0 comments/ 24000 views/ 2 favorites Cincinnati Apocalypse Ch. 01 By: Cal Y. Pygia Volume II - Cincinnati Apocalypse © 2007 by Cal Y. Pygia 1 "So, ladies," the dashing, dark-haired young man asked, looking back and forth between his date, Buffy Summers, and Buffy's kid sister, Dawn, who, as usual, had tagged along on their outing, not that the youth, Nathan Wells, minded--or, at least, not much, "where to next? Pirates of the Caribbean? Splash Mountain? Star Tours?" "We've been there, done that," Dawn complained. Most of her life, since becoming Buffy's little sister, Dawn had complained about something. Sometimes, it seemed that she complained about everything. It was part of the nature, Buffy figured, that the monks who'd created Dawn, had given her. She was a whiner. Before that, she'd been, as best anyone could gather, just pure energy, taking the form of a bright light, and, as such, an inter-dimensional key. Her past was something that both Buffy and Dawn tried not to think about. "Dawn," Buffy warned. "I want to ride the People Mover," Dawn said. "That's not a ride," Buffy told her. "You can ride it, so it's a ride," Dawn argued. "Well, I don't want to ride it," Buffy replied. Dawn looked at Buffy's boyfriend. "Don't look at me," Nathan said. "You ladies fight it out and let me know what you decide. I'm not taking sides. I'm fair and impartial." "You're my boyfriend," Buffy reminded him. "You're supposed to take my side." "And incur the wrath of Dawnie? No way!" "Don't call me 'Dawnie," Dawn objected. "I'm, like, fifteen." She looked at her sister. "Where do you want to go?" "Anywhere but Cincinnati," Buffy quipped. Dawn looked disgusted. Buffy sighed. To Nathan, she said, "Give us a sec?" "Sure." Buffy took Dawn by the arm. "Come on," she hissed, tugging. Reluctantly, Dawn followed. After they'd walked a discrete distance away from Buffy's beau, Buffy stopped. She looked at her sister, who avoided eye contact with her. "Hey, I've done my part," Buffy defended herself. "I've saved the world--a lot. I died--twice. Besides, now that all the girls who could become Slayers have become Slayers, there are plenty of others to do the dirty work. I say we party." "We should be in Cincinnati, with Faith and Xander and Giles," Dawn opined. For seven years prior to meeting Nathan, Buffy had, with the help of Giles and a handful of loyal friends, fought the forces of darkness--demons, monsters, and vampires--that had come crawling out of, or had been attracted to, the Hellmouth in Sunnydale, California. A sort of portal between this world and a fierce demon dimension inhabited by fiends, both bloodsucking and otherwise, the Hellmouth had collapsed upon itself over a century ago, but, at the end of Buffy's reign as the current Slayer--before all girls who could become Slayers did so, increasing her number by thousands--the gateway had opened, and a numberless horde of demon warriors had attempted to take over the humans' world. The ensuing battle had cost the lives of Spike, a vampire and Buffy's sometime-paramour, and the former love of her friend Xander Harris' life, the vengeance demon Anyanka. It had also resulted in the total annihilation of Buffy's hometown, Sunnydale, which, in its entirety, had fallen into an immense crater (but not before its evacuation, fortunately for its unfortunate residents). Only afterward, when Buffy announced that the one and only Hellmouth had been shut down forever, did her former mentor and trainer, the Watcher Rupert Giles, inform her and her friends that there was another Hellmouth in Cincinnati, Ohio. Previously irresponsible and devil-may-care, the free-spirited rogue Slayer Faith Lahane had decided to take the fight to the secondary Hellmouth, and Xander, vowing to avenge the death of his former, but jilted, bride-to-be, had set out with her and Giles. They'd sought to enlist Buffy's aid, but she'd declined. "My Slaybelle days are done," she'd told them, announcing, "Dawn and I are going to Disneyland to have fun." At first, Dawn couldn't blame her sister. Buffy had been through a lot. She'd been through hell, literally. She'd carried the world upon her shoulders. She'd died, not once, but twice. Disneyland hadn't seemed like much to ask for. After a month of Adventureland, Fantasyland, Frontierland, and Tomorrowland, though, Dawn had found that she did blame Buffy. As the Slayer--or, Dawn corrected herself, the primary Slayer--Buffy had responsibilities beyond herself and beyond those involved in looking after her little sister. Buffy, like it or not, was responsible for the world. She'd been called to be the Slayer, which meant that she'd been chosen to serve and to protect not just herself and her kid sister but all of humanity. Even Faith, as faithless as she'd sometimes been, understood that much. Faith was in Cincinnati, or headed there, where she belonged--and where Buffy, try as she might to avoid or deny it--also belonged and, Dawn suspected, knew she belonged. "We should be right here, where we are," Buffy declared. Dawn frowned, shaking her head. "Whatever." "Don't take that tone with me," Buffy cautioned her. "Whatever." Buffy seized her sister's arm again. Dawn tried to shake her off, but Buffy, as always, was too strong. The Slayer marched her little sister back to Nathan. "We've decided on Splash Mountain," Buffy announced. Nathan looked at Dawn, who looked decidedly unhappy. "Both of you?" he asked Buffy. Buffy smiled at him, taking his hand in hers. "Both of us." As the trio of Disneyland adventurers made their way through the throngs of eager tourists, Buffy smiled at the young couples, hand in hand, like Nathan and her; at the babies in strollers; at the exuberant boys and girls, their eyes animated with wonder and joy. She appreciated the spotless, well-swept, gracefully curving avenues; the trim shrubs; the bright flowers; the neat low walls of brick; the lush groundcover and vegetation that appeared throughout the park. She loved the beauty, the serenity, and the way that the park not only promised, but also seemed to take for granted, tranquility and bliss. She liked the fun, the excitement, the promise of adventure, the hokey glamour, and everything else about the giant playground, including how its creator, Walt Disney, had designed it deliberately so that parents could enjoy the rides and attractions alongside their children. It was even cool, she thought, the way "lands" that couldn't possibly exist side by side anywhere else in the world peacefully, in implausibly, coexisted here, a locomotive-drawn train of the 19th century beside a flying elephant next to a spaceship adjacent to a cow whose natural markings resembles the silhouette of the world's most famous cartoon mouse. Most of all, though, she loved Main Street, USA. Although nothing more, really, than the main promenade that lead from the main gate into the interior of the theme park, admitting those who preferred to walk instead of ride one of the many people movers, and a façade for various specialty shops and stores, most of which sold Disney merchandise of one kind or another, Main Street nevertheless seemed a perfect example of the ideal American small town--or, at least, of the main street of such a town. To Buffy's way of thinking, it represented what Sunnydale should have been and what all American small towns should be. Orderly, beautiful, dignified, neat, clean, and tidy, it offered the appearance of peace and tranquility, the image of normalcy, the look of the ordinary that Buffy had longed for in her own life but had never had. Main Street, USA, represented the world as it should be, the Slayer thought. By contrast, Sunnydale had represented everything that the world should not be. Like the tombs to which Jesus referred, Sunnydale was outwardly beautiful, but, inwardly, it was fill of dead men's bones and all manner of decay. The only problem was that Sunnydale was real--or had been, before it had been destroyed--and Main Street, USA, like Disneyland itself, was just pretend. What did it say about the world, she wondered, when a fantasyland was preferable to reality? The line for Splash Mountain was, as always, long, but, occupying herself with her own thoughts, with exchanges of dialogue with Nathan and Dawn, and with watching the people in the line that wound up the side of the artificial mountain, Buffy passed the time quickly. Half an hour later, as the trio shuffled the last few feet up the inclining ramp, closing on their destination, Dawn announced, "I'm sitting by myself." "You may have to share a seat with someone else," Buffy told her sister "I'm sitting by myself," Dawn repeated. The ride's attendant asked Nathan, "How many?" "Three," he said. "Which of you wants to sit alone?" "She does," Buffy said, nodding at Dawn. "Here you go, then," the attendant said, ushering Dawn to her own car in the long, wide, hollowed-out artificial log canoe that was actually the ride's vehicle. Dawn stepped into her seat-compartment, and the log jostled, splashing water. The attendant started to help her to secure her seatbelt. "I can do it myself," Dawn snapped. Everybody, even strangers, thought she was just a helpless kid, Dawn thought, scowling. "Sure thing, kid," the attendant replied. "I'm not a kid!" Behind her, Nathan climbed into the compartment that he would share with Buffy, and the Slayer took her place in front of him, resting her forearms on his legs, which came alongside her on either side. With squeals, shouts, giggles, and snatches of conversation, the other passengers boarded the open craft. The artificial log dipped and jiggled. Abruptly, a chain caught an attachment on the bottom of the log canoe, dragging the craft forward and up a steep incline that led it into a long, lazily wandering canal. As the canoe followed the narrow channel past exhibits in which audio-animatronics sang snatches of The Song of the South movie soundtrack, Buffy thought about the incidents that had transpired in her and Dawn's lives since the destruction of the Sunnydale Hellmouth. Giles, Faith, and Xander had urged her to accompany them to Cincinnati, where another Hellmouth needed to be shut down, but she'd refused, earning their silent reproaches and Dawn's unspoken disappointment. She hadn't cared, and didn't care now. She'd done her part. Let others take up the cause, now that there were others--thousands if not millions of them--to do so. Buffy had given up a lot--everything--to perform her duties as the Slayer. Now that the chance had come to have a normal life, that's exactly what she intended to do. She was going to live a normal, everyday life, every day for the rest of her life, and she was going to enjoy every moment of it; she was going to bask in every moment of it. In doing so, she was also ensuring that Dawn would have a normal life, a safe life, a secure life. After leaving Sunnydale, Buffy had brought Dawn here, to Los Angeles, where she'd enrolled her in school at the new Hemery High, which the school district had built on the site of the facility that Buffy, who'd resided in L. A. at the time, had inadvertently burned down in an attack on vampires that had assailed the gymnasium. Having returned to her original hometown, Buffy had found a job waiting tables at a local restaurant, where she'd met Nathan, a nice, normal, everyday guy, and they'd been dating for over a month now. The boy had possibilities, she thought. He was kind, considerate, handsome, and intelligent. He made her laugh. More importantly, he helped her to forget the past and to think of herself as just an ordinary girl. At last, Buffy had found the life she'd always craved. She was beginning, for the first time since the days of her earliest childhood, to believe that life could be good and that she could be happy. Even Dawn's chronic whining didn't bother her anymore--well, not much. Buffy was startled when a pair of hands, reaching between her upper arms and her ribs, clutched her breasts through the tight, thin tank top she was wearing, giving the firm-soft orbs a playful squeeze. She almost cried out, repressing the impulse to leap to her feet in the gently swaying canoe, spin around, and confront her attacker as she adopted a tried-and-true karate stance. Attacker? My God, she wondered, was that how she thought of her boyfriend, as an attacker? She settled back, against Nathan's chest, allowing his hands to gently squeeze and caress her bosom. What could be wrong with a tender stroke and cuddle? Dawn was facing the front, caught up in the singing characters from a movie that none of them had ever seen and probably never would see, and, at this point along the route, the cavernous interior of the mountain was dark. Dawn wouldn't know that Nathan was copping a feel, and guys had to have a little tit and ass or they'd lose interest in a girl. Besides, it felt good to be wanted, good to be needed. Under the fabric of her top, her nipples responded to Nathan's touch, stiffening and swelling, and Buffy's pussy moistened, as if it were agreeable to being ravished here and now, the presence of her little sister and that of perfect strangers be damned. Of course, Buffy herself had no such intention, but, she thought, there was no reason that she couldn't take a little of the edge off the passion building inside her by rubbing herself through the fabric of her panties. By lifting the skirt of her sundress, she could easily access her pussy through the silk panties she wore beneath the outer garment, and no one would be the wiser, as long as she exercised a modicum of self-control. Her panties were damp already, wet from the dewy moisture of her pussy. Inwardly, she shrugged. Her cunt juices would wash away easily enough. Over the decades that they'd worked on perfecting their product, the makers of laundry detergent had worked miracles in finding chemicals and combinations of chemicals that removed stains. Almost everything in life, it seemed, washed away, even blood, sweat, and tears. What couldn't be washed away could be buried. She thought of Angel, of Spike, of Anya, of Tara, of her mother, of herself. They'd all been laid to rest; the fortunate few among them had been able to remain at rest. Unlike the vampires she'd known and loved, Buffy hadn't been among those fortunate few, not even after dying twice. Ironically, both times she'd died, it had been one of her best friends, first Xander Harris and then Willow Rosenberg, who'd brought her back. Buffy had slid the bottom of her sundress up, along her silk-smooth thighs, and gently, then more insistently, rubbed the hardening bud of her clitoris through her panties, and a thrill had shot through her, leaping the many thousands of synapses between arrays of nerve endings, tightening her muscles, and quickening the flow of blood through her veins and arteries. In its own mechanical, clinical way, her Slayer's body responded to her touch, despite her abstraction and her detachment, but her heart, her soul--if she still had one--wasn't in it. She sighed, settling back, against Nathan's upper body. Even his cupping, squeezing, and caressing of her breasts and his stroking and tweaking of her swollen nipples seemed more gropes than fondling. She bore his attentions for his sake, not hers. As their artificial log conveyed them, by means of a clanking chain, up the ride's long, steep, final incline, Nathan ground his hips into the small of Buffy's back, letting her feel the firm-soft half-erection that had blossomed in his jeans, flowering just for her, and the Slayer made a mental note of his message: I want you. I want you, too, Buffy thought, and then their canoe was plummeting down the first of the several dips of the canal that would follow, and there was a great splash of water and everyone around her shrieked and laughed. Vaguely, Buffy heard Dawn's voice and Nathan's, also screaming and laughing, but her own was silent. Naked, Faith Lahane looked beautiful straddling him. She looked down upon Xander, whose cock she was riding as if she were a rodeo cowgirl bent upon winning first prize by staying on a bucking bronco longer than any of her competitors. Of course, the only competitor she had was herself, since only the two of them occupied the seedy motel room. Faith's breasts, larger and darker than Buffy's, jiggled and bounced upon her chest as the dark-haired Slayer lifted and plunged and shifted and swayed and rocked up and down, back and forth, left and right. Her liquid cunt was like a slippery sleeve of the most tender, wet gossamer, washing and bathing his stiff-standing cock and the tight, bunched pouch of his scrotum; ripples and tendrils of passion shot a hundred different directions throughout his body, and Xander, made passive by Faith's having taken, as usual--as always--the more assertive, dominant role in the sex that they'd been having, frequently, since leaving Sunnydale--or the huge pit that had been Sunnydale--could do nothing more than grimace, grunt, groan, roll his head from side to side upon the small, inadequate pillow, and wish he had something onto which to hold tightly, as Faith never so much made love to him as she ravished him. Still, Xander thought, rape was good, too, if the rapist was Faith. They'd come east to Cincinnati, Ohio, because, according to Buffy's former mentor, the Watcher Rupert Giles, there was a second Hellmouth here. The Hellmouth was a gateway, or portal, between this world and a demon dimension--perhaps Hell itself--out of which demons, vampires, and other monsters sometimes crawled, crept, or fluttered forth, always with the worst intentions, and to which others of their ilk were drawn as moths to a light. The term Hellmouth, Xander had learned, originally referred to a prop that Medieval actors employed. To frighten their audiences, they confronting them with the device, which was sometimes mechanical, and was intended to represent the jaws of Satan or the gates of hell. That, at least, was one idea as to the origin of the word. The other notion was that the term was derived from a description of an actual portal to hell, as mentioned in Numbers 16: 30-33, wherein "Sheol" is the Hebrew equivalent of Hades: . . . if the Lord make a new thing, and the earth open her mouth, and swallow them up, with all that appertain unto them, and they go down quick into the pit; then ye shall understand that these men have provoked the Lord. And it came to pass, as he had made an end of speaking all these words, that the ground clave asunder that was under them: And the earth opened her mouth, and swallowed them up, and their houses, and all the men that appertained unto Korah, and all their goods. They, and all that appertained to them, went down alive into the pit, and the earth closed upon them: and they perished from among the congregation. And all Israel that were round about them fled at the cry of them: for they said, Lest the earth swallow us up also. It was the Watchers who'd given the word its current sense of meaning. Xander had helped to fight the forces of darkness the first time that he and his friends, especially Buffy, had closed the Sunnydale Hellmouth. Mostly, he'd done so because of his loyalty to them, not so much because it was the right thing to do. Although most people, including Xander himself, regarded Xander as a moral man, Xander knew that he was motivated, primarily, by his sense of loyalty. Most of what he did consciously and deliberately--the good that he did, at least--was done because of his loyalty, his dedication, his devotion to those he loved. He'd given an eye, but he was also prepared to hive his life, in the aid of his friends. If saving the world was a collateral benefit, that was fine, but, for Xander, it was not the principal or even the most important result of his risking his life and limb in the long war against evil he'd fight alongside Buffy, Willow, Giles, Faith, and many others, including Anya. Cincinnati Apocalypse Ch. 02 The problem with Americans--one of the many, anyway--Giles thought, was that they had too much of everything, including too much money and too much time on their hands. What else could explain the vulgar extravagance of a place like Disneyland? The staff at the entrance turnstiles--guards, really, the former Watcher mused--had given him a hand-painted map--well, a brochure containing a tri-fold photograph of a hand=painted map--of the gigantic amusement park, showing its division into various "lands": Opening off the Town Square, Main Street, a promenade between false-fronted buildings resembling a pristine small town's chief boulevard led, to the left, to an implausible Adventureland and, to the right, to an equally unlikely Tomorrowland. Beyond Adventureland was New Orleans Square (so, presumably the park was in Louisiana, not Anaheim, California, after all, Giles told himself) and, beyond it, Critter Country. To the right of Critter Country lay Frontierland, then Fantasyland, and, finally, the circular park came round, as it were, once more, to Tomorrowland. The vast size of the park was intimidating, even with the map in hand, especially when he had to find one person among the thousands who milled and strolled about the wide lanes, crowded the various people movers, and waited in long, serpentine lines that folded back upon themselves numerous times as the park's visitors waited their turn for the few minutes' thrill this or that attraction or ride promised to provide. Americans, Giles told himself for the hundredth time since he'd become a resident of the United States nearly a decade ago, were definitely insane, there was no doubt about it. No wonder the demons had chosen to locate not one but two (and maybe more) of the inter-dimensional portals between their realm and the Earth, the Hellmouths, in such a country. As he sought the Chosen One, Giles' gaze met many an incredible sight. Horse-drawn streetcars and double-decker buses transported passengers through throngs of passengers as the vehicles passed streetlamps blossoming with a bouquet lights inside frosted-white globes; brick sidewalks that fronted manicured parks planted with trees, green lawns, topiary, and banks and tiers of bright flowers; and decorative Victorian mansions. Among the multitudes, Disney characters strolled the neat streets, pausing to shake hands or hug children; to wave at no one in particular and, therefore, at everyone in general; or to do a couple of shuffling dance steps. Small bands, mimes, clowns, and other performers entertained groups of patrons who paused to see them play instruments and sing, juggle, walk on stilts, or act out a few simple slapstick routines. High overhead, in the central park, the American flag waved, as if awarding its red-white-and-blue approval to the performers' antics and bestowing a patriotic blessing upon the theme park itself. "Americans!" Giles muttered, searching the hordes of guests for a glimpse of blonde hair; a petite, slender woman wearing a halter top and a mini-skirt or blue jeans (assuming that the one he sought was wearing such an outfit at all, which was a fairly safe bet, considering her keen fashion sense); or a necklace bearing a cross. He saw not one, but several young women who met this description. None of them was the one he sought. Giles was thankful he'd thought of a stratagem by which he might gain the assistance of strangers in locating his quarry. He just hoped it worked. Well, he thought, there was no time like the present to find out. Giles surveyed the crowded street, seeking a likely candidate upon whom to try his ploy. There! he thought. Winnie the Pooh! The honey-loving bear with the head stuffed with straw or sawdust or whatever it had inside instead of brains or Intel had always struck the former librarian as being rather dull, even for a fictional character-become-a-cartoon-become-a-costumed-Disney-theme-park character. Of course, Giles was well aware, the person inside the cumbersome Pooh costume might be anything but stupid. Still, the silliness of the character was somehow encouraging, and Winnie the Pooh seemed a good mark. Drawing himself up to his full height, Giles dodged pedestrians, buses, and trolleys, making his way across the immaculate street to the spot at which Pooh stood, surrounded by admiring children. He bided his time, waiting for the youngsters to collect their hugs and well wishes. When the band of tots moved on, Giles, reaching into his jacket, stepped forward. "Mr. Pooh?" he said, feeling even stupider than he must have sounded, as he drew his wallet from the pocket inside his jacket, "I'm Special Agent Wheeling, FBI." He left the flap of his wallet drop, revealing the fake badge he'd purchased at a toy store. It was a solid-looking, respectable-looking but non-descript badge that bore the letters "FBI" in its center. He was hoping the Pooh person had never seen an FBI badge before (not that he or she was seeing one now) and that the star would look convincing. "Mmpff," Winnie the Pooh replied. "Ummffph yaumpfgh." "What?" Giles asked. The bear waved a paw, signaling Giles to follow before leaving the curb, walking around a nearby corner, and stepping into a narrow alley between two buildings. Warily, Giles had followed the costumed character. He watched the bear closely as the person within the costume, after a bit of a struggle, removed the ponderous head, revealing herself as a pretty, elfin-faced redheaded woman with a pixie's hairstyle. "I'm Gail," she identified herself. Then, she translated what she'd tried to say a few moments ago, encumbered by the Winnie the Pooh costume: "What can I do for you?" Giles showed her a photograph in his wallet. "I'm looking for this woman. Have you seen her?" "What'd she do?" Giles ignored her query, repeating his own question. "Have you seen her?" Gail shook her head. "I don't see much of anything inside this outfit." "Are you certain?" Giles asked. "Please. Take your time. Be sure. This is a matter of some urgency." Gail shook her head. "Sorry, but I'll keep my eye out for her, not that it's likely to do much good inside this costume." "Thanks." Giles turned to leave. "Wait. How do I reach you, if I do see her?" "Oh." He hadn't thought of such an eventuality. He hesitated. "Call the L. A. office of the Bureau," he answered. "Ask for me, Special Agent Wheeling." Gail watched the tall, good-looking man in the three-piece tweed suit stride back into the crowds. Funny, she thought, how an FBI agent had a British accent. She shrugged, took a deep breath, and, hating Walt Disney and all he stood for, pulled the hot, heavy, restrictive costume head back over her own head, strolled back onto the Town Square, and was almost immediately assailed by a group of wide-eyed, shouting children who were as delighted to encounter Winnie the Pooh as Gail was disappointed to see them. Buffy had brought a jacket with her to Disneyland so she could put it on when the temperature dropped along with the sun, but, unfortunately, she'd left it in a locker, planning to pick it up later today, in the afternoon. She could certainly use it about now. Had she had it, she could have held it in front of her, to hide the bulge of her male genitals. Now that the artificial log in which she, her boyfriend Nathan, seated behind her, and Dawn, who sat in front of them, had braved the final, 85-foot plunge down Splash Mountain's flume. As it was, it was time to disembark from the canoe, and she had nothing with which to hide her cock and balls except her purse, which was absurdly small--tiny, in fact. Dawn's purse wasn't, though! Buffy thought. "Dawn, let me see your purse," she called to her younger sister. "Why?" Dawn demanded. "Just let me see it." "No." "Dawn!" "Okay, okay!" Mercifully, she handed her humongous purse back, over her shoulder. Buffy snatched it from her sister's hand. "My God! This thing weighs a ton! What do you have in here, anyway?" "Stuff," Dawn said, her tone petulant. "My stuff." "I don't know how you manage to lug this thing around with you all day," Buffy said. She started to lift the flap to examine the handbag's contents. "Don't go digging through my purse," Dawn ordered. "Give it to me." "I need it." "For what?" "I just do. I'll tell you later, okay?" Dawn considered her sister's statement. She shrugged. "Okay, just don't go digging through it." For the past several years, Dawn had been a kleptomaniac. No one knew. No one even suspected. She'd never been arrested. She'd never even been spotted by store detectives or security guards. Even here, today, she'd stolen pounds of merchandise from a dozen shops and stores along Main Street without arousing anyone's suspicions. That's why her bag was so heavy. It was full of ill-gotten gains--jewelry, novelties, souvenirs, trinkets. Stealing from Mickey Mouse was a new low, Dawn thought. It wasn't something she was proud of having done, but she couldn't help it. She was as addicted to shoplifting as gamblers were to betting against the odds, as drunks were to alcohol, and as drug addicts were to the poisons of their choice. Dawn was intelligent, and, although she gave little conscious thought to analyzing the motives of her behavior, she understood, almost intuitively, why she was driven to steal even things for which she had little or no use. Were she the moon, instead of a girl (or a cosmic key given human form as a girl), she'd be ever eclipsed by the power and the glory that was her big sister. In every way, without needing even to bother trying, Buffy was better than Dawn. Although Dawn was pretty, Buffy was prettier. She was also stronger, faster, had more stamina, was quicker witted, funnier, more sociable--and on and on the list went. They only thing that Buffy wasn't that Dawn was, Dawn thought, was stealthier. Buffy didn't need to be sneaky very often. As a result, she wasn't too good at skulking except when she was hunting a vampire to slay. Dawn, to the contrary, was very adept at hiding, at stealth, at sneakiness, and at dishonesty. As a shoplifter, she was an amazing thief. At home, her dresser's drawers were full of testaments to her skill at stealing--proof that, in this area, at least, she excelled over Buffy. Her need to be better than Buffy in at least one area of life was one reason that Dawn stole. Another was that stealing undermined her older sister's purpose as the Slayer. As the Chosen One, Buffy's life was dedicated to protecting people from evil. The wickedness from which Buffy protected others wasn't anything as mild as shoplifting; it encompassed more important things like rescuing people and saving the world. Nevertheless, a criminal activity, no matter how paltry, was opposed to the good that Buffy both represented and accomplished. As such, Dawn's shoplifting was a symbolic slap in the face to Buffy. It allowed Dawn to gain the upper hand, if only in secret and symbolically. To flaunt her criminality, Dawn didn't even bother to remove the price tags from the items she stole! There was a third motive for Dawn's shoplifting, too. If and when she was caught, there'd be hell to pay, which would make Dawn the center of a lot of attention--from the outraged shopkeeper or manager, from the police, and, finally, from Buffy. More than anything, Dawn, craved her big sister's attention and love, but Buffy was always too busy saving the world to have time for Dawn and her needs. If Dawn's shoplifting sprees eventually got her into trouble with the law, though, Buffy, as her legal guardian, would have to pay attention to her. Until then, her successes proved her superiority over Buffy where furtiveness was concerned, at least, and was a jibe at Buffy's status and work as the Chosen One. Plus there was the loot itself. A girl could get a whole lot more by stealing than she could by shopping. "Whoa! What's this!" Nathan cried. Buffy clutched Dawn's handbag more tightly to her groin, wondering in horror if her date had spied the unsightly bulge of her male genitals in the crotch of her jeans. "Uh, what's what?" she managed to mutter. "Isn't that Dawn?" he asked. It was. Or, actually, it wasn't. It was a photograph of her, lifting her top to expose her breasts--what there were of them--to the camera that had flashed as the canoe had topped forward and slid down the steep drop that ended the Splash Mountain ride in a plunge down the flume and a huge splash of water. Dawn's tits were on display to the world--or, at least, to the Disneyland guests who milled about the attraction's exit. The Slayer stared at her little sister's naked chest. The sleek orbs with their stiff, standing nipples and swollen areolas showed her that Dawn wasn't so "little" a sister as she'd been only a year or so ago. "Dawn!" Buffy cried, horrified. Dawn grinned. "How could you?" the Slayer demanded. "It's easy," Dawn answered, clasping her top. "Want me to show you?" "What's gotten into you?" "Buffy, don't you think we should buy the picture?" Nathan asked. "Buy it?" Buffy repeated. "Why on earth should we buy that?" "So someone else doesn't?" he asked. "Good thinking," Buffy admitted. Dawn didn't know how her photograph had gotten past the Disneyland Tit Police, as, she knew from discussions with her friends, it was the theme park's policy to destroy such photographs rather than to display them for sale, and the staff was usually very strict in enforcing this policy. Maybe one of the guys in charge of the vendor's stand thought Dawn was a hottie and wanted to showcase her breasts, she reasoned--or hoped. "How much is a photo?" Buffy asked the clerk behind the booth's counter. Naturally, to increase Buffy's mortification, the clerk was a guy, and a geeky one, at that. According to his name badge, he was Dalton. "Ten bucks." "I'd like to buy that one," she said, pointing in the general direction of Dawn's risqué picture. "Which one?" Dalton asked. "That one," Nathan intervened on Buffy's behalf. He pointed directly at the photograph of Dawn. Dalton grinned as, turning, he spotted the picture. "Good choice," he said, taking the photograph down from the wall behind him and setting it on the countertop. "You want a frame for it?" he asked. Looking at Dawn, Buffy replied, "No, we're going to burn it." "Wow. That's a shame," Dalton opined. He winked at Dawn. "She has quite a rack." Dawn's grin widened. "Thanks." "I'll thank you to keep your gross opinions to yourself," Buffy reprimanded him, "before I speak to your supervisor, who is--let me guess--Mickey Mouse?" After Buffy paid for the photograph, ripped it into confetti-size pieces, and discarded it in a nearby trash receptacle, Nathan said, "So, ladies, where to next?" "The lockers," Buffy answered. "I want to get my jacket." Nathan looked puzzled. The temperature was hovering around ninety degrees Fahrenheit. "You cold?" "Not yet, but the sun will be going down, and--" "Buffy, it's only three o'clock," he advised her. "I know, but if we get it now, we won't have to get it later, and--" Nathan laughed, shaking his head. Her reasoning made no sense, but he'd learned long ago not to point out fallacious logic to a female. "Okay," he replied, "you've convinced me." "Can I have my purse back now?" Dawn whined. "Please?" "No," Buffy said. "Why not?" Buffy kept possession of the handbag, using it to conceal the bulge of her cock and balls. "I'm not speaking to you after what you did," Buffy snapped, hoping this tactic would end her sister's complaints and inquiries. Dawn snapped back, "Fine!" Nathan, walking between them, was glad he'd been born a guy and was, therefore, able to live a simple life without breasts, purses, and PMS. "Americans," Giles muttered again. He'd employed his toy FBI badge twice more and had been sent in opposite directions by Disneyland employees who'd claimed to have seen Buffy. They could be telling the truth. Disneyland was huge, and the impulsive and spontaneous impulses of young people often pulled them this way and that, preventing them from following a more methodical approach to whatever business was at hand. However, it was also possible that the employees had seen a girl--or girls--who, to them, resembled the Slayer. There were, after all, quite a few pretty blondes in Southern California. Of course, there was a third possibility as well. The employees could have deliberately misdirected him, playing a practical joke on him. In any case, despite his impersonating an FBI agent, he was no closer to finding Buffy than he'd entered the park an hour or so ago, and it was vital that he find her, before it was too late, as, once again, the fate of the world was at stake. An apocalypse was at hand--or, more precisely--was imminent in--of all places--Cincinnati, Ohio. Buffy's presence was needed--again. And, here Giles was, at Disneyland, where he had about as much hope of finding Buffy as he would a conservative politician at the Democratic National Convention. Nevertheless, he told himself, he must persevere--the fate of the world and all that. He'd given up on his impersonation of an FBI agent. His new strategy, which, he told himself, was just as lame, was to look for blondes about Buffy's size, hoping against hope that, sooner or later, he might spot her or her little sister, Dawn. "Not bloody likely," he muttered, searching the crowds for anyone who resembled the Slayer. There were a lot of young women, many of them blondes, walking this way and that along the theme park's Main Street, but none of them was The One Girl In All The World. Buffy strode quickly through the throngs of Disneyland guests, some of whom cast angry glances in her direction as they stepped hurriedly aside to avoid her colliding with them and others of whom made rude remarks. Buffy ignored the gazes and the curses alike, concentrating solely on reaching the locker in which she'd stuffed her jacket for safekeeping and upon her keeping Dawn's purse jammed against her crotch. They'd left Splash Mountain and Critter Country far behind and were closing fast on Main Street, where the lockers were located. "Wait up!" Nathan called. "What's the rush?" Dawn called, straggling behind both her sister and Buffy's boyfriend. "It's not like we're going to Cincinnati." Nathan frowned. Looking over his shoulder at the youngest of their group, he repeated, "Cincinnati?" Dawn gave a curt nod of her head. "Cincinnati." "Buffy?" Nathan called, "are you going to Cincinnati?" "No!" Buffy called back, not bothering to pause or look back. The lockers were just ahead, halfway down Main Street, and nothing would keep her from them and the retrieval of her jacket. Once she'd tied the coat around her waist to make a makeshift apron of the garment, she could return Dawn's handbag to her. More importantly, she could sort out her very confused thoughts concerning her late acquisition of a cock and a pair of balls to go along with her cunt and tits. No doubt, something hellish was going on somewhere and, once again, she was the victim of it. Had she not asked her friend, Willow the witch, to delete the memories of her previous experience as Buffy the Shemale Vampire Slayer from her mind, the Slayer would have known that her present state was caused by the recurrent side-effects of a Feral demon's nasty bite several weeks ago. Then, after having anal sex with her mentor (the price of admission to the demon dimension where Willow had been being held by the devil Baphomet), Buffy had saved the day once more, this time rescuing Willow, whom Xander's jilted bride Anya, a vengeance demon, had dispatched there to avenge her cruel treatment by the witch's best friend (Xander). It was all very complicated, but even the complexity of the bizarre adventures, during which Buffy had learned about Xander's bisexuality, had had sex with Anya and Willow (and Giles), and had been gang-taped by a horde of really nasty demons, mattered; Buffy, thanks to Willow, had no recollection of any of them. Therefore, her acquisition of male genitals had come as a complete and terrifying shock to her. She wanted answers, but, first, she wanted her jacket.