Disclaimer: I own nothing. All Buffy the Vampire Slayer characters and Sir Terry Pratchett characters are the property of their original owners.
This was supposed to be impossible.
The strongest magical wards imaginable and the indestructible physical structure of the New Council’s maximum security vault were designed to keep the contents of the ultra-strengthened room completely protected from anyone (or anything) that had no business there. This was absolutely essential considering the objects stored inside, which included this secret organization’s records, treasures, magical items, dangerous weapons seized from their foes, and Dawn Summers’ blackmail photos of Willow, Xander, and Faith celebrating their victory with a drunken, late-night revel in the Trevi Fountain, every one of the trio sans clothing but still armed to the teeth after a successful NC mission that saved the entire city of Rome from a demonic invasion.
Right now, though, Buffy Summers was about to carry out some serious violence against the tall figure in the hooded black robe with their back presently turned to the blonde woman standing in the vault’s open doorway. At the forefront of a mob of superhuman girls who were only waiting for their leader’s word to attack, the longest-living Slayer then viciously snarled at the intruder still examining something held in their arms: “Put the Scythe down, NOW!
For a few seconds more, the black-clad person continued its inspection, as if it hadn’t heard Buffy at all, until the misnamed axe that had helped to change the supernatural world into someplace better was gently returned to its place on the table in the middle of the room. At the same time, an oddly familiar voice now spoke in a strong Australian accent, with the sound of crypt doors slamming shut also lurking in this tone, all coming from the robed figure beginning to turn around.
“THAT’S NOT A SCYTHE.”
Now fully facing the crowd of dumbstruck females, a seven-foot-tall skeleton in his midnight-black robes made a nonchalant gesture with his fleshless right hand, to instantly hold in his steady grip a common pre-industrial farmer’s working tool that had appeared out of thin air. However, most of the usual types of this crop-cutting implement didn’t have a mystical blue glow running along the entire curved blade. As the eyes of every Slayer there immediately became fixed upon that awesome item, they also heard another casual comment in that still very memorable voice with the antipodean accent:
After those last words, the entire inhabitants of the room remained frozen in their tracks, until the skeleton then fractionally shifted in his position, managing by this to somehow convey a mood of sheer incredulity about what he’d just said. Tilting his skull as if actually thinking over the events of the last few minutes, the skeleton then soundlessly vanished from the vault.
Two minutes later, a man was slammed back against the corridor wall, held up high in the air by a slim hand gripping his throat that left this wheezing male’s feet helplessly dangling a few inches off the tiled floor. Right after that, Buffy gritted, “Talk.”
Over the last few years since Sunnydale, Andrew Wells had become a little bit more mature, incredible as that might seem, but he was still dumb enough to think he could bluster his way out of this.
“Why is it supposed to be my
Buffy lowered her arm effortlessly holding Andrew, so that the soles of his shoes again met the floor, except she then began to shove down with her hand still clutching that man’s throat. This forced the geek to bend his knees as he slid downwards against the corridor wall, until Andrew and Buffy were finally at eye level. Leaning closer until she was nose-to-nose with the other Sunnydale survivor, the irate Slayer simply stared balefully right into Andrew’s face, not saying a single word.
It took, as a certain Vulcan might have expressed it, only three point four five seconds for him to break. Still, Andrew did manage to put an actual whine in his voice, as he at last confessed, “Listen, all I wanted to do was to read my book in peace and quiet in the rec room, after I waited all month for Pratchett’s newest Discworld novel--”
There wasn’t the faintest flicker of sympathy on Buffy’s set features.
Gulping, Andrew continued, “--and I even asked politely a few times for the Slayers watching their movie at full blast on the big-screen tv across the room to turn it down--”
A gleam of malevolent impatience began to manifest itself in the listening woman’s eyes, indicating that there had better be an actual point to this, presented as soon as possible.
“--and, uh, at that part right after the line was said in ‘Crocodile Dundee’, I might have, off the top of my head, made a teeny-tiny wish-- GLURK!
As her fingers tightened around Andrew’s throat, that man who’d just done the unforgivable in summoning a wish-granting demon then closed his eyes and prepared for the sudden end of his existence. Not with a prayer, but with a deep regret for missing whatever future creations of George Lucas that might come to pass. However, an entirely different action instead occurred, which this king of the dweebs wasn’t expecting at all.
First, Buffy abruptly let go of Andrew’s throat.
His eyes opening wide in sheer shock, the man who’d just been about to be strangled now gaped at where the blonde woman was thoughtfully regarding him. Next, Buffy Summers did something else totally unbelievable, not merely to Andrew Wells, but to the rest of the Slayers clustered further down the corridor and watching with utter fascination all that was taking place.
The young lady who’d survived seven years on the Sunnydale Hellmouth now reached out and she gently patted Andrew’s right cheek several times, cooing to him while performing this truly unexpected act, “Hey, no harm, no foul. See you at lunch, Andrew.”
After saying this, Buffy turned away from the stunned man and she headed down the corridor, passing through and gathering up after herself the other Slayers, with the rest of those departing females presently giving their leader absolutely dumbfounded stares concerning what’d just happened.
Equally astonished was the man left behind in the corridor and rubbing his bruised throat. It was only after Buffy and her forces were further down the corridor that they heard from a bewildered Andrew as he choked out, “You’re not mad anymore about the whole thing?”
Continuing to stroll along while calling over her shoulder as the other Slayers listened, Buffy cheerfully spoke, “Nope. What for? After all, it was you
who’s to blame for everything, which means you’re
the one that Death from the Discworld is going to take a personal interest in, what with him being yanked from his job there into our dimension and having to say Paul Hogan’s lines just because you made a stupid wish. Like I said, see you at lunch. Maybe.”
The evil grin that slowly spread over Buffy’s face was now shared among the rest of the Slayers, when all of the warrior women then heard the terrified whimper suddenly uttered by the young man standing back there and finally realizing his horrible mistake.