"So, Xand, what’s for lunch today?" Buffy grinned, knowing well her friend’s passion for food--in quantity, not quality.

Xander grimaced. "The cafeteria is serving that sick banana-radish soup, and I am definitely not--"

"It’s banarashdi, an Indian herb," Willow sighed, rolling her eyes. "And I happen to think it’s good."

"Yeah. Good. You know you live on a Hellmouth when banzai rash soup sounds good," Buffy smirked.

Willow glared. "You two are Philistines and have no appreciation for--"

"Hey," interrupted Xander. "Hellmouth means vampires which means Slayer which means Watcher which means Giles which means apartment which means kitchen. And kitchen means--"

"Food," sighed Buffy and Willow simultaneously. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Come on, maybe we can get the G-man to order a pizza!" Xander said.

"Why don’t you order a pizza?" asked Willow.

In answer, Xander grinned sheepishly and turned his empty pockets inside out. Buffy and Willow shared a look, which Xander ignored as he led the way out of the building, calling out, "Last one to the G-man’s is a dusted vamp!"

Twenty minutes later, they, with the addition of Oz, were happily ensconced in the kitchen of Rupert Giles, sometime Watcher, who had, after coaxing, ordered three pizzas for the "gang."

"So, Giles, what’s on the doom and gloom agenda for today? Better not be too strenuous; after all that pizza, I can’t handle much," Buffy asked casually, leaning back in her chair with a contented sigh. He watched at her for a few seconds, enjoying the contented look on her face--it seemed she was so rarely happy these days, and he loved her smile--before realizing she had asked a question.

"Er, well, actually it appears demonic activity has been relatively low lately, so--"

He was interrupted by an urgent knocking at the door. "Hm. Whoever could that be?" he murmured to himself, getting up from his desk and heading over to the door, though he was barely out of his chair before the knocking resumed, louder than before.

"I’m coming already!" he muttered, irritated, and threw the door open.

"What exactly--Cairo?! What on earth are you doing here?"

The man called Cairo hurriedly pushed inside, grabbing Giles by the shoulder and pulling him inside as he slammed the door shut behind him.

He was small and wiry with a dark complexion that spoke of a life in lands sunnier and harsher than California. His eyes were wide and worried in his drawn, hungry face. Rupert Giles stared at his old friend and fellow Watcher, recognizing the eyes of a hunted man. He had seen them before...in the mirror, years ago.

"Who are you running from, Cairo?" he said softly.

Cairo looked sharply at him and smiled grimly, perfect white teeth gleaming in his olive skin. "Our employers, of course, Rupert. But I am not running yet. And I will not be until I tell you what I came to tell you. Then, yes, I shall run," he hissed in Arabic.

"What do you mean?" Giles answered in the same tongue, slipping into it unconsciously as a growing feeling of unease started to settle in his stomach.

"Do not play the fool with me. Once I betray them to help you, my life is no more to the bastard deceivers than camel’s spit."

"What are you talking about, Cairo?"

The man glanced uneasily towards the four teenagers in the kitchen, staring wide-eyed at him. "Who are they? Can they be trusted?"

"Forget them! What is going on? Explain to me!" Giles said, angrily raising his voice and shaking the smaller man by the shoulders.

Cairo took a deep breath and looked at the floor, speaking in a low monotone and not meeting Giles’s eyes. "They have appointed a new Fifth, Rupert. I do not need to tell you who his target is."

Giles suddenly felt cold. He turned pale and let go of the other man’s shoulders. "You are sure?" he breathed.

"Yes," Cairo replied, finally meeting the Englishman’s eyes. "They do not know I know, but they soon will. I have Fourths following me--they have never trusted me."

Giles did not answer, thinking as he was of the hierarchy of Watchers: there were five ranks in all, with full titles, though they were usually just identified by their number.

A First was a Member of the Council itself, one of the twelve privileged Elder Watchers who actually made the decisions of the powerful organization, who assigned positions and Watcherships, designated duties, guided the whole motley lot.

A Second was the active, current Slayer, on whom the true burden of fighting evil, night after night, rested upon. It was said that once upon a time, the Watchers had done more than simply sit around in comfortable chairs, pondering the philosophies of life and death and Slayer training, while the Slayer did the dying.

But not all sat around idly, Giles thought darkly. Indeed, most of the manpower of the organization was devoted not to preserving and guiding the Slayer, but to spying and monitoring their own men, those few who actually attempted to act proactively; who put conscience above blind obedience and a life of comfort. A dedicated few, persecuted and hindered by the ones they should have had nothing but support from.

A Third was the active Watcher, the one assigned to the Slayer--once Giles’s title, now Wesley’s. Like the Slayer, there was only one.

A Fourth was any Watcher not a Councilor nor assigned to the Slayer; one who had completed his or her training and was given any of the myriad tasks that needed doing, which could run from spying and surveillance on a Slayer or another Watcher, or to training the coming Slayer or Watchers who had not yet been Initiated, or to having successful and lucrative businesses that would provide financial backing for the Watchers. Fourths were the largest group of Watchers, currently numbering over two hundred worldwide. Cairo and Giles both belon--both had belonged to this group. Because after today...

A Fifth was an assassin.

"--I still have contacts I can hide with, but--Rupert, are you listening to me?"

"Yes, yes of course. What did you say?" Giles murmured, as the enormity of his friend’s sacrifice became clear. "For telling me, they will try to kill you," he stated.

Cairo nodded, suddenly smiling wolfishly. "They will try. Succeeding is another matter."

Giles actually smiled at that. If he knew his old friend at all, that was very true. The half-Arab, half-Egyptian who went by the moniker of Cairo was nothing if not hard to kill; a man once known as the Cobra, who had the knowledge of a wizard and the skills of a thief. They had met years ago, during Ripper’s dark years in a darker world called the Inferno. Cairo had been there already, raised and born there, and was known as a moderately good spellcaster and a better assassin. They had become friends, and when Rupert had left and gone back to a cleaner, brighter world, the Cobra had come too, willing to try life as one of the good guys. They had lied about his past and gotten him into Watcher training as well, where he did better than many of the so-called "optimum candidates," who were carefully researched and chosen from the best Bloodlines.

He had finished and been Initiated, sent to the part of the world he was an expert on. For two decades now he had served them faithfully, their only agent in the Middle Eastern areas. He had risked his life a thousand times, worked without backup or anyone to even know if he died, and he had never asked for anything in return. Yet now, because he had dared to warn his friend of the death being sent against him, they would try to kill him. Giles felt the shock in his system start to slowly change into anger, anger at the Council’s hypocrisy and betrayal.

"You shouldn’t have come, Cairo..." he began.

"Set and Allah take it, Rupert! To do this to you, they are the sons of jackals. No, worse than that; even jackals do not betray their own. You are my friend. I know where my loyalties lie," he finished earnestly.

Giles stared for a long moment into his friend’s solemn face and sighed heavily. He suddenly felt very old.

There is a Fifth coming to kill me.

"Giles?" Buffy said hesitantly. Dear God. Buffy. How am I supposed to explain this to her? Tell her that her, Wesley’s, and mine own superiors, the Watcher Council, the ones she thinks are the ‘good guys,’ are sending someone to kill me?

No. Not just someone. A Fifth. An Avenger.

Once again, he was back in the partially ruined old keep, long since abandoned, that sat on the lands of Lord Cranston of Leadchapel--a prominent Fourth. The keep might no longer have protected the lord’s lands, but it was not truly abandoned. It was a training place for Watchers. The Instructor’s voice, deep and reverberating, echoed through the cavernous structure as he, and his students with him, recited Watcher tenets. A young Rupert Giles, eleven years old and solemn-eyed, sat near the front, chanting with the others the Duties and Titles:

"....The Fifth Point of the Watcher’s Star

Is the justice of the Council.

The Avenger’s reach is swift and far

‘Gainst those who break

Their Oath and Code.

Traitor’s life to take

The Executioner’s solemn quest

North or south, east or west..."

"Giles?" Buffy said more loudly, and the apartment became his reality again, old ghosts fading mockingly, his breath catching as it always did when he met her sparkling blue eyes. How could he tell her...?

...He couldn’t. "Buffy, I...I think you should leave for a few moments. I need...to talk with this man...and...all of you, you, you need to leave. Just..." he trailed off.

"Is everything all right?" Buffy said, concerned, while Cairo looked on impassively.

"No, I mean yes of course. Everything’s fine. I just. I need to talk privately with him. Just go now," he said awkwardly. Damn it all! Can’t she just go? He closed his eyes, trying to calm down and opened them to find Buffy still standing in front of him, worry plain in her face.

"Go, Buffy!" he said, more harshly than he intended to. She looked hurt, then angry, then spun on her heel and left. Thank God. Oz and Willow awkwardly got to their feet, grabbing Xander. "Come on, Xander," Willow murmured.

"But...but...the pizza..."

"Come on, Xander," she said more forcefully, and they left.

He let out a breath and sat down, taking off his glasses and polishing them before he could look at Cairo again. Cairo waited patiently, knowing his friend had to come to terms with this. It was a few moments before Rupert Giles said bleakly, "So. Quentin Travers finally made good on his threats." Cairo nodded.

"Who is it?" the Englishman said weakly, and Cairo moved at that, sitting down facing his friend. "A young one...his name is Albert McAllister. Travers managed to convince the Council that you were not merely flouting tradition, but utterly corrupting the Slayer and her new Watcher, Wyndham-Price. He claimed you taught her to hate the Council, to scorn tradition, to reject authority...he said all this with a straight face too. He has an oily tongue...he is a snake in the grasses, a dangerous one. I still cannot see how the bastard ever made it to being a First."

"By that oily tongue you just mentioned--and lies, manipulation, flattery, and blackmail. He had some incriminating evidence on Callahay and Alan. It doesn’t hurt him that he’s Greenlow’s brother-in-law, either," Giles muttered, referring to several other Firsts.

Cairo gave a colorful oath. "He had something on Alan Birch? That explains why he was backing that bastard, then! Shit. Alan’s always been one of your--few--supporters, and when he suddenly started supporting Quentin’s claims, everyone began to wonder if maybe there was something to this after all--up ‘til then, they had mostly ignored Quentin. Anyways, he had three-quarters of the Council on his side--for whatever reasons--and before the others woke up enough to stop him, he had taken McAllister, rushed him through Fifth training, and presented him to the Council. No one wanted to stand up to him because they weren’t quite sure whether he was supposed to be doing this or not, and before anything is settled, he’s got the new Fifth coming to California--target: Rupert Giles. He claimed it was the only way the Slayer and Wyndham-Price could be brought back under Council control."

"Very pretty. He’s discovered the perfect way to get round the Council; taking advantage of their bureaucratic sloth. By the time they wake up enough to look into this, at which point they’ll designate a committee" he said it with disgust "to investigate me--which will take months, if they even find anything--by then, even if I’m cleared of the charges, it will be too late--I’m dead. The worst Quentin will have to go through is admitting he used hasty judgment in my case, receive a swat on the wrist, and he’s still got the Council wrapped round his finger," Giles said angrily. "He’ll get clean away with it. Damn, he’s clever."

"That he is. But he still made a mistake; he let me find out about it. And I’ll be damned to the Abyss itself before I’d let them send someone to kill you and not do anything about it. So here I am. I am going to have to run now--to hell with serving these bastards; they can rot for what I care. I joined them only because you were one of them. I can go back to the Inferno, there are still people who owe me favors. I can disappear." Cairo stopped and looked at Giles soberly. "Will you go with me?"

Giles froze. He had not yet thought about what he would have to do now....what was he going to do? He couldn’t just...leave...

"I can’t, Cairo...people here, they need me...Buffy needs me." Does she?

"Buffy? The Slayer? Look, man, you aren’t her Watcher anymore..." Cairo began.

"Wesley Wyndham-Price will get her killed! The man is incompetent," Giles interrupted.

"He will learn. You will stay just for this girl?"

I would die for this girl. "Yes," was all he said.

"Then they will kill you," Cairo said.

"What do you suggest I do, Cairo?" Giles exclaimed frustratedly..

"You have to come with me. You must disappear."

"Don’t you get it? This is a Fifth. Wherever I go, he will find me. As long as he thinks I’m alive, he will not rest."

"Then you must make him think you are not alive."

"And how exactly am I to do that?"

"Well, you obviously can’t stay here. You must fake your death and then disappear. If he thinks you’re dead, he would return to England. And you would be free. You would have to walk quiet, just make sure they didn’t hear any news of you--"

"But...I would have to leave...Sunnydale...I wouldn’t be able to come back. I’d never be able to come back and see Bu--my friends here. She’d never let me do that," Giles murmured lamely, his mouth working on a different frequency than his mind, and without its permission.

Cairo looked at him as one looks at the insane. "Rupert, you wouldn’t be telling them! They would have to think you dead as well. Think about it. The Fifth would be watching them--if you tried to fake your death, and they knew you weren’t really dead, their actions would betray it. The Fifth would know, and it would be hopeless. The only way it succeeds is if these children think you’re dead also!"

Giles blinked, aghast. "But...just leave and...let them think I’m dead?! I could never do that to her--to them. Let them think...I couldn’t hurt them like that, Cairo. I--"

Cairo swore and leaned forward, grasping Giles’s hand and staring earnestly into his eyes. "Rupert. One way or another you will die to them. But is it not better that they should you think you are dead, and you yet live, then for you actually to die at the hands of the Fifth--letting Travers win?!"

"But--Buffy, I must protect her--" he whispered helplessly, eyes distant.

"How much protection will you be to her if you are a corpse?!" Cairo nearly yelled, before continuing in a softer tone, "Rupert...it is plain that you care for them, all of them. But see this now: if the Fifth thinks you are alive, but in hiding, who will he strike at to bring you out?"

Giles paled. "He wouldn’t," he protested after a few moments, without conviction.

"This is a Fifth. You and I both know there is nothing he won’t do; nothing he isn’t capable of." Pause. "Come with me, Rupert."

The Englishman bowed his head for several long minutes and when he looked up again, some composure had returned. "Cairo, no. I...everything you say...truth. But I still can’t leave them, let them believe my death. It would tear them" and her "apart." Would it? Would Buffy even care? Would...

Would Buffy even notice?

"So...so thank you for coming, and telling me--" Giles said, ignoring the cruel voices in his heart.

Cairo stood up angrily. Damn it, Rupert, if I can’t save you by appealing to your reason, I’ll give you a guilt trip. "‘Thank you’? If you want to thank me, take my advice, Rupert! I risked my life to get you this, and you will not act upon it as you must! You have an interesting way of displaying your gratitude, my friend," he spat, watching his friend wince and feeling a bittersweet pang as he knew his words had hit their mark.

"No. There’s more to it than that. I swore an oath, that I...the Slayer...I swore to serve the Council and--"

Cairo gave an exclamation of disgust and incredulity. "How can you continue to serve a corrupt organization, Rupert? How can you pretend to still keep an Oath to people who do not know the meaning of honor...?"

Rupert Giles looked away. He could only come up with so many reasons not to listen to Cairo, other than the obvious, one-word reason: Buffy. But other than that...the Ripper part of him, the one that liked the concept of living, and more, of living long enough to kick in some Council arse, was getting awfully...loud...

He shook his head decisively, banishing such thoughts. "No."

"No what?" said Cairo.

"Er...no, no, I, I can’t come with you. I can’t leave here. I can’t hurt them...her," he finished in a broken whisper.

Cairo said softly, "You think it will not hurt them to see your corpse lying at the feet of the Fifth? I’ll say it again, Rupert: either way, you must die to them. By the hands of the Fifth or not, this part of your life is over."

"No," Giles said softly. "There is always...there must always be another choice...a third option."

"What, then?" the dark man asked gently and Giles had no answer to that. But Cairo looked into his eyes and saw only the refusal to accept this. Knew his friend would die in this town. He cursed and looked away. When he looked back, the Arab’s eyes held sadness. "Ra and Osiris be merciful unto you, Rupert Giles. For as Allah is my witness, I doubt we shall meet again on this earth. I... Goodbye, Rupert." He turned and walked out the door.

Rupert’s words momentarily stopped him at the door. "Thank you, Cairo. For telling me."

Cairo looked back sorrowfully. "Thank me by saving your life, Rupert. Get out of this place." He turned and left the door standing open on his way out.

Giles closed his eyes and sent prayers to several deities.

It was two days before anything else of importance developed in the matter of the Fifth. For Rupert Giles, two days that were hell.

The stress of knowing about the assassin contributed in no small manner to his private torment, but of equal or greater frustration was Buffy Summers, the Vampire Slayer. The Chosen One, the one girl in all the world with the skill and strength to fight the vampires, was employing her considerable determination in an effort to learn what was bothering her ex-Watcher. And while he had a considerable amount of determination of his own, it was nonethelesss exhausting, mentally and emotionally, to continue to fend off her constant questions:

"Buffy, do let me alone, will you!"

"Not until you tell me what is going on. Who was that Arabian guy and what did he want?"

"It’s not really important, Buffy. Nor is it your concern. Now leave me alone."

"No. Something’s wrong, and I’m going to find out what it is!"

(grumbles) "Oh, sod off!"

"What?"

"I said--," (deep breath as he counts to ten) "I said that there is nothing wrong and I would prefer if you left me to get on with some work I have to do."

"Not until you tell me--"

"Bloody hell..."

This time was complicated by the fact that he still had no idea what to do about the impending assassin. The few plans he managed to come up with were increasingly suicidal, ineffective, or both. And Buffy was not making things any--

"Hey, Dien! Will you shut up? I’m trying to talk to my Watcher here!"

Sorry, Buffy.

"Thanks. Now listen, Giles. I am not leaving until--"

"Dien! Do start talking again, will you? Please?"

"Shut up, Giles! Don’t listen to him, Dien. Okay. Now who was that guy, Giles?"

"Aaargh!"

Ahem. In any case, as the two days dragged on, Giles became increasingly tense and hostile, even to his friends.

"Hi, Giles!"

"Do shut up, Willow."

Giles was even more reclusive than usual, mostly in an effort to avoid Buffy. However, Buffy was remarkably persistent in--

"Giles? I know you’re here somewhere. Come on out! Hey. Hey! Get back here, you-" This part of the story has been censored due to inappropriate language, since Dien doesn’t want you, gentle reader, becoming corrupted.

"Giles! Get back heeeere!"

....

Two days. (Long days.)

And then Giles saw the Fifth.

In the course of his everyday life, he jogged every morning, usually following the same path, but due to his attempts to avoid Buffy, he was taking what Xander called, ‘evasive maneuvers.’ If it hadn’t been for that desire to take a different route, Giles would never have seen him, but as it was...

He was jogging steadily along the sidewalk, keeping his mind from all other things except the running, the cool morning air, the ground right in front of his feet as he settled into a rhythm that could take him a hundred or a thousand miles when he felt the hairs on his neck began to prickle uncomfortably. As a man who had spent most of his life watching others, he’d be damned if he couldn’t feel when someone else was watching him. He slowly turned his head, making it look casual, and observed the people around him.

The man was standing some fifty feet away, but Giles could feel the eyes boring into him even at this distance. There were few people out at this time of the morning, and Albert McAllister stood out conspicuously.

He was standing next to a black Mercedes-Benz, classy enough that it stood out in a small town like Sunnydale, casually leaning against one side. Giles thought briefly that it looked like a car commercial; the suited driver inside; a tall, handsome and well-dressed man next to the luxury automobile. Perhaps a wealthy young socialite waiting to take his chosen young lady to a ball, if one could ignore the fact that the car was not parked in the broad driveway of a Beverly Hills estate, but rather in front of a gas station; and also one had to ignore the look in the eyes of Albert McAllister.

It wasn’t hatred; Giles could have handled hate. It was predatorial curiosity, intense to the point of obsession, the look of a hungry tiger watching a rabbit go by; yet also more unemotional than that. Cold and empty of personal feeling.

Their eyes met across the fifty feet--Albert McAllister has eyes the exact shade of a summer sky--and while Giles wanted to tear his gaze away and run home, away, as fast as his legs would carry him, he forced himself to continue looking, and it was the Fifth who looked away first. The whole exchange took less than twenty seconds.

Giles suddenly found himself gasping for air; he had been holding his breath during those twenty seconds, though he hadn’t realized it at the time. His legs felt suddenly weak and the cool morning air was now clammy. It is not an easy thing to meet the eyes of a man whose sole purpose in life is to kill you.

He made himself keep jogging steadily until he was out of sight of the black Mercedes before sitting down on the ground. Taking deep breaths now. Forcing his heartrate to return to normal.

I have a rendezvous with Death

At some disputed barricade...

The first phrases of an old poem he had learned years ago came unbidden to his mind, and he shook his head violently. Morbid thoughts are not going to get me anywhere. It is time to think of a plan. To make concise and definite strategies, solutions that will be effective.

Of course, that’s what I’ve been trying to do for two days now.

Giles entered his apartment some ten minutes later, slipping into what the children called ‘research mode.’ Books, papers, notes, and his own substantial memory were all called into play as he searched for information on the Fifth: their training, their purpose, any weaknesses--there was frustratingly little in this category--all he could find.

A Fifth could be anyone; whatever their own skills and personality might have been before vanished quickly before the combination of brainwashing, hypnosis, drugs, spells, and combat practice that was Fifth training. Albert McAllister, whoever he might once have been, had been replaced by a ruthless hunter whose only purpose was to kill; a living, breathing machine programmed with knowledge of explosives, weapons, hand to hand combat...anything that would help him to murder. Along the way, the conscience was conveniently abolished, replaced by a desire to fulfill his mission that was far beyond simple obsession. A Fifth would die before abandoning his mission.

Well, shit.

Once their task was finished, a Fifth was usually destroyed by his own Council--it could be years before someone else ‘needed’ assassinating, and a Fifth without a focus was a dangerous thing to try to keep on hand. So stupid, he mused, for this man to kill me with his only reward being death by the men who sent him.

Well, stupid or not, it’s going to happen unless I do something. But what? Come on, man, you can do better than this! If--

He was interrupted by his apartment door opening and he froze. He hadn’t locked the door--it wouldn’t do any good against a Fifth--and he turned, heart pounding, to see--

"Hi, Giles!" Buffy and her friends said cheerfully.

"Bloody hell..." he breathed. Nervous much, as Buffy might say? Get a hold of yourself, old man.

"Something wrong, G-man? You look like you just saw someone trying to kill you or something," Xander said casually, heading into the kitchen.

"Is it that obvious?" he muttered to himself.

"Did you say something, Mr. Giles?" said Wesley Wyndham-Price, who had just entered the room with Cordelia on his arm and a very satisfied expression on his face.

"Er, no. Hello, everyone," he said wearily, turning back to his desk.

"So what is today, Giles? Casual Friday?" Buffy said with a smirk, gesturing at his clothes. He looked down, puzzled, to find himself still in sweats and a T-shirt from jogging this morning. This morning?! He looked out the window to see that night had already fallen. Good Lord! Had he really been researching all day?

"Have to admit, I never thought I’d see Tweedman himself in a T-shirt," Cordelia said with a frankly appraising glance. "Well, now instead of being an utterly nerdy and geeky loser, you’re just a mildly unfashionable loser. Maybe Wesley is having a good influence on you. Perhaps if you hang around him long enough, you’ll even develop a sense of fashion," Cordelia said sweetly.

Normally Giles would have ignored the insult, but it had been a long day... "And perhaps if you hang around him long enough, you’ll develop a sense of intelligence, Cordelia," he retorted sarcastically.

A shocked silence filled the room.

"I say, old man, that was, um...a bit harsh, don’t you think?" said Wesley nervously.

"I think I deserve an apology!" Cordelia protested.

"Yes, you do. When Hell freezes over, and pigs fly--Wesley being the Head Pig, since he has just about enough qualifications for the job," Giles replied evenly.

"Like, what is your personality disorder?" Cordelia said angrily, not waiting for an answer as she stomped out of the room.

"Cordelia! Corde--Er, um, yes, well, I’ll uh, just see you all tomorrow," Wesley said, before running after Cordelia. "Cordelia! Cordelia, do wait for me, won’t you? Uh, Cordelia? Cordeliaaaaaa!"

Xander broke the silence first. "Whoa, Giles. I’m sensing some buried anger here. You know they say venting is a good thing."

"Xander, shut up. Or the only thing buried around here is going to be you," Giles snapped.

"Yessir shutting up sir," Xander squeaked.

Giles sighed. "I’m sorry, Xander. I didn’t mean to snap...it’s just...been a long day." And bound to be much longer before it’s finished, I think. He sighed again. All that research, and only tidbits found--mostly stuff he already knew, at that.

"I can see that," Willow said, exchanging a worried glance with Oz, and looking around at the books, nearly a hundred, lying open on desk, table, chairs. Papers were scattered throughout the clutter along with Watcher journals and notes, records, diaries, and old letters. "Giles, if you needed some research done, you could’ve called me. I would have been glad to help," Willow said, taking in the state of the apartment; his rumpled appearance; the dark hollows under his eyes.

"No," he said quickly. "Quite--quite all right. Very kind of you to offer, but, but really, I’ve got everything under control here."

"You’re sure? I could look something up on the computer for you--" she said anxiously.

"No. Really, Willow, everything is fine. This isn’t even that important; just...just some personal research. No prophecies or anything."

"Uh-huh," said Buffy skeptically. "I’m betting it has something to do with that guy who showed up three days ago. You’ve been acting really strange ever since. Giles, what the heck is going on?!"

"NOTHING! I swear to God, Buffy, if you ask me one more bloody time what is wrong, I am going to get in my car and drive off of a cliff!"

"Assuming your car would make it to a cliff," Buffy countered. "Spill, Giles!"

"No, and there will be no further discussion on the topic. What are you all doing here?" he asked wearily, clearing off a few chairs so they could sit down.

"I’m going to get it out of you one way or another, Giles," Buffy said determinedly.

"You’re welcome to try. What are you all doing here?" he repeated firmly.

Buffy sighed. "We were about to go on patrol and we were just checking in first."

"We?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah, we’re keeping Buffy company in the boring darkness of the cemetery, since she gets so bored there, cause it’s boring, and did I mention that it was boring?" Xander said.

"Yes, repeatedly," Giles muttered, putting his glasses back on with a sigh. "Well, I don’t need to tell you to be careful, now do I? Have fun." He stopped, thinking about what he had just said. "Well, not fun, just...oh, bother. You know what I mean."

"Gotcha, Giles. We’ll drop by after patrol. See you in a few," Buffy called over her shoulder, as she, Xander, Oz and Willow left.

"Mmmm," was Giles’s only response as he turned back to one of his books.

Buffy and the others were about a block away when a sleek Mercedes-Benz drove by in the direction of Giles’s apartment. "Hmm. Wonder what a car like that’s doing in Sunnyhell?" Xander wondered. Buffy and Willow shrugged. Oz didn’t respond.

Suddenly, Buffy stopped and clapped a hand to her head. "Jeez, I am so stupid! I left my stakes at Giles’s!"

"So?" said Xander. "I thought we were going to the Bronze, and we were lying to Giles about the patrolling."

"We were, but if he sees the stakes, he’s gonna know I didn’t really go patrolling," Buffy grimaced. "I’d better go back and get them," she sighed.

They turned around and started heading back to Giles’s apartment. They were within sight of it, when the Mercedes-Benz passed them again, going in the other direction. Buffy stared after it, a sudden not-good feeling in the pit of her stomach, before frowning and turning back to the apartment.

It exploded.

Giles stared in frozen horror at the burning building. The trash bag dropped from his numb fingers.

I was in there. If that blast had come thirty seconds ago, I would be dead now.

He looked after the car, rapidly speeding away from the remains of his apartment, as he felt an old, familiar anger start to grow. How dare they.

He had just stepped outside to take out the trash, which, after a day of being the receptacle of old papers and wasted research notes, was full to overflowing. Then the blast had come, his apartment behind him exploding into flame and he had turned, aghast, to see the holocaust of fire that his home had become. His home. A thousand memories, over three years in that apartment, his books, his papers, his life was in that smoldering ruin falling in on itself and collapsing. The desk that he had researched on a hundred times, finding some clue to help Buffy live through the night. The bed he had found Jenny dead upon--a painful memory, but still a part of him, still an important part of his life. The grandfather clock--it had been his back in England, and it had been incredibly expensive to ship it into the States, but he had done it anyway, and paid the extra, because it reminded him of home. All of it gone.

His home. His life. Gone.

"This part of your life is over, Rupert..." Cairo's words echoing mockingly in his head.

Buffy anxiously searched through the rubble, ignoring the fact that some things she touched were still burning. "Giles? Giles!" she called out, worried now. Maybe he had gotten knocked unconscious, she hoped. Maybe that's why he wasn't answering.

Suddenly, her hands closed on something melted and warped. She was about to toss it over her shoulder when she realized what it was: Giles's glasses.

Giles watched his Slayer fall to the ground, sobbing. What...? Oh. She thinks I'm dead.

"Buffy!" he called. "Buffy, it's alright, I'm--" He trailed off as he realized she couldn't hear him over the distance between them. He started walking toward her, anxious to let her know he was okay, when he suddenly stopped, seeing Willow and the others crowd around Buffy, holding her. They...they think I'm dead.

"You must fake your death and then disappear...They would have to think you dead as well...you must die to them..." Cairo said softly in his memory. He shook his head, denying this, the perfect opportunity to leave and live...

But if he stayed. If he stayed.

He hadn't at first been able to convince himself the Fifth could bring himself to hurt them, but the burning apartment in front of him and the sirens starting to sound in the distance were compelling evidence. It had only been luck that Oz, Xander, Willow, and Buffy had already been gone by the time the blast came. He suddenly felt sick. What if they had been in there when the apartment exploded? He closed his eyes at the thought of his young friends' bodies lying dead and smoking in the rubble. If he stayed, he'd only be exposing them to that...the chance of that.

It was time to leave Sunnydale.

A block away, the driver of the Mercedes-Benz coolly watched a fire engine go by from their parked position. "Sir...?" he said after a moment, hesitating to disrupt the Fifth's moody silence.

"No. I saw him. He's still alive," Albert McAllister said colorlessly, without any sign as to whether this infuriated him, amused him, irritated him, bored him, or pleased him. He returned his gaze to the window, the burning apartment outside reflected in his sky-blue eyes, and murmured softly, to himself, "But not for long."

The black Mercedes-Benz slowly drove away into the night.

The next day found Rupert Giles thirty miles away from Sunnydale. He had waited in the shadows behind his apartment, waited and waited until Buffy had finally allowed herself to be led away from the rubble by her friends, only slightly less distraught than her. More waiting, until the firemen had left, until the police had looked through the wreckage to their satisfaction, until the curious neighbors, standing by in bathrobes and slippers, were also satisfied and had returned to their homes, and it was two in the morning by the time he had finally crept out, slipped under the yellow tape surrounding the still smoking remains of his home, and found the still mostly intact cellar doors--a cellar was a rare thing in an apartment, but his apartment had had an unusual floor plan.

He had had to try and pick the old padlock, since the key was hopelessly lost in the ruins of the first and second floors. It would not yield to the piece of wire he found, though, and he had finally kicked in the doors, busting the hinges. Downstairs, then, in the pitch black of it--the electricity no longer worked--and fumbling around in the undamaged cellar until he found the flashlight with the nearly dead batteries, then holding it in his mouth while he gathered the few things that were of any use to him now--some dangerous spellbooks he had kept here rather than risking Willow stumbling across them upstairs; an old leather jacket and other clothes he hadn't wanted to part with, but also didn't want to keep upstairs; some fake passports and documents needed for false identities; and, finally, in a box with a small lock that he had also lost the key to, but which shattered fairly easily when hit with a wrench, some weapons from the days as Ripper--the .44 Magnum he hadn't used in years and the Bowie knife with the eight inch blade and the jagged edge that had earned him the title Ripper (or at least that had been part of the reason). Lastly, changing into a pair of faded jeans and stuffing everything into a canvas duffel bag that would be easy to carry. Then slipping into the night.

Old reflexes took over, from the years when he had run from Watchers, from his father, and it was with a strange sense of deja vu that he found himself once again moving through the night, walking along the freeways, hunted again. Instincts kicking in. Avoid people--the more you make contact with, the easier it is to trace you. Don't walk by any shadow without first making sure it doesn't hold an enemy. Keep moving. Always moving.

So it was that he had covered thirty miles by two o'clock in the afternoon. His legs had been aching for hours now, but he forced himself to keep moving on the northbound freeway for ten more minutes before sitting down by the side of the road and sliding the canvas pack off his shoulder. He had no food, he realized, and he was ravenously hungry--he hadn't eaten in well over twenty-four hours--and very little money, most of it in something other than dollars. He couldn't risk getting money from his regular bank account--the Fifth would be watching it--and he sighed, leaning his head back against the freeway guard rail and closing his eyes. No one said this was going to be easy. Get up and--

"Hey, buddy, you need a ride?" A friendly voice interrupted his reverie and he opened his eyes to see a somewhat battered red pickup stopped in front of him. A young woman wearing a cowboy hat was leaning over to look out the passenger window, chewing on an unlit cigarette and looking at him questioningly. What the hell. Rupert Giles got to his feet.

"I could probably use a ride, yes," he said wearily.

"Well, hop in. Plenty of room. You're British, huh? Neat," she yelled out over the blasting country music, which she then turned down.

He threw his pack in the back and got in the cab, sinking into the plush "zebra" upholstery and observing with a faint smile the numerous items hanging from the dash mirror, including but not limited to a Navajo dreamcatcher, a rabbit's foot, and dice. The truck had...interesting decor, to say the least. "Thanks," he said gratefully, meaning it. "There aren't too many people who would just pick up a stranger on the side of the road, especially women. It's pretty dangerous, you know. There's a lot of strange people out there," he said in a half-warning, half-sardonic tone as she gunned the engine.

She grinned as she pulled out haphazardly into the traffic, which was thick enough for several drivers to honk indignantly at her. Her response was to yell several derogatory comments out her rolled down window, before turning back to the him. "Aw, shoot. I done enough hitching rides that I know which people are pervs and which ones are just ordinary folk. I also done enough hitchin' that I know what it's like to watch cars go by and your feet are achin' and burnin' like the devil's own fire. Yessir, I definitely know what that's like," she said, switching hands on the wheel so she could shake his, saying easily, "My name's Jodie Bridges."

"Rupert Giles," he said without thinking, then mentally berated himself for it. Oh well, no help for it now, he thought, taking her hand and managing a smile. He hadn't smiled in what seemed like forever, but her good nature was infectious. "So, you picked me up out of sympathy?"

"Hell, who said sympathy had anything to do with it? I don't need sympathy to pick up a tall, handsome, green-eyed hunk like yourself. And with a British accent. If I find out you're a musician too, well, I guess it's just my lucky day," she grinned cockily.

"Guitar, drums, some piano," he said with a faint smile, leaning his head back against the seat.

She laughed heartily, tossing her head, red curls bouncing. "So, Rupert Giles who plays the guitar, drums, and some piano, where you goin' to?"

"Well, for right now, San Fransisco. After that, it depends on what works out, I guess. What about you?" he said, careful not to give too much away. She seemed trustworthy, but you never knew...

"Kinda just drivin' I guess. Call it a road trip. Came up from Dallas after an ex-boyfriend made the town too painful to hang around. So long, Joey Tesch and the entire state of Texas," she said cheerfully. "Got a friend who's moved up to Seattle, so mebbe I'll drop in on her and see the coast on my way up. Hear them surfer boys in California are not to be missed.

"So, where's your guitar at, R.J.? You don't mind if I call you that, do ya?"

"Not a bit," he said, not bothering to tell her it was spelled with a G. "And my guitar is somewhere in England, I think. I left a lot of stuff there when I came to the States."

"Yeah? How long you been in the god-blessed US of A?" she asked.

He thought for a minute. "About three years, I suppose."

"What do ya think of it?"

"Mmm…Big."

She laughed. "Yeah. Beautiful country, though, ya know?"

"Not really. I haven’t traveled much…"

"You should go to Texas. Most bee-yoo-ti-full spot on all of God’s green earth," she said, spitting the now mangled cigarette out the window and reaching for a fresh one from a pack on the dash. "You want a ciggy, R.J.? Or do you English not smoke?"

"I used to. I quit," he admitted.

"Now why'd you go and do sumpin' stoopid like that? Well, I hope ya don't mind if I light up," she drawled.

"It's your car."

"Truck, R.J. Truck. Never car. First thing you gotta learn when dealing with us Texans. You never call this a car," she said with mock anger, thumping the dashboard. He laughed, momentarily forgetting all the painful reasons he was here anyway.

"All right, Jodie. Truck it is."

"Good boy. So, R.J....you gotta girlfriend?"

Country music filled the cab as the truck sped north, away from Sunnydale.

* * * * *

Rupert Giles waved a farewell to a battered red pickup as it drove away down the freeway, smiling to himself as it swerved wildly into the traffic. He had covered a lot of ground by accepting Jodie's offer of a ride; five o'clock and he was only ten miles away from San Francisco. And they had stopped for burgers, which meant he wasn't hungry anymore. He sighed, looked up at the cloudy sky, adjusted his pack and started walking again.

It was an hour later when he saw the bus stopped a few hundred yards away on the road, and he tensed as he walked towards it. It's possible the Watchers are searching public transportation for me, he thought grimly, suddenly hearing in his head Buffy's mocking 'Paranoid much?'. A sad smile crossed his face for a brief second, but he instantly shoved the memory away. If he stopped to think of her, if he let himself think of Buffy now, he knew there would be no way he could go any further. And besides, when an assassin is trying to kill you, there is no such thing as too paranoid.

He was up to the bus now, and carefully observed the people inside, viewing them the way hunted people have a tendency to do: as possible hunters.

Giles made his way to the door. The driver, an elderly black man, stood outside the door, wiping greasy hands on a cloth and looking tired.

"Engine trouble?" Giles asked, and the bus driver looked up, startled. "Oh. Yeah. Oil leak. Fixed now," he said with a weary grin. "And man, are dem passengers complaining! You t'ink dey never hear o' buses breakin' down befoh," he said with a wry smile.

Giles waged a brief war in his head for a moment. "How much is fare?" he questioned, ache in legs winning out over sense in head.

"Weeell, this ain't 'zackly a bus stop, but seeing how night's comin' on an' it looks like rain...aw, jes' you get in, and it don't matter none," the man grinned.

"Thank you," Giles said fervently, climbing with relief into the bus, thankful there weren't that many people inside. He made his way to the back, plopping not so gracefully into an empty seat.

He set the pack down and leaned back in the seat, turning his head to look out the window as a car sped by. Buffy--he thought, seeing a flash of blond hair, but it only took him a moment to realize the girl in the automobile wasn't Buffy; that he was doing exactly what he had done the summer she ran away: seeing her everywhere, every face reminding him of hers. He sighed and leaned back again, looking around him.

No one was any nearer to him than five seats, and that was fine with him. He started to slowly relax for the first time in three and a half days. Nothing to occupy him: no immediate threat of death; he wasn't moving though suburbs in the early morning hours; there was little chance of a black car driving up and the passenger gunning him to death; there was no Jodie to talk to and stay tense around, warily analyzing her speech and at the same time allowing it to keep his mind from the pain of doing this, of leaving Sunnydale and running. None of that now.

He was relatively sure he was safe then, sitting in the darkened back of an inconspicuous bus, having left a trail, that, even if the Fifth were to think him alive, would be hard to follow. He was momentarily secure; the threat of death temporarily far away.

Then and only then did he allow himself to cry. Silently, sitting in the back of an old Greyhound, Giles let the tears flow freely down his cheeks as he thought of Willow, always so cheerful, so strong, so sweet; her skill with magic and the Internet. He thought of Xander, his humor and love of food, his pretended cowardice when he was truthfully quite brave. He thought of Oz, his calmness and quiet intelligence. Even Cordelia and Wesley, as annoying, in their own ways, as they could each be, he would miss.

But most of all, he thought of Buffy. Her strength, her good humour, her smile, her stubbornness, her courage, her love of life, her...her everything. Everything about her; everything he loved. Thought of her there in the ruins of his apartment, crying and crumpled.

He tried to tell himself that this was the only way; tried to rationalize it to his broken heart. But no matter the explanations, the cold, damnably correct logic of it; the pain in his chest--that, up til now, he had managed to put into a little box in the back of his heart, shut tight and locked--would not go away.

A raindrop spattered against his window and he leaned back into the bus seat, a long, shuddering sigh escaping him, but he did not try to quell his tears. They welled up in his eyes and at the back of his throat, choking him as he stared mutely at his reflection in the window, wondering what sort of coward he saw there.

The rain falls hard in California.


The bus pulled to a stop, splashing through puddles as the brakes squealed. The last passenger got off, a tall, handsome man dressed in jeans with a tired expression. The bus driver leaned towards him. "You sure you wanna get off here, son? Dis ain't the best parta town, you know. 'Specially at night," he said with concern.

"I'll be alright," the man said with a British accent. "Thanks for the ride."

"Yeah, well, you be careful now, son, you hear?"

"Yes, thanks," the Englishman said as the doors closed and the bus drove away. He shivered once in cool night air of San Francisco, getting out a leather jacket from his bag and slipping it on. He walked away from the bus stop, moving down the street, ignoring the raindrops that still fell occasionally.

This was not the same man who had been a quiet librarian in a small town. That man had died in an apartment, had died in the long flight during the night, had died in the back of a bus. This man moved differently; eyes harsh and tired and jaw set. This was someone else.

He had cried on the bus, letting his life of the last few years slip away with his grief. But the time for tears was past; that life was over. That life had ended at the hands of an assassin.

Now he was returning to the life he had lived before becoming a Watcher. There is a subculture in America today--actually, the whole globe. It is a world of power and crime, of drugs and money, and, most importantly, of magic. Inhabited by people from every social class, from every race and walk of life, from the street conjurers and everyday occultists to world famous magicians to the rich and super-rich who dabble in the arcane. If you knew which of your neighbors were a part of this world, you would be surprised; which of your senators, your religious leaders, your teachers, your co-workers...Though there are no official numbers, the population is believed to number in the hundred millions. Involvement can range from being a casual, once a month citizen to making it your life's work. The serious members of the group are divided into clans, often at odds with each other, sometimes to the point of violence, not unlike street gangs or families in the Mafia, though this society is so much more extensive and powerful than that, it should frighten you. This world is the Inferno.

It has been called so by her inhabitants for many reasons. Some say it gets its basis from the Divine Comedy of Errors, by Dante Alighieri, also known as Dante's Inferno. Indeed, there are similarities; the clans are known as Rings, just as there are Rings of Hell in Dante's depiction of it.

Others say the real reason it is called the Inferno is because you tend to get badly burned. By the temptations that exist there, the lure of money and drugs and lust and power, of both the worldly kind and the supernatural kind. By the rivalries and the wars, the struggles for dominance.

It is a mistake to think you can play with fire and never get burned. This was the world Rupert Giles planned to return to. He had been introduced there by Ethan Rayne, welcomed there by her members, befriended by the assassin Cobra, and made an impression there by no one but himself. He had been somewhat fascinating to those he had met there; a renegade Watcher, a member of group they resented who had thrown off the yoke of 'destiny' and entered this world of rebels and violence. He had been made welcome in many Rings. In some circles, he had even been thought something of a hero.

It had been the psychedelic seventies, when rebellion was the greatest of virtues, though many people of the Inferno did not care for the popular dreams of peace and the Age of Aquarius. They had already known about hemp and opium for centuries, and knew how to manipulate wars and reap the profits far too well to wish an age of peace upon the world. The older Rings had been content to supply the drugs for this new generation of junkies.And for many of those junkies, drugs were all they wished. But for a few, the rush, the high, was not enough. They wanted the real thing, not just illusions of power. And to these, the Inferno catered magicks.

Ethan Rayne and Rupert Giles had fit into this latter category, dragging several of their young friends with them. They had dabbled, gotten high, gotten drunk, gotten killed. The ones who had survived had ran. Or at least the wise ones had: Dierdre and Philip. Ethan and Ripper had still thought the promise of power worth the risk. It had been another year until Ripper had seen enough of the Inferno, as he had thought at the time, to last him a lifetime. He had gone home.

But now he was coming back.

A return to the dark age.


The leader of the four young men lounging against the Taco Bell's wall, next to the graffiti-covered payphone, took a long drag of his cigarette, silently looking out into the light drizzle.

"This sucks, man. Let's get inside," a member of his gang known as Dawg said, bored.

"Yeah, we could always rob Taco Bell. Think about it. We get the money, that little cashier girl--aw man, she gotta fine ass--and free burritos. Yo quiero Taco Bell," another snickered.

"Shut up," their leader snapped. "You mother fuckers really as stupid as you look? I swear, you assholes make rocks look like goddam geniuses." The gang lapsed into silence for a few minutes, then the one who hadn't yet spoken said timidly, "Mick, they sorta gotta point. It's goddamn raining out. No one's gonna be comin' by this tima night. So we may as well be inside, man..." he trailed off, realizing that Mick was ignoring him.

"'No one's gonna be comin,' huh? Well guess what, idiot, I see us a brand new playmate comin' this way," he said contemptuously, pointing out into the rain, where a lone man carrying a duffel bag was walking in the general direction of the fast food joint. "Uh, you sure, Mick?" said Dawg, eyeing the stranger. "He looks...kinda..."

"Kinda what?" Mick sneered. "Tough? Oooh, the guy's wearing a leather jacket and big, bad Dawg turns all little girlie on me. You mothers are such a buncha wusses. Come on, you dumb shits," he muttered, striding out towards the figure. The others shrugged and followed.

Ripper watched idly as the four men he had noticed earlier rose from their positions at the wall and started toward him. A faint, humorless smile started to grow on his face as he automatically pulled the Bowie knife from its sheath.

"Hey, mister, you gotta few bucks you could spare for some hot meals," their obvious leader drawled.

"No, can't say that I do. Why don't you shove off," Ripper replied in a
pleasant tone, eyes ice cold as he tossed his bag a few feet away so it
wouldn't interfere with his fighting. Their leader grinned.

"It wasn't a question, Brit."

"Neither was mine."

"Oooh, gettin' aggressive, are we?" the other man smirked. "Dawg, Jay, take this mother down."

Two of the group that had surrounded him, presumably 'Dawg and Jay,' rushed him, one from either side. He moved into the attack of the one on his right, crouching down and flipping the younger man over himself and into the other mugger. They both went sprawling. Ripper turned back to the leader in time to roll with his punch and struck out with his knife, deftly slashing Mick's wrist open, then reflexively whipping the knife back and into his throat. Mick started to scream but it came out as a gurgle, blood jetting from the ripped open throat.

Ripper snarled and dodged too late as the fourth man plowed into him from behind, taking them both to the ground and knocking Ripper's knife loose. They rolled about for a few seconds, the gang member landing a few glancing blows before Ripper managed to bring his knees up and kick the man off him. The Englishman got to his feet just in time to see Dawg picking up his fallen knife and swinging at him.

Ripper ducked a little too late and felt a sharp burning line open across his forehead as the blade's tip grazed across the skin. He snarled and delivered a sharp kick to Dawg's knee, grinning ferally as the joint shattered under his foot. Dawg started to fall, screaming, and Ripper grabbed his hand, viciously moving the wrist in a quick snapping movement. The dull pop of bone breaking and the knife fell to the ground.

A fist slammed into his ribs and he grunted, blindly lashing out with his fist and was rewarded when it encountered the cartilage of someone's nose. The man screaming as his nose crumpled, blood pouring down his face, and Ripper brought his elbow down hard into chest, sternum splintering, the man falling limply like cooked spaghetti.

The one who tackled him is up again and moving and with one fluid movement Ripper grabs the knife up off of the asphalt (I scrape my knuckles in the process) and brings it into the man's gut stops his charge. Stops it dead. Man gasping, his hands moving to his stomach and the crimson liquid pouring out there, the blade imbedded in him up to the hilt, and Ripper pulls it out sideways, steel ripping the flesh and sinews like so much meat...

And then Ripper is the only one standing there, breathing heavily, blood streaming down one side of his face and into his eyes and the knife is in his hand, slick with blood. The rain has picked up again and is falling on the hard black asphalt, mixing with the blood there, the blood that's pooling on the street. One man standing and there is so much blood. The adrenaline that had carried him through the fight was gone now, and like an automaton he stumbled mechanically towards the Taco Bell.


Inside, the two cashiers at the counter and the only customer looked at the man entering: wearing a leather jacket, holding a knife dripping blood. One of the employees swore under his breath.

"Come on, man, you ain't gonna hold us up, are you? Cause, man, it's just been a really shitty day, and you decide to rob us, not only are you not gonna get a lotta cash, but it's probably gonna be the only reason left my boss needs to fire me now, considering how many days I been late this month, and I mean, God, I really need this job, so come on just give us all a break, huh?" he pleaded in the tone of one who doesn't really think his words are gonna have any effect.

"Or kill us," his female co-worker put in. "Cause if you're runnin' from a crime or some shit, we didn't see nothin'. Not a damn thing. So we're not witnesses. So you know, you don't need to kill us."

It vaguely penetrated to Giles that someone was addressing him. What the hell are they going on about? he thought numbly, then gave up the effort of trying to understand them.

"Oh Christ, he's gonna kill us," muttered the girl.

"Maybe we can wrestle him to the ground," said the boy doubtfully. "He doesn't look too good--probably on crack. See, his eyes aren't focusing. Hey, he's bleeding."

Giles shook his head and stumbled into the restroom.

"Hey, maybe he's not a mugger," the customer suggested, crawling out from under the table where he had dove for cover and returning to his gorditas.

There was silence in the room as the three occupants mused on it. Then they all said simultaneously, "Nahh..."