Cold stone pressed against my cheek. My eyes fluttered open, vision swimming; I remembered her smile—sharp, triumphant—as the darkness swallowed me.
Now iron bars loomed inches from my face. A cage, my limbs heavy, the air damp and stale.
I pushed myself upright, heart pounding. Beside me, Xander Harris lay slumped against the bars, unconscious, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. We were locked together in the same cage.
Across from us, in another cage, a blond teen clutched the bars. His face was pale, twisted with terror, his knuckles white. His eyes darted toward me, wide and frantic.
"Hi, you," I whispered, my voice dry.
He did not look my way. I swallowed hard, gripping the bars. "Where are we?"
He turned to me, his expression grim. "She dragged him out of here. then she"
Before he could finish, movement rippled in the dark. A shape emerged—long, glistening, unnatural. The bug's carapace gleamed green under the faint light, its claws clicking against the stone floor.
"What the hell…"
The creature moved with deliberate precision, its claw reaching for the blond teen's cage. Metal screeched as the lock snapped open.
"No!" the boy screamed, thrashing against the bars. His voice tore through the basement, raw and desperate.
"Don't let her take me," his voice loud and shaky. "Please… I don't want to go."
The sound of his plea jolted Xander awake. His eyes flew open, confusion flashing across his face as he took in the scene. "Who are you—what, what am I doing in here?" he rasped.
The bug's claw hooked around the blond teen, dragging him out. His heels scraped against the stone, his fists pounding uselessly against the floor. His cries filled the room, piercing, until they were swallowed by the shadows beyond.
His voice stopped, but I could hear gasps and struggles coming from the shadow.
I pressed my forehead against the bars, bile rising in my throat. Xander's voice was low, shaking. "What was that?"
From the darkness, a voice drifted—smooth, silken, predatory.
She purred. "Yessss, good boy."
The gasps ended abruptly. Then came a wet splash, echoing through the basement.
Silence filled the room.
Xender whispered, "What is?"
"Shh," I stopped him, trying to hear what was going on in the dark.
Then the giant green bug emerged from the shadows. Her body stretched unnaturally, joints bending at impossible angles. Her arms elongated into razor-sharp limbs, the sheen of green chitin glistening under the dim light. Mandibles clicked softly, hungry, as her insect eyes locked onto us.
I couldn't speak. My throat locked as I watched her moving closer, towering over the cages, her claw tapping against the iron with deliberate rhythm. The sound was sharp, like a countdown.
"Good boys," she hissed, her voice still carrying the echo of silk but layered now with a predator's rasp. "All in their places. All waiting their turn."
Her gaze slid to me, mandibles twitching. "Thank you for walking me home, Damien. That was sweet."
"Miss French…" I whispered, the name trembling on my lips.
The bug's mandibles clicked, her insect eyes gleaming. "Yes," she purred. "The feast begins."
Her claw slid between the bars, reaching.
Xander pulled me back, panic flashing in his eyes. "Don't let her touch you! Look—" He pointed past her, into the dark.
I followed his gaze.
A river of blood was flowing across the stone floor, seeping from the shadows behind her. It crept toward our cage, thick and relentless, carrying the stench of death.
"What? We are dead," I said in a panic.
With a low and clicking voice, the mantis said, "Yes, you are my little boy. But before death we shall mate."
Then glass shattered.
The basement window burst inward, shards scattering across the stone floor. A rush of cold night air swept through the room.
The blond girl from the cemetery dropped into the basement, landing hard, her eyes blazing. In her hands she carried a crossbow—sleek and deadly—and a machete that gleamed under the dim light.
"Step away from Xender," she commanded, her voice sharp and unwavering.
The insect head jerked toward her, mandibles twitching. A hiss rattled from deep within her throat, claws flexing.
Buffy raised the crossbow, the string taut, the arrow already notched. Her other hand gripped the machete, angled and ready. "You want a fight? You've got one."
Xander clutched my arm, his voice hoarse. "Buffy…"
Miss French towered over the cages, her body gleaming green under the dim light. She hissed again, claws scraping against the stone.
Buffy stepped forward, weapons steady, her eyes locked on the monster. "Let's finish this."
The monster lunged, claws slicing through the air. Buffy fired—an arrow streaked from the crossbow, striking the carapace with a sharp crack. The shaft splintered and deflected, but it staggered her back a step.
Buffy didn't hesitate. She swung the machete in a wide arc, steel clashing against chitin. Sparks flew as blade met claw. Miss French shrieked, the sound piercing, her limbs thrashing with unnatural speed.
I pressed against the bars, heart hammering, Xander clutching my arm as the fight unfolded inches away.
Miss French slashed again, claws raking across the stone, gouging deep scars. Buffy ducked low, rolling beneath the strike, then came up hard—the machete slicing across one of the mantis's arms. Green ichor sprayed, sizzling as it hit the floor.
The monster reeled, mandibles clicking furiously. She lunged again, faster, her body twisting with insect precision. Buffy raised the crossbow and loosed another arrow point-blank. This time it sank deep into the joint of her shoulder, forcing a shriek that rattled the cages.
Buffy pressed the attack, machete flashing. Each strike rang out, steel against chitin, echoing through the basement. Miss French staggered, claws flailing, ichor dripping in thick rivulets.
Xander's voice cracked beside me. "She's winning… that's our Buffy."
Buffy's eyes blazed, her stance unyielding. "Stay down. I'll finish this."
Miss French hissed, mandibles snapping, her body coiling for one last lunge. Buffy braced herself, machete raised, crossbow angled, ready to strike again.
Buffy fired—the crossbow arrow streaked across the basement, sinking deep into the joint of her thorax. The monster shrieked, staggering back, ichor spraying in thick rivulets.
Buffy didn't hesitate. She dropped the crossbow, gripped the machete with both hands, and charged. Steel clashed against chitin, sparks flying as she hacked through one of the mantis arms. Green blood sprayed, splattering across her face and clothes.
The mentis reeled, mandibles clicking furiously, claws thrashing. She lunged again, but Buffy ducked low, rolling beneath the strike, then came up hard—her machete slicing across her abdomen.
The monster shrieked, ichor pouring out in a torrent, coating Buffy in sticky green blood. She pressed the attack, every strike ringing out, steel against insect shell.
"Don't touch my friends, you monsters!" Buffy shouted, her voice fierce, her eyes blazing.
The bug staggered, her body convulsing, mandibles snapping wildly. Buffy raised the machete high, her stance unyielding. With a final cry, she brought the blade down in a brutal arc, splitting through the carapace.
The mantis shrieked one last time, then collapsed, green blood gushing across the stone floor, splattering Buffy from head to toe.
Silence fell, broken only by the drip of ichor and the ragged sound of our breathing.
Buffy stood over the corpse, machete dripping, her chest heaving. She wiped the blood from her eyes, her voice steady. "It's over."
I pressed against the bars, trembling, my heart still hammering. Xander slumped beside me, pale and shaken, his eyes wide as he stared at Buffy.
The basement door creaked open.
"Buffy!" Willow's voice rang out, sharp with panic. She rushed down the steps, her eyes widening at the sight of the shattered window, the cages, and the mangled body sprawled across the floor.
Behind her, a man descended more carefully, his face grim, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. "Dear Lord…" he muttered, adjusting his glasses.
Buffy wiped the blood from her face with the back of her arm. Her fierce expression softened into relief as her eyes found Xander. "Xander," she breathed, joy breaking through the battle-hard mask.
Willow rushed to the cages, fumbling with the locks, her hands trembling. "Xander—are you okay?" Her voice cracked with panic.
Xander managed a weak grin, though his voice was hoarse. "I've been better."
The old man descended the steps behind her, careful and deliberate. His glasses caught the dim light as he surveyed the carnage. "Dear Lord…" Giles muttered, his tone grave, eyes narrowing at the mangled body sprawled across the stone floor.
Buffy turned, machete still dripping green ichor, her chest heaving. "She's dead," she said firmly, though her voice carried exhaustion.
The basement was silent except for the drip of ichor and the ragged breaths of those still alive. The river of blood had slowed, pooling beneath the shattered remains of Miss French. The stench was suffocating, but the danger was gone.
Willow's hands finally found the right mechanism, and with a sharp click, the lock gave way. The cage door swung open. Xander stumbled forward, catching himself against Buffy's shoulder. She steadied him, her eyes softening. "I've got you."
I followed, my legs weak, every nerve still buzzing from the fight. Giles' gaze lingered on me, sharp and assessing, before shifting back to Buffy. "You did well," he said quietly, though his voice carried the weight of something unspoken.
Buffy nodded, then she looked at me. "This makes it two today; you sure attract trouble."
Willow's eyes darted to the shadows, her voice trembling. "What about… the boy?"
Silence fell. The blood told the story none of us wanted to say aloud.
Buffy's jaw tightened. "Will call the cop right after this; we need to get out of here."
She led the way up the stairs, weapons still in hand, every step echoing against the stone. Behind us, the basement lay in ruin—shattered glass, broken cages, and the corpse of a monster that had once worn a human face.
The night air hit me like a slap. Cold, sharp, alive. After the basement's rot and blood, it felt almost holy. I sucked it in, lungs burning, but it didn't wash away the stench clinging to my skin.
We stumbled down the porch steps. Xander leaned against Buffy, pale and shaking, Willow hovering close like she might catch him if he fell. The old man followed last, his silhouette rigid against the glow of the house behind us.
I kept my distance, my legs weak, my hands trembling. The world felt tilted, unreal. I could still hear the blond boy's screams echoing in my head, cut short by that wet splash. I could still see the river of blood creeping toward my cage.
Buffy turned, her eyes locking on mine. Even streaked with ichor, she looked steady, unbreakable. "Damien," she said, her voice firm but not unkind. "These are My friends. The Scooby Gang."
Willow gave me a nervous smile, brushing her hair back with jittery fingers. "We… we kind of fight monsters. And do homework. Sometimes both at once."
I stared at her, at the warmth in her voice, and felt something twist inside me. How could she sound so normal after what we'd just seen?
Xander raised a shaky hand, his grin crooked. "Yeah. Membership perks include trauma, late-night monster hunts, and… free pizza if we survive."
"I'm Giles." He stepped closer, his gaze sharp behind the glasses. "You've seen more tonight than most ever should. But you handled yourself."
Handled myself. I wanted to tell him I hadn't. That I'd frozen, pressed against the bars, useless while that boy was dragged away. that I'd been nothing but prey.
But Buffy's eyes held mine, steady, unyielding. "You didn't have to stop her," she said softly. "That's my job. Yours was surviving—and you did."
Her words cut through the noise in my head. Surviving. That was all I'd done. But it was enough for her.
The night pressed close, shadows thick at the edges of the street. I felt the weight of it, the truth of it: monsters were real, and I was in their world now.
Willow's voice broke the silence, gentle, almost kind. "You're not alone anymore."
I looked at them—Buffy, Willow, Xander, and Giles—and for the first time I felt something stir beneath the fear. Not safety. Not yet. But belonging.
Willow gave me a small smile, nervous but kind. "We'll see you tomorrow. You… you should rest."
Xander, pale and shaken, managed a crooked grin. "Yeah. Sleep. Pretend tonight was just a bad dream. Doesn't work, but hey—it's worth a shot."
Giles adjusted his glasses, his voice calm but final. "Go home, Damien. Gather your strength. We'll speak again soon."
They turned and drifted into the night, their silhouettes fading into shadow. I stood alone for a moment, the porch light buzzing above me, the weight of everything pressing down.
Then I walked. Each step felt heavy, but it was mine. The streets were empty, the air sharp, and though fear still clung to me, their voices echoed louder than the silence.
I don't know why, but Buffy's words still rang in my ears: "You're not alone anymore."
But as I walked, something twisted inside me. I wasn't Buffy. I wasn't the Slayer. I was just Damien—trapped, helpless, almost prey.
And yet…
I wanted more.
The thought rose unbidden, fierce and stubborn: I want a life like hers.
Not to replace her. Not to walk away from what I'd seen. But to stand on my own feet, to carve out my place in this town of monsters and shadows.
The street stretched ahead, long and empty. My heart still hammered, but the fear had shifted, reshaped into something else. Resolve.
I whispered it to the night, my voice low but steady. "From now on I will fight."
The words hung in the air, fragile but real.
And for the first time since the darkness swallowed me, I felt like I was moving toward something—not just away.