away from the dance floor. Willow positively glows with joy — she’s met a guy! And this guy clearly doesn’t find her uninteresting.
Giles still stands in place, unsure what to do. He twists in indecision, nervously runs his hand along the railing, and struggles with himself. It’s clear that Buffy alone should handle one vampire — she is the Slayer, after all. But should he really just stay put while a brutal crime might unfold down there? Especially since he personally knows Willow — she probably spends hours in the school library.
Buffy reaches the ground floor, but neither Willow nor the guy are there anymore. She glances around, but can’t spot them in the crowd. Undeterred, Buffy leaves the main club area and enters a corridor. It apparently leads to the restrooms, utility rooms, and the club’s back yard.
Buffy breaks off a piece of a leg from an overturned chair and continues her search for Willow, now armed with an improvised stake.
The corridor is winding and dimly lit. Buffy notices a fleeting shadow on the stone wall — someone seems to have turned a corner. She quickly dashes up three or four steps and peers around.
But then, listening either to her inner instinct or just to the sounds around her, she decides that’s not the right way. She turns back and approaches a half-open door, swings it wide, and looks inside. No one’s there.
She lets the door swing shut and turns in another direction, continuing to comb through the corridor. This passageway feels more like a labyrinth than anything else.
Someone approaches Buffy from behind — and she whirls around, grabbing them by the throat. Her right hand clutches the stake; she’s ready to strike. But, by cruel irony of fate, it’s Cordelia. Cordelia only has time for a nervous gasp, her face frozen in terror.
One can only imagine what Buffy thinks at that moment, seeing Cordelia’s expression. Now Cordelia will definitely think Buffy’s completely off her rocker. What’s more, it’s hard to imagine Cordelia keeping Buffy’s strange behaviour a secret. In no time at all, all her friends will probably know that Buffy attacks people with a stake in her hand.
Buffy (with an apologetic smile, clearly embarrassed). Cordelia.
She lets go of the poor girl, who stands up, visibly irritated.
Cordelia (fuming, to a bewildered Buffy). God! What is your childhood trauma?
To Buffy’s horror, three of Cordelia’s friends are standing just behind her, to the right, in the doorway of what appears to be a restroom. Their polished, vacant faces wear exaggerated masks of «What kind of barbaric behaviour is this?».
Buffy (in a defeated voice). Have you guys seen Willow? Did she come by here?
Cordelia (sarcastic, clutching her heart). Why? Do you need to attack her with a stick?
One of Cordelia’s minions (whispering). Jeez!
Buffy turns and walks away.
Cordelia (rolling her eyes). Excuse me. I have to call everyone I have ever met. RIGHT NOW.
The minions fold their arms and exchange knowing smiles. Well, everyone has their own brand of madness.
Giles finally makes his way downstairs, weaving through the crowd of club-goers. Buffy happens to be passing by.
Giles (thinking she’s already turned the vampire to dust, he offers quick praise). That was quick. Well done. (Confident the threat to Willow is over, he shifts to another topic.) I need to go to the library. This Harvest thing is…
Buffy (cutting him off). I didn’t find them.
Giles grabs her shoulder, his face a mix of displeasure and concern. He stops her and turns her to face him.
Giles (his question sounding more like a disapproving statement). The vampire is not dead?
He leans in, looking Buffy directly in the eyes. His gaze is stern and reproachful — clearly disappointed that she hasn’t dealt with the threat yet.
Buffy (nervously, with a touch of exasperation). No, but my social life is on the critical list.
Giles (dropping his hand from her shoulder). So, what do we do?
Buffy has already turned away, scanning the crowd intently. Giles twists around her, peering into her face as if searching for an answer there. It’s rather comical — the way children sometimes crane their necks to catch their parents’ eyes, desperate for guidance.
Buffy. I’ll take care of it.
She starts walking again, intent on her search.
Giles (stammering, grabbing her shoulder once more and looking earnestly into her face). I… I need to come with you, yes?
Buffy stops and turns to Giles, a flicker of mild irritation crossing her features.
Buffy (firmly, yet not unkindly). Don’t worry. One vampire I can handle.
She resumes her stride, leaving a bewildered Giles standing there, slightly dumbfounded by her confidence — and her insistence on going it alone.
Buffy, irritated by all the useless delays and questions, heads for the exit. She walks right past Jesse without even noticing him.
Jesse is standing next to that same wicker swing, the plastic water bottle still in his right hand, his left hand resting on the woven pattern of the swing.
Jesse (addressing a blonde girl sitting in the swing). So, uh, what did you say your name was?
The swing turns slightly — and it’s the very same vampire girl who killed a boy at school the previous night. She offers a welcoming smile and replies in a pleasant voice:
Darla (her eyes gleaming, remarkably still at that moment — creating an uncanny illusion of doll-like eyes). Darla.
Jesse. Darla. You know, I haven’t seen you around before. Are you from around here?
Darla (in a slightly drawn-out tone, nodding vaguely in some direction). No, but I have family here.
She studies Jesse with a curious, probing gaze — yet her eyes remain eerily motionless, which is a bit unsettling. But that, of course, is hardly enough to scare a guy who’s eager to get to know a girl. All he sees is a seductive, sweet girl who’s openly smiling at him.
Darla looks up at him from the swing — she’s tilted her head back, her hair swept aside, her beautiful neck exposed. Behind such alluring decor, no one would ever spot the monster — especially not Jesse, whose mind is occupied with the very same thoughts that fill most guys his age.
Jesse (frowning in concentration). Have I met them?
Darla (finally blinking). You probably will.
She looks utterly seductive, drawing him into the web of her sugary charm. Jesse doesn’t stand a chance of leaving the club alone tonight.
In the underground cavern of the ruined temple, tension mounts. The burly vampire who kept repeating «The Sleeper will wake» sits by the same inner-cave pond. But the water has now turned a blood-red hue and is bubbling violently. The vampire rubs his hands in barely contained anticipation, waiting for something of immense importance to him. He stares at the red water as if something is about to emerge from it at any moment.
His expectations are not in vain — from beneath the seething surface rises a vampire. It’s the same vampire Buffy saw in her nightmare. And he doesn’t step out of the water — some supernatural force seems to lift him from it. He doesn’t move at all, standing perfectly still.
The loyal servant vampire, wearing a thick chain around his neck, bares his teeth in admiration and twisted satisfaction that such a monstrosity has come into this world.
The vampire emerging from the blood-tinged waters is dressed exactly as in Buffy’s dream: a tight-fitting leather jacket belted with a leather strap and a large buckle. He wears form-fitting black trousers and high leather boots with thick platforms. His head, face, and hands are vastly different from what one would see on other vampires. It’s clear he’s more ancient and more powerful than them. Looking at his face, one might think of a hybrid between a bat and a human. The colour of his wrinkled skin is sickly or poisonously yellow; his fingers end in long claw-like nails. His eyes are red.
As he emerges from the water, this vampire scans his surroundings with intense focus. He doesn’t utter a word, silently absorbing everything with his gaze. His expression resembles that of a person who has been away from their home for far too long. Now that he’s finally returned, he needs some time to wander in silence, to believe that he is truly home again.
The horrific vampire finally steps out of the pond and stops beside his faithful servant, extending his left hand to him. He offers his hand as a king might — as if it’s a matter of course.
Servant (with evident pleasure, addressing the terrible vampire). Master.
He takes the hand and kisses it as a sign of his loyalty and devotion to his lord.
Master (in a weak voice). I am weak.
Servant (promisingly, rising from his knees). Come the Harvest, you will be restored.
He offers his hand to the Master so the latter can use it as support. The Master steps heavily — it’s clear he is indeed weak.
Master (lost in thought). The Harvest.
Servant (a pleased grin on his face). We’re almost there. Soon you’ll be free.
The Master stops and extends his right hand before him. He moves it through the air — and ripples spread across an invisible magical barrier at his touch. It’s evident he cannot leave this underground temple. Some magical barrier holds him here, below.
Master (his voice trembling). I must be ready. I need my strength.
Servant. I’ve sent your servants to bring you some food.
Master (turning slightly toward him). Good.
After a brief pause, he turns fully to the servant and adds:
Master. Luke…
Luke (attentive, ready for any command). Yes?
Master (quietly stating his desire, looking like a perverse parody of a picky aristocrat when it comes to food). Bring me something… young.
Both their faces twist into horrible semblances of smiles.
Unsuspecting Willow walks with a pleasant-looking guy. They stroll through nighttime Sunnydale along some street. The guy turns onto a lawn, behind some shrubs.
Willow (clearly at a loss for conversation — or perhaps the pause has dragged on so long she just says whatever pops into her head). Sure is dark.
Guy (stating the obvious, turning to face Willow). It’s night.
Willow (rambling on, her hands fidgeting and her gaze darting around — clear signs she’s growing a bit uncomfortable). Well, that’s a dark time, night. Traditionally. (She tries to steer the conversation somewhere safer.) I still can’t believe I’ve never seen you at school. Do you have Mr. Chomsky for History?
But the guy doesn’t answer her. He stops for a second to look at her — but still remains silent. Turning away, he keeps leading her onward.
Willow (halting and pointing to the left). Uh, the ice-cream bar is this way. It’s past Hamilton Street.
Guy (taking her hand — he seems tired of her constant stops. His pace is brisk, suggesting he’s in a hurry). I know a shortcut.
They take a few steps and arrive at a cemetery. Fear flashes across Willow’s face.
Outside the Bronze, people are milling about, having fun, relaxing, music playing in the background. But Buffy paces near the entrance, her face etched with worry, scanning the surroundings and wondering where he could have taken Willow.
Buffy turns to her left — Xander is standing nearby; she hadn’t noticed him, so absorbed was she in her search for Willow. He seems to be heading into the Bronze.
Xander. Hey, you’re leaving already?
Buffy (grasping at straws, visibly on edge — she knows all too well what could have happened to Willow in the time she’s been searching). Oh, Xander, have you seen Willow?
Xander (now catching on to Buffy’s anxiety). Not tonight, no.
Buffy. She left with a guy.
Xander throws his hands up, stopping her with a look of disbelief.
Xander. We’re talking about Willow, right? (Then he shifts into a sarcastic tone.) Scoring at the Bronze. Work it, girl…
Buffy (cutting him off sharply, desperation clear in her voice). I need to find her. (Her face is drawn, her anxiety palpable.) Where would he take her?
She steps away from Xander — not to rush off somewhere, but because in moments of high stress, people need to move. Standing still feels impossible.
Xander (calling after her, rubbing his hands together and stepping closer, curious to see her reaction). Why? Oh, hey — I hope he’s not a vampire, because then you might have to slay him.
Buffy (spreading her arms wide, incredulous). Was there a school bulletin? (She can’t believe what she’s hearing — how could anyone already know on her first day at a new school that she’s the Slayer?)
Buffy (turning back to Xander). Was it in the newspaper? (Her voice rises.) Is there anyone in this town who doesn’t know I’m the Slayer? (She lowers her voice on the last words, trying to keep her composure.)
Xander (pointing at Buffy, completely calm — he might even be about to crack another joke). I only know that you think that you’re the Slayer, and the reason why I know that…
Buffy (cutting him off abruptly — she’s lost far too much time already. Who knows where Willow is or what’s happening to her right now?). Well, whatever. It doesn’t matter. (Her focus is laser-sharp.) Just tell me — where would Willow go?
Xander’s expression shifts — he sees the genuine panic in her eyes.
Xander (all irony gone from his voice). You’re serious.
Buffy (dead serious, holding Xander’s gaze). We don’t find her, and there’s going to be one more dead body in the morning.
Meanwhile, a terrified Willow is making her way through the night-time cemetery.
Willow (stammering with fear). O-Ok, this is nice… And scary. (She tries to sound calm, but her voice betrays her.) Are you sure this is faster?
Guy (ignoring her fear and questions, pointing at a nearby mausoleum). Hey, you ever been in one of these?
Willow. No, thank you. (She’s visibly uncomfortable.)
She turns away from the guy, who’s already walked up to the mausoleum and grabbed the door handle. Poor Willow fidgets nervously, scanning the distance — probably hoping to spot someone familiar. But who could she possibly see in a cemetery at night?
Behind Willow, the guy opens the mausoleum door and calls to her:
Guy (his voice pleasant, almost soothing). Come on.
He approaches Willow and, with a gesture that might seem gentle if not for the eerie setting, brushes her hair away from her left shoulder. He smoothes it back, exposing her neck. Willow flinches under his touch — she’s clearly terrified.
Guy. What are you afraid of?
Willow doesn’t answer. She just turns to face him, her eyes wide with fear. The guy moves closer, lowering his face toward her neck. Willow hates this — she pulls her head into her shoulders, breathing rapidly.
Suddenly, the guy grabs her shoulders and shoves her roughly into the mausoleum. Willow stumbles down the steps and collides with a massive stone sarcophagus. She whirls around to face the guy and snaps:
Willow. That wasn’t funny!
The guy descends slowly, a fixed, unsettling smile on his face. Willow instinctively backs away, then circles around him, positioning herself with her back to the exit. The guy stops — and she freezes too.
Willow (quickly, her face showing just how unpleasant she finds being near this guy). Uh, I think I’m gonna go.
Guy (expression shifting dramatically — now his gaze and smile could belong to a murderous maniac). Is that what you think?
With that fanatical look on his face, he starts moving toward Willow. She darts away and begins racing up the steps toward the exit.
But there’s another unpleasant surprise waiting for her on the stairs — Darla stands there, her doll-like face frozen in that same unchanging smile. Willow recoils from the steps, retreating deeper into the mausoleum.
Darla (with her perpetual smile, descending the stairs like a haughty peacock). Is this the best you could do?
Guy (with a sense of pride). She’s fresh.
Darla (eyeing Willow appraisingly). Hardly enough to share.
Guy (spreading his hands). Why didn’t you bring your own?
Darla (turning to him, the smile finally fading from her face). I did.
Voice (breathless). Hey, wait up!
Then the owner of the voice stumbles into the mausoleum — it’s Jesse, moving as if he’s completely drunk. As he steps deeper inside and moonlight falls on him through a window, the reason for his drunken appearance becomes clear. He’s clutching his neck — apparently Darla decided to snack on the way.
Willow (gasping). Oh, my God, Jesse!
She catches him just in time — Jesse loses his balance and falls.
Jesse (with a half-drunken grin, lying on the concrete ledges that serve as steps). You know, I think you gave me a hickey.
The old-fashioned-looking guy turns to Darla with an exaggeratedly theatrical expression of reproach.
Darla (in response to his theatrical look). I got hungry on the way.
Willow (anxiously, trying to bring her friend back to his senses — but it’s useless; he’s slightly drained of blood and can barely stand on his own). Jesse, let’s get out of here.
Darla (with that same maniacally friendly smile — it’s chilling to imagine what’s going on in her head; to her, this all seems like some pleasant game). Oh, you’re not going anywhere.
Smiling in a way that might seem pleasant if it were on a normal person’s face, Darla and the old-fashioned guy move toward Willow and Jesse.
Willow (flaring up in indignation — she’s afraid, but she still steps forward to face Darla, which is very brave given their dire circumstances). Leave us alone!
Darla (again). You’re not going anywhere. (Suddenly her face transforms, revealing her vampire nature, and she shouts:) Until we’ve fed!
She smiles — clearly pleased with the effect she’s created. It’s a terrifying smile, especially given her demonic post-transformation appearance.
Willow (screaming at the top of her lungs, either falling or just crouching closer to Jesse). Aah!
Buffy bursts into the mausoleum just in time, Xander right behind her.
Buffy (casually, making Darla whirl around — comically, Darla’s face shows mild bewilderment and even a hint of fear, despite being the terror of the night and seeing Buffy as just a human; Darla doesn’t know she’s the Slayer). Well, this is nice.
Buffy (continuing as she descends the steps into the mausoleum — she doesn’t even glance at the vampires, as if they’re utterly insignificant and unremarkable to her). It’s a little bare, but a dash of paint, a few throw pillows, call it home.
She approaches the sarcophagus, runs her hand along its surface, then examines the dust on her fingers. Her gait is confident, business-like. Darla, by contrast, stands frozen like a statue. Her partner isn’t faring any better — he’s also rooted in place, bewildered and unsure what’s happening.
Behind them, Willow sits on the mausoleum floor, her face a mix of surprise and terror. Xander remains in the doorway, clearly trying to process whether these are really vampires standing before him.
Darla (finally finding her voice, and even her smile). Who the hell are you?
Buffy (oblivious to Darla and her partner circling the sarcophagus from opposite sides, clearly planning to attack her from two angles — but Buffy isn’t bothered in the least; she stands completely relaxed, unconcerned by the two vampires about to strike). You mean there’s actually somebody in this town who doesn’t know already? Phew, that’s a relief. I’m telling you, having a secret identity in this town is a job of work.
Xander watches the scene with his mouth agape and eyes wide, shifting his anxious gaze between Buffy and the vampires surrounding her.
Xander (pointing toward the door, clearly alarmed). Buffy, we bail now, right?
Old-Fashioned Vampire (grumpily, his face now transformed into a demonic visage since Buffy’s arrival). Not yet.
Buffy (turning to the old-fashioned vampire — her tone is that of a nitpicky fashionista who simply can’t resist criticizing outdated clothing, as if she weren’t talking to a vampire about to attack her, in a mausoleum at night). OK, first of all, what’s with the outfit?
Jesse watches the whole scene from under his brows, though it’s hard to tell if he’s fully aware of what’s unfolding. Willow tracks the vampire’s movements in horror, her face painted with fear. Darla approaches Buffy, thinking Buffy doesn’t notice her — Buffy is still focused on the other vampire. A predatory grin spreads across Darla’s demonic face, ready to teach this brazen girl a lesson.
Buffy (still addressing the old-fashioned vampire). Live in the now, OK? You look like DeBarge.
A growl rumbles from behind Buffy — Darla’s grin widens, growing ever more satisfied. Buffy turns to face her, shifting to a businesslike tone:
Buffy. Now, we can do this the hard way or… (She pauses, rolls her eyes as if remembering something, then adds:) Well, actually, there’s just the hard way.
Darla (drawing out her words in her inimitable style). That’s fine with me.
Buffy (theatrically, as if trying to talk them out of it). Are you sure? Now, this is not going to be pretty. We’re talking violence, strong language, adult content.
At that moment, the old-fashioned vampire lunges from behind — but Buffy instantly whips a stake from inside her jacket and impales him without even turning around. The vampire crumbles to dust before the astonished eyes of Xander, Willow, and Jesse.
Darla’s expression shifts — she shakes her head in disbelief, watching how effortlessly Buffy reduced her partner to dust. It’s not the vampire’s death that surprises her so much as the fact that this girl carries a stake, clearly knows vampires exist, knows how to kill them, and has superb reflexes.
Willow and Jesse straighten up and recoil in horror, their eyes wide as saucers. Xander winces as Buffy drives the stake into the vampire.
Buffy (mockingly). See what happens when you roughhouse?
Darla (collecting herself). He was young and stupid.
Buffy (sharply, anticipating a serious fight). Xander, go.
Darla (sing-song, turning to Xander — confident Buffy won’t take long to deal with, fully regained her composure and determined to show this girl who’s really to be feared). Don’t go far.
Xander begins cautiously making his way down the steps to help Willow and Jesse leave the mausoleum. Meanwhile, Darla and Buffy start fighting.
When Xander reaches his friends, Willow stares at him in utter surprise. It’s a truly bizarre situation: stuck in a mausoleum at night, face-to-face with two actual vampires — the last thing you’d expect is to run into your classmate here.
Xander and Willow each grab one of Jesse’s arms and help him to his feet. They hurry toward the exit as Buffy and Darla exchange blows behind them.
They throw the mausoleum doors wide open and dash outside. Xander keeps supporting Jesse, while Willow runs a little ahead. Together, they weave between the gravestones of the night-time cemetery.
Meanwhile, Buffy keeps talking about her expectations for moving to Sunnydale — even as she fights. Darla, just knocked to the floor by another punch, has to listen to this utter nonsense. It’s clear she’s not used to hearing such things from humans while in her vampire form. Humans are supposed to be terrified of her — yet here’s some girl treating both the fight and the whole night-in-a-mausoleum scenario with playful ease, as if it shouldn't be scaring her to hysterics.
Darla’s face shows bewilderment — she probably can’t believe what’s happening. There’s a certain irony to it: it’s doubtful she’s ever faced anything like this before.
Buffy (chatting with Darla as if she were a friend — funny how people sometimes find it easier to unload their hearts to a potential or mortal enemy rather than to real friends or family). You know, I just wanted to start over, be like everybody else. Have some friends, you know, maybe a dog.
Buffy (pressing Darla to the mausoleum floor with her foot, leaning casually against the wall as if in an everyday conversation — the roles are reversed, after all; Darla’s used to being the one with her foot on her victim during such chats). But now… You had to come here. You couldn’t go suck on some other town.
Darla (fear mingled with astonishment in her voice; her smile is long gone, and the playful look in her eyes has been replaced by fear — she’s stunned, completely thrown off by this turn of events). Who are you?
Buffy (looking at her incredulously). Don’t you know?
But just then, the tables turn again in the mausoleum. Buffy, who’s been so confident and relaxed even in the middle of the fight, suddenly gasps in surprise.
Buffy. Uhh!
A strong hand grabs Buffy by the neck from behind and lifts her off her feet — her expression shifts instantly. Now she’s not in the mood for jokes anymore. It’s the Master’s loyal hound, making his dramatic entrance.
Luke (quietly, meaning every word he says — he’s confident in his strength, completely unfazed by what he sees: Darla nearly defeated, her opponent standing in a businesslike pose. None of it concerns him). I don’t care.
He throws Buffy with his left arm — so hard she flies across the room until the mausoleum wall stops her momentum.
Buffy (stunned by the sudden turn of events). Ohh!
Luke cuts a striking, ominous figure in his black jacket. The play of light and shadow on his perpetually devilish face makes him even more terrifying. With his left hand, he lifts Darla off the floor and pulls her close, his expression dark with displeasure.
Luke (furious). You were supposed to be bringing an offering for the Master.
Darla looks fragile and frightened in his grip. One wonders who she fears more at this moment — Luke or Buffy?
Luke (rage and fury in his voice — to just say he’s displeased that Darla might upset their master is a gross understatement; he’s in a full-blown rage, a true Cerberus). We’re almost at Harvest and you dally with this child?
There’s not a trace of strain on his face as he drags Darla across the floor in his iron grip, strolling leisurely through the mausoleum. Darla watches him in terror, her breathing rapid and uneven.
Darla (holding her hands out, palms up — a universal gesture of fear, a plea for mercy). We had someone, but then she came. She killed Thomas. (She turns to Buffy.) Luke, she’s strong.
Buffy lies on the floor, her head pressed into the corner between the stone steps and ornate columns. The impact against the wall was clearly brutal — she’s only now trying to get back on her feet.
Darla’s words spark a kind of interest in Luke, the kind peculiar to a lifelong fighter. He grows curious about this girl who so frightened Darla.
Luke (mockingly, a smile spreading across his face as he releases Darla and shifts his attention to the downed Buffy — he doesn’t truly believe Darla’s assessment. He hardly considers Buffy a formidable vampire opponent. If Darla couldn’t handle this girl, it doesn’t mean Luke faces a serious rival. His smile suggests he mostly wants to prove to himself that Buffy is insignificant — no match for the Master’s faithful servant). You go. I’ll see if I can handle the little girl.
Darla wastes no time accepting his offer. She scurries up the stairs, glancing nervously over her shoulder at the top step — but doesn’t stop. She bolts outside, fleeing the mausoleum, putting distance between herself and both the strange girl and Luke.
Buffy finally rises, unsteady on her feet, still recovering from the blow. Luke approaches her with deliberate, effortless steps. He’s relaxed — he doesn’t see her as a true threat.
Luke raises his hands to seize her, but Buffy defends herself in time. She lands several blows to his chest, including a jumping kick. But Luke doesn’t fly back against the wall — he simply steps back with each strike, unperturbed. He’s like a heavyweight barely noticing the punches of a novice martial artist.
Even now, he’s unstrained, a mocking smile playing on his lips.
Luke (stating a fact, without praise, surprise, or admiration). You’re strong.
But Buffy looks slightly frightened and surprised — she clearly recognizes she’s facing a serious opponent. And it’s worth remembering she’s just a 16-year-old girl who desperately wants an ordinary life. She doesn’t want to spend her nights battling nightmarish creatures of darkness. She hasn’t trained in martial arts — cheerleading, fashion, clubs, and talking to boys are more her style. Simple teenage joys — that’s what she craves, not fights with killers, maniacs, and devil-worshippers like Luke.
Buffy assumes a fighting stance — something she didn’t do when she was playfully tossing Darla around the mausoleum. She’s scared, but she’s the Slayer. Despite her youth, her delicate beauty, and apparent fragility, she’s remarkably resilient.
Luke swings his right hand, backhanding Buffy across the face — she flies backward once more. It’s clear he exerted no real effort, didn’t put his full strength into the blow. He did it casually, much like Buffy had done before his arrival.
Luke (after the strike, without pride or satisfaction — he’s not proving anything to Buffy, just making it clear she’s nothing compared to him). I’m stronger.
Smirking, still completely relaxed, he strolls leisurely toward Buffy, who’s once again on the floor.
While Buffy struggles to stay alive under the relentless assault of this veritable Cerberus, the three friends keep running through the cemetery.
Willow (on the move, breathless). We’ll get the police. It’s just a few blocks up.
But the moment she says it, the friends have to stop dead in their tracks. Fear flashes across their faces again, and they huddle closer together. They’d mistakenly thought they’d escaped the worst of the danger — their terrifying night has only just begun.
Coming toward them, amid the graves casting long, eerie shadows, are vampires. Their shriveled faces split into satisfied grins, and a guttural, predatory growl rolls like muted thunder through the cemetery’s silence. They move with the leisurely grace of cats who enjoy toying with easy prey.
Meanwhile, inside the mausoleum, Luke’s monologue continues.
Luke (in a steady, heavy, subdued voice). You’re wasting my time.
Buffy, realizing she can’t take him head-on, circles the sarcophagus. Raw fear is plain on her face — and she can hardly be blamed for it. She’s only sixteen, and she wants to live.
Buffy (with a nervous laugh, climbing the steps toward the opposite wall). Hey, I had other plans, too, OK?
Suddenly, Luke shoves the sarcophagus lid aside — the one now standing between them. He does it with such force that the lid practically flies off its perch, hurtling toward Buffy.
But she’s no slouch either. Buffy executes a backflip over the lid and lands a powerful kick to Luke’s chest. The blow knocks him off balance, sending him staggering back against the wall.
To her credit, Buffy doesn’t seize this opportune moment to flee. Instead, she moves swiftly, snatching a stake from the floor and lunging at her enemy. But Luke manages to grab her forearm, halting the stake just short of his chest. He remains calm, a smile playing across his face — to him, this isn’t a fight, but some kind of amusing game.
Luke (mockingly). You think you can stop me? (Then, as if a surge of fury wells up inside him, he adds in a more vicious tone.) Stop us?
Buffy’s breathing is laboured, her fear unmistakable. She desperately tries to wrench her arm free and drive the stake into his chest. But Luke casually reaches up with his other hand, grabs the stake, and snaps it into splinters — right before Buffy’s wide, stunned eyes.
A sharp, panicked cry escapes Buffy’s lips. With the broken stake useless in her hand, she might have mere minutes left to live.
Luke keeps her right arm locked in his grip, then uses his other hand to seize the collar of her jacket and yank her close. Buffy’s terrified face is mere centimetres from his sneering visage — her nose nearly touches his, panic stark in her eyes.
Luke (enunciating each word with deliberate precision). You have no idea what you’re dealing with.
He flings her away with a brutal shove. Buffy flies sideways, slamming into the open sarcophagus with her back. She tumbles over it and crashes to the floor — the sound of her laboured breathing reveals just how much pain she’s in.
Luke (rising to his full height, straightening out). And like a plague of boils, the race of man covered the Earth.
Buffy scrambles to her hands and knees, climbing the steps. It’s clear the fight has drained her — and she’s likely more exhausted psychologically than physically.
Luke (his tone shifting now, as if reciting some prophecy or passage from a demonic bible — a veritable preacher of the Devil). But on the third day of the newest light will come the Harvest, when the blood of men will flow as wine, when the Master will walk among them once more. The Earth… will belong to the old ones, and Hell itself will come to town.
As he intones these chilling words, terrible things unfold across the city.
In Giles’s study: Giles pores over one of his ancient tomes and uncovers information about the Harvest. Within its pages, he finds an illustration of a winged, anthropomorphic demon wielding a sword. It’s the same image Buffy saw in her nightmares — though Giles, of course, has no way of knowing that.
In the underground ruined temple: The Master sits upon his polished black throne. His hands rest on the armrests, his head tilted slightly to one side, leaning against the intricately carved wooden backrest. He seems lost in dark contemplation.
His throne inspires dread. The backrest’s decor culminates in a bestial snarl with a protruding tongue — likely symbolising the Devil or some blood-thirsty demon, given who sits upon it. But that’s not the worst part: flanking the demonic snarl are figures resembling children. Behind the throne, candles burn steadily, and the Master’s attendants remain ever-vigilant, constantly monitoring the state of his temporary prison.
On the cemetery grounds: Xander, Willow, and Jesse stand frozen as the vampires close in. Their frightened gazes are locked on the horrific creatures of darkness — they don’t notice that their escape route has been cut off. Darla creeps up behind them, her face twisted into a gleeful, malevolent grin.
Back in the mausoleum, as Luke utters «and Hell itself will come to town», he leans over the petrified, paralysed Buffy, bringing his monstrous face close to hers. Buffy breathes raggedly, panic etched across her features. She tries to scramble away, but Luke lets out a guttural roar and grabs her collar.
Buffy (screaming). Aah!
The devilishly strong foe lifts her off the ground and hurls her straight into the open sarcophagus. Buffy twists to her right and cries out in horror — an ancient, decayed skull looms directly before her face. She lies beside a skeleton. And what terrifies her isn’t so much the skeleton itself, but the grim realisation that she may not be far from becoming one herself.
Buffy struggles to steady her breathing, then goes still, listening intently — the mausoleum is silent. Cautiously, she lifts her head, then pushes herself up, bracing her hands against the sarcophagus’s base. Just as she’s nearly in a half-sitting position, Luke leaps into the sarcophagus.
Buffy's gasping in shock and fear.
Luke (growling, his wild yellow eyes fixed on Buffy — baring his fangs and snarling like a starving beast as he looms over her, ready to sink his teeth into her throat). Amen.
To be continued…
Here's the link to the Part 1 https://dzen.ru/a/aaWr8CynFl-IFX5x