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A richly-decorated drawing room.

Bright light pours in a window. Millicent Carruthers is seated at a desk. A servant comes in and places some mail in a large oystershell tray. The servant hesitates.

Millicent (peevishly): Yes, what is it?

Servant: Elizabeth Chadwick to see you, ma'am.

Millicent: Ah, show her in.

The attractive 30-ish lady from the Watcher's Council enters carrying a briefcase.

Millicent (extending her hand, they shake): Elizabeth, how are you? Thanks for coming. Please be seated.

Elizabeth pulls up a chair.

Elizabeth: Well, I must confess I was surprised at your invitation. We don't get along all that well, in case you haven't noticed.

Millicent: We DO have our different perspectives. But that is one of the reasons I've asked you to come.

Elizabeth: Okay, I'm here.

Millicent: I wanted to ask you if you would like to be considered for appointment to a secret Watcher committee?

Elizabeth: Yes. Yes. Very much. For some time, now, I've wanted to move closer to the inner workings of the Watcher organization. I thought I was being kept at arm's length because of my American accent.

Millicent: Tut-tut. That's nonsense. But you DO understand that you would not be able to breathe a word about the goings on of this committee, under penalty of death? I repeat, under penalty of death.

Elizabeth: I see. Yes, I understand, yes.

Millicent: Are you certain you would not like to consider this for a while?

Elizabeth: No need. I want in.

Millicent: Okay, then, you ARE in. I am the only other member of this committee and because I'm getting on in years I have been ordered to take on an apprentice: you. I am at liberty to tell you that only two other members of the Council even know that our committee exists, so you must never discuss it with anyone else but me. Is that understood?

Elizabeth (breathlessly): Understood.

Millicent: Now, remember what I said: under penalty of death. Here.

Millicent hands her a file. On the tab is marked Summers, Joyce.

Elizabeth (hesitating): But, I'm afraid I don't understand. Why do we need a file on Mrs. Summers? Other than the recent matter with Mr. Giles, the one upon which you and I violently disagree by the way, I don't think we need to maintain a file on the Slayer's mother.

Millicent: The file you hold in your hand has not been updated since 1981. This is her Seeding File and you are on the Seeding Committee. Now, I'm certain you don't know what that means, so go ahead and read the file, and then we'll discuss it.

Millicent gestures toward the file. Elizabeth opens it.

Successive camera shots from different angles indicate time has passed.

Elizabeth finishes, lets the file fall to her lap, and gazes off into the distance.

Millicent: Sorry to disenchant you and demystify this part of the process, but that's how potential Slayers are made. The original Slayer Elixir was provided during an angelic visitation to the first Watcher, Cryru Thoresu, and its supply has been self-replenishing ever since. The Calling is the only other ongoing part that is truly mystical.

Elizabeth: Fascinating. (biting her lip) Oh, that poor woman! Let me get this straight: the elixir produces Slayers in women but only the firstborn ever survives? (Millicent nods.) And it's already too late for her? So, even if she aborted it . . . And she has no idea of the danger of this pregnancy?

Millicent (shaking her head): No. Nor does Mr. Giles for that matter. He's never had the need to know such things. It IS sad. And the death of the mother has been known to devastate Slayers. That's why they are often removed from the family.

Elizabeth: How long?

Millicent: I'm surprised she's still ambulatory. No mother of a Slayer has ever survived a subsequent pregnancy beyond the first trimester.

Cut to the School Gym.

The camera pans three girlish faces. They are a butch-looking group; in fact, they look more like homosexual boys. There is one Chinese girl with her hair cut severely straight across the bottom; one blue-eyed Swedish-looking girl with her hair in braids, and an African girl in a fade. Giles stands with Buffy. Xander looks on.

Giles: Okay, girls, through your paces.

Without a change of expression, the girls separate and chose positions within a set training area: one girl punches a heavy bag, one springs up and kicks at a dummy, one girl runs over and under an obstacle course.

Buffy: Are you sure they understanda da English?

Giles: Why? What do you mean?

Buffy: I talk to them and they seem to be in a trance; I can't always tell if they understand me. They're pretty-good technical fighters for their age. They just seem to lack something.

Xander (kibitzing): Personalities?

Buffy (agreeing): Okay.

Xander: A sense of humor, maybe?

Buffy: Yeah, okay, that too.

Xander: Boobs?

Both Giles and Buffy give him an Aunt Esther fish-eyed look.

Buffy: Xander, that's still a coming attraction.

Cut to Millicent alone in her study.

The window is closed and the lights are on. A large blond man enters carrying a long, thin case. Millicent looks up from her desk.

Millicent: Good day, Mr. Fox. Glad you could make it on such short notice. I understand you are the best.

Mr. Fox: Yes. Yes, I am, ma'am. And I am still improving.

Millicent: Okay, so much for your PR, I've been fully briefed. I only have two questions. Have you ever operated in the US? And have you ever been aimed at a young girl?

Mr. Fox: Yes to both. I have an extensive network of contacts in the States. And I have exterminated children of both sexes.

Millicent: Your tools?

Mr. Fox: I have brought along a working model of my usual facilitator. (He opens his case and extracts a series of pipes and an automatic-pistol-looking apparatus. He very quickly assembles his pieces into a rifle with a shoulder cushion and scope. I don't take a shot unless I know I can hit my prey and with this I don't need to be close. I have several of these available for my use in the States, so I don't need to travel with it.

Millicent: Fine, then, here's your target. (She opens a file and extracts a picture of Buffy and places it down on the table. Then she hands him the file.) Well, you might need the rest of the information in this file, so I made you a copy. This info was assembled by a private investigator almost two years ago, but I don't know of anything that has changed. Most of her habits are fairly well-established, and this should be an easy assignment for you. She will not be suspecting a thing. Here's half your fee. (She tosses him an envelope with cash sticking out of it.) The other half when the job is done.

The man reads and Chris Beck provides a "Killer Coming" Theme to accompany him as he reads. The tune reminds one of a merry-go-round, but a merry-go-round totally out of control, with an eerie insistent quality to it.

Cut to library at another time. Xander and the junior Slayers are in sweats and they leave together out the front door. Giles is upstairs moving books and he looks up briefly as they leave. Oz is listening intently as Angel speaks softly.

Angel: Yes, it WAS odd. When Xander and I were in hell together, I really DID feel that a lot of what was going on around us was aimed not at me so much but at Xander. Almost as though, strange as it may sound, that HE was the focal point of their efforts. Like they wanted to keep HIM there. Wait! (He slaps his forehead.) The thought just hit me . . . maybe it was because he had a fresh soul or something, maybe they are so intent on corrupting souls that that's the be all and end all of their thinking.

Oz: Maybe. But then you said that Whistler also said something odd about Xander?

Angel: Yes, and I've played what he said over and over in my head many times. He definitely insinuated that those in charge of the dark demon dimension somehow acknowledged Xander as someone to respect, someone to be concerned about, someone with a role to play in their evil machinations.

Oz: And where is Whistler now?

Angel: Gone again. He stuck around long enough to help you guys when I was in hell, but he may have another assignment now. I don't know. He disappeared right around the time Xander began getting better.

Buffy comes strolling in.

Oz (to Angel): Oh, here's your date.

Angel (rising, smiling): Late, but always worth waiting for.

He goes over to Buffy and they leave together. Giles, who is up on the riser, stacking books on a bottom shelf looks up briefly from his efforts and shakes his head, then shrugs.

Oz (getting up and approaching the railing and looking up at Giles): Giles, did you talk to the police about Will?

Giles: Yes, only I wish I could have told them something useful. Her parents must be besides themselves with worry.

Oz: I still think that mirror has something to do with her disappearance. Any luck on finding out any more info on it?

Giles: I don't have anything. I DID run down a book on Merlin's Magicks and it's being sent. I've also spread the word and they're also looking.

Oz: Good. At least you're doing something. And Xander and Buffy and Angel are doing something, however transparent.

Giles: Come again?

Oz: Didn't you know? I know they try to hide it from me, but they're out looking for her body.

Giles (grimacing): I see. And I thought I had B.O. or something.

Oz (smiles): I almost wish I could join them for the release from the physical activity; I just feel their efforts are too fatalistic. I keep thinking I'll find the secret to Will's disappearance by concentrating my search between my ears.

Giles: I just hope she's safe.

Quick cut to Willow asleep in the foggy Mirror World and cut back.

Oz: On another matter, Giles, remember when the whole Acathla thing happened and Buffy sent Angel to hell, that whole process made a lot of your old prophecy books obsolete, right?

Giles: Yes, unfortunately. Most of them.

Oz: Books that up to that point had been right on the money?

Giles: Well, I wouldn't go quite that far. Some were helpful. Interpreting prophesies is still an art.

Oz: Giles, do you remember when Angel was in hell and we were doing research and looking for other events happening in hell at approximately the same time? (Giles nods) And we ran across a reference to something called the Breath of Life?

Giles: Yes, very brief mention. In The Pergamum Codex. Lost in hell, if I recall.

Oz: Not exactly. Left a part of itself in hell forever, if I remember correctly. But he, she or it is not mentioned again in any later volumes, correct?

Giles: Not that I've run across.

Oz: Well, I wanted to see if there was a mention of this Breath of Life in any of those books that Buffy made obsolete. (almost whispering to Giles) Now you might think me nuts, but I keep thinking that our Xander has something to do with this Breath of Life, maybe even IS him--remember it was his breath that revived Buffy when she was quote-unquote killed by the Master and then he HAS now been to hell. (returning to a normal tone of voice) Could you point me in the right direction?

Giles (pensively getting up and coming down the stairs and heading into the cage): Our Xander? How curious! I don't understand, but I make it a point to never stand in the way of research, a noble pursuit. (He emerges with six or seven books.) These were some of my best prophetic texts B.B.--that's Before Buffy--have a look. But the chronology would be . . .

Oz: Giles, ever read Slaughterhouse Five?

Giles (putting the books down on the table next to Oz): No. Kurt Vonnegut, right? (Oz nods) Never read it but I know the book has something to do with Dresden, right?

Oz: Well, kind of. The reason I mention it, is that the book is written with all kinds of scrambled time sequences--the hero becomes "unstuck" in time--and in fact the present is always the present but it kind of jumps backward and forward. I was hoping that there might be some similar mechanism at work in these (indicating the books on the table).

Giles: Intriguing. Well, you're welcome to peruse them. If you need any help with the Latin, Greek, Italian, and French, let me know.

Oz: Oh, no, I'll just scan them in and use a translation program and then do a search.

Giles (raising his eyebrows): Oh, yes, I keep forgetting how you computer literati like to operate. Well, just watch that you don't let another Molloch loose.

Oz: Okay, I'll be careful.

Oz picks up the books and leaves while Giles watches him go, a thoughtful look on his face.

As the "Killer Coming Theme" plays, Mr. Fox gets on a plane at Heathrow.

Cut to the research library of the local university.

Giles and Buffy enter. A kindly-looking grey-haired man in a wheelchair is waiting for them.

The Man: You must be Mr. Giles and Buffy. Buffy, you're as pretty as Oz described you. I am Oz's Uncle Jake.

Giles: How do you do?

They all shake hands.

Jake: You must be very nice people to have made such a wonderful impression on my nephew. He's very odd, you know?

Giles (finds a book case and reads the spines): We're the lucky ones to know Oz.

Jake (almost whispering): Take it from a proud uncle, yes, you are. Oz has one of the most intuitive minds I've ever encountered. His capacity for taking disparate bits of information and synthesizing them into a cohesive algorithm is incredible. And his mind literally vacuums up various tidbits of information.

Giles (politely suffering a proud uncle): He's been very helpful to us.

Buffy: And he's just a very nice boy.

Commotion, and Oz arrives. He looks at his Uncle and Giles and Buffy.

Oz: You guys get acquainted?

Jake: Yes, indeed. And I don't care what Buffy and Mr. Giles say, I still think you're okay.

Oz: Thanks, Uncle, I'm glad to hear you stuck up for me. Now, mind your manners or I'll report you to my mom.

Jake (in mock fear): Oh, Oz, please don't squeal on me to my big sis. (to Giles) Oz's mom raised me when OUR mom died.

Oz chuckles. Giles clears his throat.

Giles: So, Oz, your request that we meet you here is very mysterious. Does this have anything to do with the research you were doing? The books I lent you?

Oz: Oh, that? No. This is something else. It's about Willow and the Mirror. Sorry to pull you away from your junior slayers, but I wanted you to see this.

Giles: That's okay, they're in good hands.

Cut to Giles's Library.

The three Slayers-in-training are seated at a desk. Xander and Cordy stand in front of them.

Xander (whispering to Cordy): With Buffy and Giles away, the mice will play. That makes me Slayer trainer for the day. What should I do? I don't know anything about training Slayers.

Cordelia (whispering): That's never stopped you before.

Xander: You're right. I'm a fakeaholic. But what's in your box?

Cordelia: Well, I've been preparing for this day. I thought S.B.S. is in order and I brought my stuff (indicating the large box. She goes over and begins folding back the top.).

Xander (agonizing, grabbing both sides of his head): Oh, no! Not SBS! Anything but SBS! (He suddenly quits the overacting.) What in the heck is SBS?

Cordy (removing a hair dryer): Susie Beauty Shop, natch. Our modern slayer should be aggressive, yet stylish and well-coiffed. These girls are a slaying disaster. I wouldn't be caught dead looking . . .

Xander (saving her): I couldn't agree with you more. But you? I mean, your . . . I mean, are you actually going to lay your hands on their heads.

Cordy: No. Not me, you silly dodo. Cooties! I've invited Mr. Alphonse to help out. And he'd better be here soon or heads will roll. (She leans into the box.)

Xander: Okay, in the meantime I'll hand out weapons. (He goes and stands in front of the three young girls.) Okay, girls, Mademoisselles, Gangsta bitcas? (They seem attentive but their eyes seem to look right through him.) Now here's a nifty little item I dreamed up. I've already applied for the patent, so don't go getting any ideas. (He goes over and picks up four squirt guns.) Okay, the basic idea is to have squirt guns filled with holy water. Now these don't actually contain holy water, because rule number one is that we must always respect holy water and only use the real stuff when threatened, get that? (Their faces are vacant. They look at each other. He hands them each a gun and returns to the front of the room.)

Swedish-looking junior slayer (under her breath to the other two): He's so cute. So, what's the story with these two?

Xander: Look, this is America. You NEED a gun. (They hold them by the barrels.)

Chinese-looking junior slayer (under her breath): He IS cute. He likes her, I can tell. She's crazy if she doesn't like him back. I would. When do we get to hug and kiss cute guys like this?

Xander: Okay, it works like this. (He turns and squirts a bent over Cordelia on the butt; it makes a dark spot on her tan skirt. She stiffens and turns and, hands on hips, gives him a glare that could kill. The girls look at each other in bemused silence.) Oops, sorry, Cordy. Okay, you kids get the idea.

Black junior slayer (under her breath): They DO seem to like each other. (changing subject) But, forget it, you two. Junior Slayers don't get to hug anything but their crosses. (The girls squirt their guns a few times and then put them down as though disinterested.)

Xander: Okay, a tough audience. Is this mike on? Let's see. (thinking) Another tip? Okay, okay, here's a good one. Helpful for all occasions. Do you know sometimes when you're out somewhere and your nose starts running and you don't have a handkerchief or a tissue? Well, I always wipe my nose on my hand and then I wipe my hand where? Anyone? (no response) On my sock. On my sock. See, 'cause your mom will always wash your socks every week.

Cordelia (looking up as an attractive dark-haired man in a white shirt and vest enters the Library): Oh, good, here's Mr. Alphonse. Just in time before we get any more demented tips on hygienic suicide. (to the girls) You're always asking for trouble, girls, taking personal hygiene advice from a guy. (The girls can't help but smile.)

Oriental-looking slayer (under her breath): Isn't that cute? She likes him too.

Cut back to Giles and Buffy, and Oz at the University.

Oz: Okay, Uncle, as long as you grovel, I'll just tell my mom you sent her a smooch. (Including Buffy and Giles in the conversation) Okay, I think you'll all find this interesting. I've discovered something fascinating about Merlin's Mirror. Now, everyone knows something about the legendary Merlin, but not too many understand that there actually WAS an historical Merlin--that a person with that name actually existed. Merlin WAS a magician who lived in early England, and not only was he clever, but there seemed to be a real component of sorcery in his practice of the mystic arts--it's reported that he was actually able to transmute some objects--as opposed to the kind of magic that today's stage magicians perform, which are mostly illusions. But the fascinating thing about Merlin's conjuring has always been that he frequently required a lot of elaborate apparatus to accomplish his feats. This was so evident that many theoreticians, in fact, have speculated that he may have employed some kind of advanced technology in his magic. To make a long story short, some people believe he may have been a Time Traveler--you know, someone with superior scientific knowledge from the future visiting or stuck in the past.

Jake: Reminds me of a quote by, I believe, Arthur C. Clarke, "In any sufficiently advanced civilization, the technology will be indistinguishable from magic."

Oz: Exactly. So, I rummaged through Spike's Dumpster and came up with the largest shard of the broken mirror I could find. See, I wanted to examine it because I wanted to know if there was some physical property of the mirror itself--I don't know if you noticed, Buffy, but it's a very odd silvery- purple color--and I thought that perhaps one of its natural properties so manipulated the physics of matter that the process opened the portal into another dimension. A specific color, you see, is a specific frequency of electromagnetic photons. Now when I examined it, I came to doubt that the specific color of this mirror, by itself, occurs spontaneously in nature. So, I figured that perhaps if I could duplicate enough of this color artificially, you know, get a critical mass of it, the physics of it might react the same way.

Buffy: But, then, why do people get trapped behind the mirror?

Oz: I'm guessing that that's a totally separate spell. Perhaps that part IS an actual bit of sorcery.

Giles (intrigued): Well, I have read of a very arcane spell--the necessary incantations of which, however, were lost ages ago--called the Entry of Seven. It was believed to make any door disappear after seven people have passed through it. The only way those seven can then reemerge is by a person-for-person exchange. In other words, someone of the same sex and approximate height and weight would need to be forced into the mirror as a substitite to release each inhabitant trapped in the mirror.

Oz (nodding): Now you see, THAT rings a bell. Right after Will disappeared I encountered a strange girl I actually thought WAS Will.

Jake: Okay, Oz, you wouldn't be so full of yourself unless you think you know something. Get on with it.

Oz: Okay, I just wanted to establish the context of what you will see.

Removing a disk from his pocket, Oz goes over to a computer with a large screen and boots it up while he talks.

Oz: So, I know a guy with a super scanner--it can emulate over 50 million colors--and I scanned in a few sample pixels of the color of the mirror fragment. (He holds up his disk) I saved the bits describing this exact color in a file on this disk. (Narrating again) And then I ordered the computer to duplicate this color over its entire screen surface. (Oz inserts the disk and pushes a few keys and works the mouse. The computer screen becomes silvery-purple.) See, here's the same color reproduced from our sample. And then I did this. (He inserts his hand into the computer screen and it disappears right through the glass.)

Jake (almost rising up out of his wheelchair): Careful, Oz. Don't want to lose your hand.

Oz withdraws his hand.

Oz: I tested it first with other objects and then with a white rat before I actually stuck my hand in there. It seems to be safe as directed. No adverse effect.

Giles: So, you think that . . .

Oz: I think that Willow is inside there (indicating the screen) somewhere and I intend to go in after her.

Jake: Wait a minute. I've got a video camera here somewhere. (He wheels himself to a table and opens a drawer and extracts the camera.) It's got a wire to a monitor--bring that monitor over here, please (Buffy sees where he's pointing and wheels a TV monitor toward them. He puts the camera in his lap and rolls toward the screen.) Here. Plug this in. Oz, go get my cherry picker.

Oz (laughing): You mean your nose picker.

Giles fiddles with the monitor until pictures from the camera appear on the screen. Oz brings a long stick-like object with a squeeze control on one end and an opposing clamp on the other. He fastens the camera to the clamping end, and he inserts it into the computer screen with the wire trailing behind. They eagerly look over at the TV monitor but are disappointed as all they see is darkness.

Jake (looking around): Need some light.

He rolls over to a cupboard and pull out a photgraphic light fixture. It has a cord.

Jake: Let's try this. Plug it in over there. (He points.)

Oz plugs it in and hangs it on the end of the cherry picker and inserts the probe into the screen. They all look at the TV monitor. All they can see is a dark fog-filled area, the fog diffusing the light very quickly. He let's it drop down and there appears to be a solid ground. He pulls it back out.

Oz (laying down the probe, picking up the light, and then approaching the silvery-purple screen): Well, there's only one way . . . See if you can pull me out at the first sign of trouble.

He thrusts the light into the computer and follows it with his head. Buffy gasps and moves forward to grab his legs and pull him back out at the first sign of trouble. Oz stays in a few seconds then reemerges. Buffy sighs with relief.

Oz: Well, it appears to be a murky damp environment but there is sufficient oxygen to exist there--I established that previously with my white rat. Also, this area directly inside OUR screen must somehow connect with the area where Willow entered. I've just confirmed to my satisfaction that Willow is in there, somewhere. I was able to pick up her scent, faint but distinct. And I ought to know. You guys realize that ever since I became a werewolf I have an enhanced olfactory sense?

Giles: Oz, are you dropdead certain of this?

Oz: Yes. Yes, I am.

Giles: Then we've got to find a way to get her out.

Cut to a scene in an elaborate old-fashioned wood-trimmed office. Across the bottom of the screen it reads, "Khirzistan, former Soviet republic, 1999, Office of the First Secretary, Present Day."

A woman wearing an official military-looking jacket (sporting a vast array of medals) is on the phone behind a large wooden desk. She hangs her head and and mops her brow. Her hair is pulled back severely and wrapped in a tight bun.

Woman (in Russian, subtitle): Yes, Mother, I know. Of course I've heard there are better doctors abroad and possible treatments for little Anya that might save her sight. I have read about them, too. But, what can we do; they costs millions of American dollars. How can we ever afford them? I think we ought to resign ourselves . . . (She looks at her watch and is startled). Oh, I have to get back to work. Later.

She rises, takes off her coat, and slings it over the back of the chair. Underneath, she is dressed in a coarse, flower-print dress. She goes over to a cart, picks up a babushka, wraps her head, and then she dons a full apron. Picking up a duster, she begins whacking away at items on the desk.

The door opens and a self-important man enters. He goes directly to his jacket on the chair and puts it on. He pushes a button on his desk and says, subtitled, "Show him in." To the lady he says, subtitle, "Leave us. Come back later." An old frail Franz Muller hobbles into the room. The cleaning lady leaves through the open door.

Cut to the cleaning lady sweeping up in a corridor as Franz Muller approaches.

The lady sighs and seems almost ready to faint. Franz notices and uses his hands to steady her.

Franz: Commrade, dear lady, are you okay? Why the heavy sigh? Hasn't glasnost made your life better yet?

Cleaning Lady (chuckling): I AM making twice the money, but now they're six months behind in paying it to me. Used to be they were only three months behind. But how is your business? You're German, eh?

Franz: Yes, German. Looks like we'll be opening a Trading Zone in your country. But, madam, things will get better for you. This is a lovely country. The American will invest here and put eveyone to work making silk pajamas. You'll see.

Cleaning Lady (laughing): The capitalist sleep in silk pajamas? Something else for Ivanova (slaps herself on the chest) to look forward to. No, my friend, I'm afraid all we have in this small country to interest the rest of the world is our Bomb. And even THAT is scheduled to be destroyed.

Franz: Franz. (pointing to himself. She extends her hand and he gallantly kisses it.) Maybe it's for the best, Ivanova.

Ivanova (flattered at the hand-kiss): Oooh. (then back on topic) Perhaps, Franz. But then we might as well leave this little country and shut off the light on our way out the door. To the whole world--especially the nut cases in it--we are known as the small country with the big bomb. We've had many visitors here who have wanted to get their hands on our bomb, mostly for evil purposes. Want to see it?

Franz: See what, Madam?

Ivanova: Our bomb. The Pride of Khirzistan.

Franz: I thought it was in a missle silo somewhere.

Ivanova: No, no. (She laughs.) Unbeknownst to the Russians, we removed it long ago, afraid it would be confiscated by them. It's like our country's Crown Jewel, you know. So our leaders replaced the real one with a replica and they store the real one here in the basement.

Franz: Here? (Ivanova nods) In the basement? (Ivanova nods) Under armed guard, I hope?

Ivanova: Of course under armed guard.

Franz: Well, if it's not too much trouble? And they won't mind? I've never really seen an instrument of such terrible destruction up close.

Ivanova: Come along, then. They won't mind.

Cut to the Cleaning Lady unlocking a rounded wooden door and holding it open for Franz.

He enters and they are in a wine cellar.

Franz: Oh, this dampness. My arthritis.

Ivanova: Yes, this dreary place affects the joints.

Ivanova goes past a few racks of bottles and approaches a covered table with a long cylindrical object lying beneath the cover. She grabs one end and whisks it away revealing an object that looks pretty-much like everyone's idea of what an atomic bomb would look like. It's just a little flatter.

Franz (stunned, he looks around in fright): You mean, that's it? But, where are your guards?

Ivanova: They aren't being paid, so they farm during the day. They guard at night (pointing to a different door than they had come through) through that door. Do you want to buy it?

Franz: What are you talking about?

Ivanova: I overheard your conversation with our First Secretary. I don't think he fully understood what you were angling at, but I certainly did. We've had a rash of agents for all kinds of religious fanatics trying to buy our bomb. I would never help them, but I have a very sick child who needs medical treatment in the West. Plus, I would like to live better myself, avoid my impending arthritis, wear those silk pajamas you were talking about. What would you do with it? (indicating the bomb) You don't represent one of those Muslem Madmen do you?

Franz (reevaluating his companion): It may be that it would be exploded in the United States--if so, it would be a mother's vengeance for a child killed by the Americans in the last war.

Ivanova: I can understand that. One mother to another. How much will you pay?

Franz: Five million American dollars.

Ivanova: Ten.

Cut to successive rapidly-cut scenes of a large wrapped item being dollied into the basement room.

Chris Beck has written a certain distinctive "Bomb Moving Theme," kind of a military staccato with snare drums, and it plays while a chain lift / hand crane is brought into the room and erected. The dollied item is lifted by two men and laid down next to the exposed bomb. The wrapping is removed from the new item to reveal another exact duplicate of the bomb. The chain lift is fitted around the real bomb and the bomb is lifted onto a heavy-duty motorized carrier and then the carrier moves slowly out of the room.

Cut to a scene of Oz at a computer in a familyroom-type setting.

Oz uses a flatbed scanner and scans the last two pages of a book. He gets up and grabs a shotgun and points it at the screen. Gingerly he leans forward and pushes a keyboard key and then, tense and alert, he aims the gun at the computer. A series of words scroll up the screen and then it stops. Satisfied with the results he reads, he puts the gun aside and sits down again.

Cut to the computer screen.

Inside the translate box Oz types the words "Breath of Life". The result appears as gibberish but Oz highlights the gibberish, does a Copy, switches to another document, and plunks it down in the Search box. He clicks on OK. The computer hesitates briefly and comes back with two matches. Oz highlights the word Display. Gibberish comes up on the screen. Oz highlights the gibberish and pushes a button that says translate.

The phrase says, "It was at this point in the never as now and again and however previous that the Breath of Life enters hell. Forces conspire to hold him there. Part of him remains there forever."

Oz wrinkles his brow and clicks on the square box labeled NEXT.

The phrase says, "As the days become few the Breath of Life expresses his imperative and removes the staving Slayers from the corridor of death."

Oz: Aha. Just as I thought. But . . . what?

He highlights the term "Slayers" and clicks on a button that says "Retranslate."

The translation again comes up "Slayers."

He highlights the term again and selects a drop-down box and selects "Singular and Plural the same?"

The screen comes back with "No Match Identified"

He highlights the word again and uses the dropdown box. "Singular or Plural?"

The word "PLURAL" blinks on the screen.

Oz (to himself as the word continues to flash): I wonder what Spock would say about this.

The "Bomb Moving Theme" plays. Cut to a scene of a lift gate operating on the back of a truck. On it is a large crate. When it reaches the level of the bay, two men push and pull it further back into the bay of a large truck. The caption, "Trytera (Capital City), Khirzistan, 1999."

Cut to Joyce's Gallery.

Joyce is almost angrily fussing with a tapestry hanging on a wall; she has a small brush in her hand and works at a spot. Suddenly she doubles over in pain. She grabs her stomach and eases herself over to a desk situated amidst an area of other furniture and plops down on a chair. At that same time the bell of the Gallery door rings. She looks over her shoulder to see Spike striding confidently toward her.

Joyce (managing a smile): Well, hello, there, Spike.

Spike: The charming Joyce Summers. How have you been, dear lady?

Joyce: Okay for a preggie. Today's been bad, though.

Spike: Really? You're "eating for two?" Who? . . . Oh, wait, you needn't answer.

Joyce: Mr. Giles.

Spike: Really? (She nods) Really? Evidently he hides his charm very well indeed. But, my oh my, he certainly is a lucky man.

Joyce: Yes, he is! Hey! I just remembered--I'm glad you stopped by. I guess I kind of expected you. I got this enormous check, for a commission, and YOUR name of all things was on the remittance advice. (begins fumbling through the top drawer of the desk) I have the check around here somewhere.

Spike: Oh, THAT little thing? Well, you see, I bought an antique and it was one of those "things." (She looks confused) You know "those things?" (She shakes her head no) Those things where someone HAS to get a commission--and I remembered you said YOU were in the business. (sing-songy) Now, I know that you're going to say, 'I didn't do anything to earn it.' Well, love, you didn't get the entire commission--you actually split it with someone else who didn't do anything to earn it, either--they just took delivery in the U.S. and forwarded it on to me. So, keep it because if you don't accept it the other dealer gets it all.

Joyce: Oh, THAT thing? Okay, on THAT basis I'll keep it. Thank you.

Spike: My pleasure. But my real reason for coming by was to invite you to my restaurant? I know you haven't been there yet, because I've had all my people on alert looking for you.

Joyce: How sweet! Sorry, but in my new condition, I just haven't felt much like eating, yet. I . . . (she looks like she's just been punched in the stomach). I (gasping) really have wanted to though, (her face distorts) I've heard lots of good things about it.

Spike: Are you okay, missus?

Joyce: No, I don't feel well.

Spike: Do you want me to call someone?

Joyce: Maybe it will pass.

She holds her hand up as it to halt time. Suddenly she looks woozy and begins to swoon forward. Spike catches her and pushes her back into her chair.

Spike: You don't look well. I'm going to call 911.

Spike pulls out a cell phone and punches the numbers. Spike listens for a minute.

Spike: Yes, medical emergency. The address is . . . (he goes away for a minute)

Joyce (not noticing he went away. She talks through her pain): They'll somehow think YOU did this. I'd better write you a note.

She fumbles with a pencil and a note pad.

Spike (to Joyce as he returns): Okay, they're on their way. Let me call, uhmm, someone else.

He punches some numbers.

Joyce (clutching at her throat): Can't breathe.

Joyce hands him the note and collapses. He catches her and lowers her to the floor. He looks at her closely.

Spike (on the phone): Hello, Oz? This is Spike. (pause) Yes, that Spike. How many do you know? (pause) No, I haven't heard anything. Look, Buffy's mom just collapsed at her Gallery. I've called 911 and they'll be here shortly. (pause) Well, she's pregnant, you know? (pause) Yes. She said she couldn't breathe. Could you alert the others? I'm sure EMS will convey her directly to the hospital. (the sound of a siren) I think I hear them coming now. Okay?

Cut to emergency room entrance at the hospital.

The back doors of the ambulance swing open. Joyce's stretcher is removed, the wheels are extended and she is pushed through the hospital emergency doors. Meeting her on the way in are some doctors.

EMS attendant (while she's being wheeled in): Female, 34, pregnant, 1st trimester, collapsed at work, blood pressure 90 over 70, pulse 240, irregular heartbeat, unable to breathe on her own, she stopped several times on the way over.

They push her through a second set of swinging doors.

Cut to the entrance to the emergency room waiting area.

Giles and Buffy arrive and halt, looking around. Spike comes in behind them.

Buffy flags down a nurse. Giles sees Spike and heads toward him menacingly.

Spike (backing away and holding up his hands): Hey there, Mr. Giles, don't get any ideas. Look, Joyce gave me a note.

He hands it to Giles who stops and reads it. Giles looks crestfallen and hands the note back to Spike. Buffy comes over with a nurse.

Buffy: They're working on her now. They don't know anything.

Spike moves off to the side and looks at the floor.

The doors ahead open and an exhausted doctor come through. He has his face all prepared to deliver bad news.

Doctor: Family of Joyce Summers?

They reluctantly nod.

Doctor: Sorry, we lost her. (Buffy gasps and almost collapses if Giles had not pulled her to him. Giles looks stunned.). She was having trouble breathing. We thought we had her stabilized on a respirator, and then suddenly it was like her whole body just shut down. We did everything we could.

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Spike & Dru, A Love Story 2: Motherhood 101 (Part 3 of 4)

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