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Author's Chapter Notes:
Wow, how much do I suck? Yeah, I know a lot of people enjoyed this story and then I just stopped with the updating (well, that happened with all of my Buffy stories). Truth is, I was burned out and needed a bit of a break. Also, I felt everything I was writing was crap and I don’t want to give you guys anything subpar.

Read and review – I know it’s been ages, but let me know if you’re still with me.
“What do you mean Buffy’s missing?!”

As if you didn’t already know – you will never find a group of people more loyal and trustworthy than our heroine’s band of Scoobies.

You’ll also never find a more attractive, dashing, daring, collective of cleverness with SAT scores to die for (if we conveniently forget about Xander, that is) such as they.

“We mean she’s nowhere to be found. Disappeared. Misplaced,” Anya said matter-of-factly, earning a nudge from her boyfriend and a less-than subtle glare from Willow.

Breaking the news to Joyce Summers that her little, Buffy, her cutsie –wootisie – insert your own embarrassing parent/child nickname here, had seemingly dropped off the face of the earth was certainly not going to be an easy task. And yet, the Scoobies managed to make this difficult situation seem effortless.

“We’ll find her.” Willow placed a reassuring hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “Giles and Tara are out checking possible leads…”

“He’s gonna do his scary-British thing and beat the crap out of Willy the Snitch,” Xander supplied trying hard to be helpful. “And, We’ve got Spike out there…” voice trailing off and brows scrunching together, he exchanged a look between the three women. “Wait a minute – Buffy’s missing and has anyone actually seen her not-so secret admirer hanging around?”

Joyce’s eyes widened. “You don’t think Spike had anything to do with this…?”

“Of course not,” Anya began with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Everyone knows that after cattleprodding and chaining someone to a wall, you don’t go and kidnap them.” The ex-vengeance demon shook her head with a snort. “That’s horribly out of sequence.”


**

There was a moment, dear Readers, when perhaps he was in the rim stage of his sleep, that our master accountant was under the impression this was all a dream. That Buffy and Spike were merely figments of his imagination (or possibly the product of too much Nyquil and falling asleep on top of a D&D manual.).

This game, being in Pylea, it was all one, huge, bull shit trick of the mind. And, if that were the case, then he was going to cancel those Comic Con tickets the second he woke up. Dean Stockwell photo-op or not, he’d had quite enough of this sci-fi crap for a lifetime.

Sadly, this one, albeit thin ray of hope, died a fiery death the moment Rob opened his eyes.

The Pylean sun(s) and the banging at the back of his skull courtesy of last night’s Southern Comfort fest, were the first things to greet him that morning.

But, it was the overwhelming urge to pee that got him on his feet to face the day.

Yes, I am aware that for some, the idea of having to do your business in a bush that doesn’t dispense two-ply or come with a bidet would qualify high on the unfortunate event meeter.

And while Rob was hardly what anyone would call a ‘Mountain Man’, not having the privacy of a stall would prove to be the least of his problems.

It sounded like a firecracker. One of those M-80 jobs he and his brother would disregard all sorts of parental horror stories about Fourth of July maimings just to play with.

The pain that radiated down from the top of his ear to the tip of his toes, made him feel as if he had been stung by one, big, pissed off wasp.

Rob capped a hand over his right ear and quickly pulled it away; the sight of his pale fingers stained a deep crimson was enough to –

Another bang rang out, scaring him into not fainting – at least for the moment, and with a scream that was completely south of manly, Rob made a run for it.

Not bothering to find out which direction the shots were coming from.

Not even bothering to pull his pants up.


Heart pounding, Buffy bolted upright and scrambled to get out of her sleeping bag,


Nothing like being jarred awake to the sound of a man screaming “Holy Christ! I’ve been shot!” at the top of his lungs to make one miss the tiny annoyance that was a Scooby Doo alarm clock.

**

“Oh my god, oh my god…”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, would you shut up?” Spike said with a roll of his eyes. “It only grazed you, you’ll live.”

With one hand holding up his bandaged head, Rob threw a nasty look in the vampire’s direction. “Excuse me for being just a tad freaked out over the fact there were fucking bullets whizzing by my fucking head!” Climbing to his feet, he let out a frustrated sigh and turned to regard Buffy,

“Maybe it’s the whole being shot thing, but when did they give vampires guns?”

An eeire silence fell over the trio (the word ‘eerie’ here of course meaning ‘spooky’) as perhaps the chilling realization of what they were dealing with dawned on them.

Yes, our Buffy got a rather unpleasant lump in her throat. If our Rob wasn’t so busy focusing on that head wound, he would’ve been struck by a lump as well. And, maybe if our Spike cared even just a little bit, he too would’ve been overwhelmed with emotion.

Lips pulling in tight, Buffy took a deep breath,

“They didn’t.”


TBC…





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