Buffy The Vampire Slayer Fan Fiction ❯ Spike: The Series ❯ Episode 1.01 - The Big Apple ( Chapter 1 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

FADE IN:

New York City. A neon sign flickers pear green: ARSENIC. A half hour before last call on open mike night. A rather nutty looking girl plunks out Radiohead's “Creep” on a ukulele for the sparse crowd.

Sitting at a one of the mismatched tables in the far corner is Spike. Sipping at the latest in a series of open beer bottles littering the table, he surveys the scene with mild disinterest. He catches the eye of the bartender.

SPIKE: Oi, Opie!

He lifts his bottle in a clear “get me one more o' these” gesture.

The bartender, a stocky red-head with a wide face frowns, and shakes his head. He points to the clock hanging over the bar. Nearly 2:00 am.

SPIKE: *mutters* Lazy ass Mick…

VOICE: Excuse me…

Spike glances to the left. A skinny girl in pig-tailed braids stands there, clutching a napkin. He nods.

GIRL: Sorry, but I'm huge fan. I've been to almost all of your readings.

SPIKE: Readings?

GIRL: You know, “The Noble Flowers of the Sun” “The Wanton Folly of Me Mum”, “The Beauty Effulgent”…that, uh, last one's my favourite…so um, I was just wondering…

She thrusts the napkin towards him.

GIRL: Could I get your autograph?

CUT TO:

A morgue. In the staff lounge, a young, shaggy-haired resident doctor watches a rerun of The Dick Van Dyke Show on a portable TV set. Outside the lounge, the doors clatter open, as a new body is delivered.

CUT TO:

The Arsenic bar. Spike takes the napkin from the girl.

SPIKE: Whatever, love. What's your name?

GIRL: Thursday.

SPIKE: *writing* O…kay…that a first name or a last name?

THURSDAY: *nods* One of those two.

CUT TO:

The morgue. The orderlies wheel a stretcher with a body in a bag into the examination room. As they transfer the body to one of the stainless steel tables, the young resident washes his hands in a nearby sink.

CUT TO:

Arsenic. The Ukulele Girl has stopped playing. She gathers her things and prepares to leave. She greets the red-headed bartender on her way out.

UKULELE GIRL: `Night Rene.

RENE: `Night.

She does not leave unnoticed. A small group of men sitting at the bar watch her she disappears out the door. One of them, a blonde in a Yankee jersey, motions to the others. They follow her.

CUT TO:

The morgue. The orderlies have left, leaving the resident alone with the body bag. He picks up a Ziploc bag containing the body's personal effects. He pulls out a wallet and reads the driver's license.

RESIDENT: Gooooood morning Mr. Russell.

He flicks the wallet back into the baggy, smiling.

RESIDENT: Let's see what's under the hood.

As he zips the body bag open, the grin slowly disappears from his face. He stares, gaping.

CUT TO:

Arsenic. The bar is completely empty, save for Spike and Rene the bartender. Spike strides over to the bar, peeling a ten from his wallet. He holds the bill between two fingers.

SPIKE: That's for you mate. Go buy yourself something pretty.

RENE: *takes the bill* I'm touched. Really.

As Spike turns to leave, Rene suddenly grabs his arm.

RENE: Wait…that girl you were talking to…

Rene grabs something from the behind the bar. Books. He plunks them down on the bar unceremoniously. Spike reads the titles: “Dracula”, “'Salem's Lot”, “Interview with a Vampire”…

RENE: She left these for you.

Spike grabs Rene's collar and hauls him partially over the bar.

SPIKE: *growls* Where'd she go?

CUT TO:

Arsenic's back alley. The Ukulele Girl walks home alone, listening to a walkman. The men from the bar follow closely behind. As they prepare to make a move, a voice calls out from the darkness.

VOICE: You don't wanna be doing that.

They all turn. Standing at the mouth of the alley is…

The pig-tailed girl Thursday.

THURSDAY: It's not very nice.

FADE OUT. OPENING CREDITS ROLL: Theme music plays (Nine Inch Nails - Just Like You Imagined).

FADE IN:

Arsenic's back alley. The men from the bar slowly surround Thursday. She doesn't flinch. Much.

THURSDAY: We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.

The blonde in the Yankee jersey steps slowly towards her.

YANKEE FAN: Took the words right outta my mouth, little girl.

THURSDAY: Sorry…did I not introduce myself?

She holds out her right hand.

THURSDAY: *smiles warmly* Hi, I'm Thursday. And you're the guys who won't be raping that girl tonight.

One of the guys, a skinny teenager with dark greasy hair chimes in.

GREASER: Whoa, whoa, whoa…what's she talking about?

THURSDAY: Ya kidding me?

She gestures towards the Yankee Fan.

THURSDAY: It's written all over his brain.

The Yankee Fan steps closer to her, glaring. She meets his gaze.

THURSDAY: Obviously, there's a bit a communication problem here. None of these guys really want to hurt her. Scare her, maybe…which is a completely different set of issues, but so totally not the point right now. The real question is…

She steps towards the Yankee Fan, unblinking.

THURSDAY: Why do you want to hurt her?

The alley is silent.

THURSDAY: Maybe I should rephrase that. Who is she?

YANKEE FAN: *visible disturbed* What? She's just some dumb boho chick asking for a little…

THURSDAY: No…who do you see when you hurt someone like this? In your mind…who's face do you picture during the…god…countless times you've done this to someone. She's very pretty isn't she…blonde hair…

She steps closer to the Yankee Fan. He flinches.

THURSDAY: Brownish-green eyes…with…little gold flecks. Who is she? A friend? Cousin? Sister….WHOA!

The Yankee Fan eyes dart around nervously.

THURSDAY: You just got really mad when I said sister…boy…you do have issues don't you. If you want, I can probably recommend a good therap—

The Yankee Fan cuts her off with a backhand blow to the face. She falls hard into a pile of garbage cans and debris. He moves over her to finish the job, until…

A Darkness sweeps the alley. The guys scream in agony…

CUT TO: Spike rounding the corner. He sees Thursday picking herself up from the alley pavement.

SPIKE: Hey…I wanna word with you!

THURSDAY: *dust off her shirt* Geez, you took your sweet time didn't you? I overestimated you…that's disappointing.

SPIKE: Stop talking.

He holds up one of the books. “'Salem's Lot”.

SPIKE: What's this supposed to mean?

THURSDAY: I'm insinuating that you're a vampire. Was I too subtle?

SPIKE: I don't know who you think you're dealing with, pet…

He makes to move towards her, but steps on something…squishy.

SPIKE: Huh.

It's the Yankee Fan. Corpsified and…

...missing his head.

SPIKE: This yours?

Thursday pales, staring at the headless corpse. She shakes her head emphatically.

Suddenly, sirens erupt from all sides of the alley.

SPIKE: What?

THURSDAY: Yeah…I called the cops. Turns out, I'm not completely stupid.

She looks back at the corpse.

THURSDAY: Didn't see this coming.

SPIKE: Yeah, and the coppers are gonna see us standing over a nice fresh body.

He grabs her by the arm. She still stares at the body.

SPIKE: And as much as I'd like to stay here and look all incriminating, I've got better things planned.

THURSDAY: You may look incriminating. I give off a natural air of innocence. It's the pig-tails.

SPIKE: Stop talking.

He drags her out of the alley, and into the shadows, just as the police arrive on the scene.

CUT TO:

Arsenic interior. The storeroom. Full of wine racks and dusty boxes. Save for one corner, stockpiled with various supernatural bric-a-brac. Astrology charts, candles, crystal balls, and a squat little bookcase stuffed with what can only be spellbooks.

Spike and Thursday enter through an alley side door. Spike pulls her by the arm across the room, towards the next door. The faint sounds of sirens still echo outside.

SPIKE: We need to scarper. They'll be checking up on the neighbours before long.

THURSDAY: Nah, we're fine. Rene's got some pretty good glamour mojo working. Most humans won't see anything but an empty room.

She knocks on the next door.

THURSDAY: Did you smell anything weird about that alley? Other than the usual garbagey fragrance?

SPIKE: *seriously pissed* Yeah, now that you mention it, I did smell the faint oaky musk of inhumanity. What the hell are you?

THURSDAY: Demon. Though you woulda picked up on that way sooner. If you're not careful, you're gonna make me think this whole thing was a bad idea.

She knocks again.

THURSDAY: Where the hell is he? He's way better at this mystical stuff than I am.

SPIKE: Yeah, well, you two can go ahead and Scooby your bleeding little hearts out. I'm done.

THURSDAY: You came here to get away from him didn't you?

SPIKE: Excuse me?

THURSDAY: I can understand why. Not easy being in someone else's shadow. You think about him a lot. Tall, dark, and broody. With hair that sticks straight up.

SPIKE: *snorts* Great. Did Angel send you to check in on me?

THURSDAY: No. Who's Angel?

Spike stares at her perplexedly. Before he can answer, Rene finally comes to the door.

RENE: What the eff is going on out there? There's police crawling all up and down Bleecker Street.

SPIKE: Just your everyday decapitation.

RENE: Geez…it's not anyone we know, is it?

THURSDAY: A semi-regular. Big Yankee fan.

RENE: Keith? Oh my God…I can't believe how much I don't give crap. That guy was a prick.

THURSDAY: Yeah, he's probably better off this way. He had issues.

SPIKE: Sulphur.

Rene and Thursday stop.

THURSDAY: Say what?

SPIKE: The alley. Smelled like rotten eggs and gunpowder. Sulphur.

He smirks.

SPIKE: Turns out, I'm not complete bad at this.

Thursday nods, turning to Rene.

THURSDAY: Yeah, and there was something about the body…

RENE: The severe lack of head?

SPIKE: No, more like the severe lack of blood. Wound like that shoulda drenched the asphalt.

THURSDAY: It seemed almost ritualistic. Like a sacrifice of some kind. You got info on that sort of thing?

RENE: A volume here and there. But your facts are a little vague.

THURSDAY: I could check the Bowery Morgue in a few hours. Get a closer look at the body.

Spike strides towards the outside door.

SPIKE: No. I'll do morgue duty. You two stay here and play study buddies.

He opens the door a crack, checking to seeing if the coast is clear.

SPIKE: Don't call me. I'll call you.

He disappears out and up onto a nearby fire escape with a swish of his leather duster. Rene shakes his head in disapproval

RENE: You sure this is the guy?

THURSDAY: Positive.

FADE OUT: COMMERCIAL BREAK

FADE IN:

Exterior. Bleecker Street. 3:30 in the AM. Spike treads down the street with long strides. A cigarette dangles precariously from his lips. He lights with a flick of his well worn Zippo.

He finally reaches his destination. The recently closed down CBGB. The derelict façade is scrawled with assorted graffiti: “OMFUG”, “Hey! Ho! Let's Go!”, “Hilly Kristal”, “Elvis Costello”. Behind the bare framework of the awning, “CBGB's forever” is written in spray paint.

Spike grips the edge of one of the graffitied security doors, and pries it open.

CUT TO:

CBGB interior. The walls of the once thriving music club have been stripped bare. The place is nearly empty, save for random bits of furniture that would look more comfortable

in a junkyard: a couch, a table, a few chairs, and an ancient rabbit eared TV set. Home sweet home.

Spike makes his way to an old payphone, one of the few things left on the walls. The phonebook is still attached. He flicks through it purposefully, stopping when he finds the right listing. He brusquely rips the page from the book, and heads out the back door. To the real reason he made a brief stop at homebase.

CUT TO:

CBGB Bleecker Street exterior. A car engine revs, piercing the night. Spike comes flying out of a nearby side street, behind the wheel of a fancy sportscar. One of Angel's Wolfram & Hart models. “My Sharona” by The Knack blares out of the vehicle's state-of-art stereo speakers.

CUT TO:

The Bowery Morgue. Interior. The reception area is abandoned, save for a lone security guard dozing off behind a desk. Spike enters and starts towards the guard. A voice cuts him off.

THURSDAY: Hey there, honey bunny!

Spike whirls around, coat swishing. Thursday is sitting in one of the waiting room's vacant chairs, reading a magazine. He growls viciously.

SPIKE: God, this is like a nightmare.

THURSDAY: I've been waiting for you. I could have given you directions if you'd asked nicely.

SPIKE: I thought I told you and whosit to get with the book learning.

THURSDAY: *shrugs* Research isn't really my gig. I see myself as more of a field agent.

She stands, throwing the magazine onto the chair behind her.

THURSDAY: Let's get this over with. Give me one of your rings.

SPIKE: *scoffs* I beg your pardon?

THURSDAY: Sorry. You're quite right. *clears throat* Give me one of your rings please.

SPIKE: No.

THURSDAY: That nice one there. The giant skull.

SPIKE: I don't think so, pet. Don't know you that well.

THURSDAY: Hey, you know, I could have gone in without you, and been on my way home by now. But I knew that would make you upset, so I waited. Trust me on this.

She holds out her left hand.

THURSDAY: Ring please.

Spike glares at her icily for a long time. Without breaking eye-contact, he removes the skull ring from his right index finger, and places it in her outstretched hand. Thursday smiles brightly.

THURSDAY: Thanks sweetie!

She puts the skull on the ring finger of her left hand.

THURSDAY: Hold my hand.

SPIKE: What?

THURSDAY: Don't worry, I have a plan. Unless you prefer to do it your way. Snarl menacingly at the guard until you get us kicked out.

Spike reluctantly takes her hand. Thursday relaxes her body, and closes her eyes for a moment. When she finally opens them, tears are streaming down her face.

She runs over to the security guard's desk, still hand in hand with Spike. She sobs loudly, waking the guard from his daze.

THURSDAY: *crying* Where is he?

The guard straightens up in his seat.

GUARD: Calm down little lady. Where's who?

THURSDAY: *visibly upset* My dad. I…I got this phone call…they said he might be here. Something about a gunshot…

She leans forward, lowering her voice to a trembling whisper.

THURSDAY: Please…I have to know. It can't be him. I need to see him.

GUARD: All right, all right, just take a deep breath.

He points to an adjacent corridor off to the right.

GUARD: If you go down that hallway, you'll reach the main holding area. There should be someone there who can answer your questions.

Thursday reaches over the desk and takes one of the guard's fleshy hands.

THURSDAY:*whispers* Thank you so much.

As she and Spike turn to leave down the corridor, the guard clears his phlegmy throat.

GUARD: Hold on a minute…

He and Spike exchange steely glances. He points to Spike's dark, leather duster clad countenance.

GUARD: Who's this?

THURSDAY: *still teary* Huh? Oh…

She holds up her left hand. The skull ring shines dully in the florescent light.

THURSDAY: He's my fiancé.

Spike stares from Thursday to the security guard, and back to Thursday. He strides over to her, putting his arm around her shoulder. He smirks and nods tersely at the guard, giving him a “so how do you like them apples?” look.

As Spike leads her around through the hallway, he can't resist flipping the guard a rude gesture behind him.

Bowery Morgue interior. Spike and Thursday make their way down the long, sterile hallway.

SPIKE: Just what kind of demon are you?

THURSDAY: *shrugs* Nothing special.

SPIKE: Like sodding hell you aren't. You knew Barney Fife back there wasn't gonna like me before we even spoke to him. You somehow know Angel without ever being acquainted. And, you know about the vampire thing.

THURSDAY: Also the soul thing. But it's no big deal. I'm just a common psych demon. We're all over. Literally.

SPIKE: *pissed* You've been reading my mind?

THURSDAY: No, not in so many words. I only get emotions and…um…thought pictures. It's not so much reading a book, as it is…interpreting a Picasso.

SPIKE: *sarcastic* Brilliant. That's much better.

THURSDAY: Lay off. It's a lot of guess work. I've worked really hard to be this good at it.

SPIKE: What kind of a name is psych demon anyways? Your sort too busy violating your neighbour's brains to come up with a better one?

THURSDAY: No…we have a real name…but it loses something in the translation to oral speech. The closest you could get is that it…sort of…tastes…purple. Whatever, just plain psych demon is fine.

They pass through a set of swinging double doors to reach the main holding area of the morgue. The only person in the whole place is the shaggy-haired resident doctor. He washes his hands in a basin, facing away from Spike and Thursday. Spike leans towards her.

SPIKE: What's on his mind, Thurs? Anything helpful?

THURSDAY: Oh yeah…he's definitely seen some headless action tonight. Can't think of nothing else.

SPIKE: Right then. Try to leave the talking to me. We have to be delicate about this, and you have a problem with that.

THURSDAY: Yes, delicate. Subtle. I can do subtle.

SPIKE: *sarcastic* Right.

He calls out to the resident.

SPIKE: Oi, Doc! Got a minute to talk?

The resident, reels around, startled. He is not calmed by the sight of Spike.

RESIDENT: What are you doing in here?

SPIKE: We just got a few questions.

THURSDAY: *cheerfully* We're from the Voice. We're writing an article on morgue procedures for our upcoming Hallowe'en issue. I'm Miss Thursday, and that's Mr. Spike.

SPIKE: Uh…yeah. What she said, but with the names switched `round.

The resident eyes them warily. Slowly, he nods.

RESIDENT: Dr. Allenby. Sorry, for the third degree. It's been kind of a weird night.

THURSDAY: Normal weird or ritualized headless corpse weird?

Faster than the eye can see, Spike grabs Thursday by the arm.

SPIKE: And you're done.

He roughly hauls her to the nearby lounge area. He shoves her inside, and closes the door, using a chair to wedge it shut. He strides casually back to Allenby.

SPIKE: Sorry about that. She's a bit tweaked. Don't know what she's saying most times.

ALLENBY: *stares at the `locked' lounge* Actually…it's funny she should mention that. The headless corpse.

Spike looks from the lounge to Allenby. He blinks.

SPIKE: Huh…so the direct approach works with you.

ALLENBY: Yeah…you can let your friend out if you want.

SPIKE: Nah, I stand by my decision. Let's see the body.

CUT TO:

The Bowery Morgue cold chamber. Allenby rolls out not one, but two separate slabs. He uncovers them dramatically. Both are headless.

SPIKE: Make that bodies.

ALLENBY: The first one came in around 1:45. Scott Russell, Caucasian male, aged 47, found around Chatham Square. I was just finishing up with the other when you came in. Keith Henderson, found by a bar on Bleecker.

SPIKE: *sarcastic* Fascinating. What about their heads?

ALLENBY: They've yet to be recovered. It's likely that whoever did this took it with them.

SPIKE: A collector.

ALLENBY: *grimaces* Yeah.

As Allenby attempts to keep his lunch down, Spike bends over the nearest body for a closer look.

SPIKE: Hello, what's this?

He points to the neck.

SPIKE: It's all burnt `round this bit.

ALLENBY: Yeah, that's the part I can't figure out. It's as if the wound was cauterized as it was being made. It sort of looks like…

He hesitates. Spike glances up at him.

SPIKE: What?

ALLENBY: *sighs* All right, it's going to sound really stupid, but…it looks like what I'd imagine a lightsaber injury would look like. You know, from Star Wars.

Spike regards the body.

SPIKE: Yeah, you're right. That does sound really stupid.

ALLENBY: Look, it's all I can come up with. Strangely cauterized wounds. And sulphur compounds.

SPIKE: Sulphur?

ALLENBY: Yeah, it looked a bit like old gunpowder. At first I thought it was a fluke, but when I found more on the second body, I made a note of it.

SPIKE: Right. Thanks Doc.

Spike turns to leave. As he's walking away, Allenby calls out.

ALLENBY: Don't forget your friend!

SPIKE: Wouldn't be saying that if you knew her, mate.

CUT TO:

Bowery Morgue exterior. Thursday and Spike stand on the front steps. Thursday pulls out her cellphone looking pissed.

SPIKE: I said I was sorry.

THURSDAY: *dialing* Yeah, well, you don't mean it.

She point to her head.

THURSDAY: I can tell.

The caller on the other end picks up.

THURSDAY: Hey it's me. You ready for this?

CUT TO:

Arsenic interior. Storeroom. Rene sits cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by open books.

RENE: Hit me.

CUT TO:

Bowery Morgue exterior.

THURSDAY: Their necks are all charred and burny.

CUT TO:

Arsenic. Rene holds the phone with his shoulder while he reaches for a specific text.

RENE: Necks? As in plural?

CUT TO:

Bowery Morgue.

THURSDAY: Yeah, there are two. The injuries are identical.

CUT TO:

Arsenic. Rene flips through the selected text.

RENE: Definitely sounds like a ritual. Hang on.

He stops, and reads.

RENE: I've got something. Thammuz cultists. A race of horned demons that worship Thammuz, the patron anti-saint of fire guns and artillery.

CUT TO:

Bowery Morgue.

THURSDAY: Artillery?

Spike perks up.

SPIKE: Gunpowder.

THURSDAY: *nods* Okay. What about the cauterized wounds?

CUT TO:

Arsenic. Rene reads a little further down the page.

RENE: Says here the imps can forge weapons from fire.

CUT TO:

Bowery Morgue.

THURSDAY: Fire swords.

SPIKE: So not from a galaxy far, far away. Brainless git doctor.

CUT TO:

Arsenic.

RENE: The head collecting ritual is a sacrifice to Thammuz. It's meant to… “raise him so that he may go forth and entice the race of mankind to torture their fellow brethren.”

CUT TO:

Bowery Morgue. Thursday blanches.

THURSDAY: Lovely. A torture demon is coming to visit the Big Apple.

SPIKE: Well, this town's not big enough for the two of us.

RENE: *through the cell's receiver* Don't sweat it just yet. The heads have to come in threes before the ritual can be performed. We've got time.

CUT TO:

An abandoned factory. The floor is littered with old shell casings. Various dusty boxes labelled “AMMUNITIONS” decorate the sparse warehouse.

In the middle of the factory are three rusted pikes. On two of the pikes, the heads of Scott Russell, and Keith Henderson have been speared, their faces frozen in horror. Surrounding the pikes are a dozen horned demons, each covered in scaly black skin. One is holding a third head. He thrusts it onto the pike, and stands back to admire his handiwork.

It's the head of the Ukulele playing girl from Arsenic, forever screaming in silent terror.

FADE OUT: COMMERCIAL BREAK.

FADE IN:

Arsenic exterior. Spike drives up the street in his car, Thursday riding shotgun. He pulls up to Arsenic, and stops. They sit for a moment in silence.

THURSDAY: You know, a gentleman would get out and open my door for me.

SPIKE: This ends here.

THURSDAY: *caught off guard* What?

SPIKE: The little sidekick act you've been putting on. Get out of this car, and forget all about me.

THURSDAY: But I thought…

SPIKE: Look, don't make this any harder. It's not that I don't appreciate what you've been trying to do…

THURSDAY: You can't be the hero if you have to watch my back.

SPIKE: Suss that out with your demon brainwaves?

THURSDAY: No. I know what I am. Aside from the psych thing, there's not a whole lot about me that's demony.

She opens the door, and gets out. Before walking away, she remembers.

THURSDAY: Oh! Your ring.

She pulls the skull ring from her left hand, and holds it out to him through the open car window. Spike glances from the ring to Thursday.

SPIKE: Keep it.

With a screech of the tires, he speeds away.

CUT TO:

CBGB interior, the next night. The basement. Spike's bedroom. The only major items in the room are a suspended punching bag, and a four poster bed. The damp cement walls are covered in remnants of old posters, advertising concerts of years gone by. Bits of graffiti litter the walls, including one written in what appears to be dried blood: “Spike loves Dru - 1977”.

On his bed, the phonebook from the payphone rests, now completely broken away from the chain it was on. On an open yellow page, an entry is circled - “Thorold Ammunitions & Artillery”.

Spike kneels on the floor at the foot of his bed. He pulls out a wooden weapons chest. Opening the chest, he pulls out several crossbows, stakes, and blades before settling on a traditional broadsword.

As he stands, there is a loud thump from upstairs. Spike's head snaps up. An intruder. He vamps out, and hefts the sword.

CUT TO:

CBGB main room. Spike comes barrelling up the stairs, sword at the ready. He spots the intruder, and stops.

SPIKE: You again? How many times do I have to spell it out for you to leave me alone before it gets through your ditzy skull?

The intruder turns around. It's Thursday. Tears are streaming down her cheeks.

THURSDAY: *voice trembling* Spike….

Spike immediately de-vamps, eyes full of worry.

SPIKE: What's happened?

CUT TO:

Thorold Ammunitions & Artillery Factory exterior. The same abandoned factory the Thammuz worshippers are camped out in. A few buildings away, Spike's car is staked out. Spike and Thursday are in the front seat.

THURSDAY: It's gonna take Rene a minute to set up the duck-blind charm.

SPIKE: Did you know her well?

THURSDAY: Yeah. Amanda was a permanent fixture at Arsenic. Performs every other weeknight. She and Rene went out a couple of times.

SPIKE: I'm sorry. I mean it.

THURSDAY: *smiles* I know.

They sit for a moment, waiting for the go-ahead from Rene.

SPIKE: Why do you do it?

THURSDAY: Do what?

SPIKE: The hero thing. Said yourself you're not much of a demon.

THURSDAY: *shrugs* I don't really know. Just seemed like the right thing to do I guess. You know?

SPIKE: Yeah. Yeah I do.

They sit quietly for another moment.

SPIKE: You've been using me haven't you?

THURSDAY: *sighs* Yes. Me and Rene can only do so much. We're not playing with a full team. Rene's the brain, I'm the heart, and…

SPIKE: That makes me the muscle.

THURSDAY: Yeah, that and…the other heart. You feel so deeply about everything. There's no such thing as halfway for you. It's all or nothing. It's why you were so easy for me to find.

She holds up her right hand, wiggling her fingers.

THURSDAY: Your emotions come off you in waves. It's fascinating.

They stare at each other for a moment, locking gazes. Thursday looks away.

THURSDAY: Although, you should probably stop thinking about sex all the time. It's really distracting.

Spike shifts uncomfortably. Just then, Rene rounds a corner, giving them the thumbs up.

SPIKE: There's our cue.

THURSDAY: *takes a deep breath* Showtime.

CUT TO:

The factory interior. The demons are gathered in a circle around the three heads, chanting in an archaic dialect.

From behind a larger pile of ammunitions boxes, Spike, Thursday and Rene are crouched, weapons in hand. Rene with a crossbow and spellbook, Thursday with an axe, and Spike with his broadsword.

SPIKE: How's the hocus pocus working?

RENE: So far so good. We should be able to get within spitting distance without ever being seen.

SPIKE: Right. On my mark. One…two…

DEEP VOICE: Three.

One of the Thammuzian demons is standing right behind the trio.

RENE: I might have used too much nutmeg.

FADE OUT: COMMERICAL BREAK

FADE IN:

Thorold Ammunitions interior. In the middle of the main room the Thammuzian demons continue their chanting ritual. Off to the side, Spike, Thursday and Rene are shackled to some old factory machinery. Thursday and Rene sit in hopeless defeat, but Spike is actively trying to break his bonds.

SPIKE: *straining* Stupid….bloody…piece of crap!

He turns to look at Rene.

SPIKE: Don't just sit there! Can't you just wiggle your nose and poof the chains away?

RENE: *sarcastic* Yeah, sure. Because my last spell worked out great!

THURSDAY: Sweetie, it's all right. No one's blaming you. It's not your fault.

RENE: No, of course not. We're only in this mess because of me.

THURSDAY: And we'll get out of this mess just as soon as we think of something.

SPIKE: *pissed* I did think of something! Rene abracadabras us outta here.

RENE: It's not that simple! I don't even have my spellbook anymore. I think the big guy over there ate it.

THURSDAY: Well, we'll just come up with something else.

RENE: Yeah, preferably before the part with the virgin.

Silence. Spike raises his eyebrows.

SPIKE: Come again, mate?

RENE: After Thammuz rises, there's a virgin sacrifice. I didn't mention it before because I thought we'd be done by now.

THURSDAY: Virgin? That's weird…there's no one here but us.

Slowly, both Spike and Rene turn to stare at Thursday. She scoffs.

THURSDAY: Oh, please. I only look innocent. Besides, I'm a demon…virgins sacrifices are all about purity. I'm “unclean”.

The factory fills with silence as the demons finish their chanting. They bow their heads and wait. Gradually, a low rumble fills the building. On the pikes, the heads begin to reanimate, mouths moving silently. Light spills from their open jaws, and the rumbling reaches a fever pitch. With a great roar, the floor cracks open. Out crawls Thammuz…

…an 8 foot long scorpion demon with a skull for a head.

RENE: *whimpers* A bug…why does it have to be a bug?

One of the worshipers rises and goes to Thammuz. He leans in close to his skull-for-a-head. He listens for a moment, and stands. He point to Thursday.

DEMON: Her.

THURSDAY: What?!

Two more of the demons go to her and start to undo her chains. Spike struggles against his restraints, trying to stop them.

SPIKE: *growls* Don't you touch her!

THURSDAY: Wait…wait! You've got it all wrong! I'm not that virginal!

The room erupts with laughter. The demons are amused. One next to her speaks.

DEMON: We're not Orthodox-Thammuzian. Fresh virgins are getting harder and harder to come by these days.

THURSDAY: But, hey. I'm a demon. No human blood here!

DEMON: *shrugs* Beggars can't be choosers.

They haul her up and drag her towards Thammuz. As she nears, Thammuz starts clicking his pincers in excitement. Thursday starts to scream.

SPIKE: Wait! Just let me say goodbye to her!

The demons stop. They turn to regard Spike.

SPIKE: Please, from one demon to another. She's my fiancée.

Thursday eyes open wide. She sheepishly holds up her left hand - which still has the skull ring on it. She chuckles nervously.

SPIKE: Come on then. Just a kiss goodbye. Then you can have her.

The demons huddle together for a moment, discussing it amongst themselves. They finally separate.

DEMON: As you wish.

They drag Thursday back to where Spike and Rene are chained. They release Spike from his bonds, and shove him towards her.

RENE: Okay, now I'm really confused.

Spike stands in front of Thursday, and puts a hand on each shoulder. He draws her close, his lips brushing her ear.

SPIKE: I'm sorry.

THURSDAY: Huh?

Spike suddenly throws her violently to the side. She crashes into a bunch of crates. Before the Thammuzians can react, Spike attacks the nearest one, snapping his neck.

The remaining demons draw their weapons. Fire swords.

SPIKE: Huh…forgot about those.

He ducks, as a blade of fire passes overhead. Too close for comfort. Spike goes down, and lashes out with his foot. The demon topples over, allowing Spike to grab the sword from him. He vamps out, and promptly beheads the demon.

SPIKE: *laughs* Now we're talkin'

Fire sword swinging, Spike leaps into the fray. Hacking a slashing, he makes his way through the demons, but not without taking a few hits of his own. Thoroughly singed, he approaches Thammuz.

Not to be outdone, Thammuz lashes out, scorpion stinger flailing. Spike takes a flying leap, landing on Thammuz's carapace. The stinger slashes, ripping huge gashes in Spike's jacket. Spike swings the sword behind him, severing the stinger tail. As Thammuz screeches in pain, Spike leans way over, his face close to Thammuz's skull.

SPIKE: Welcome to New York.

Spike plunges his sword through Thammuz's cranium, splitting it with a sickening crack. With a satisfied smirk, Spike stands dusting himself off. One of the few remaining Thammuzian demons sneaks up behind him, fire sword held high over his head. Rene hollers.

RENE: Premo Jacio!

Yelping in surprise, Spike is suddenly propelled sideways by an invisible magic force, narrowly missing the demon's strike. Spike whirls around and stabs him through the face.

The remaining demons, having witnessed the death of their all powerful deity, flee in terror.

Spike goes to Rene, using the fire sword to cut the chains away. Rene stands, massaging his wrists.

RENE: Thursday.

They both turn to the pile of crates where Spike threw her. From the debris, a hand emerges, making the “a-okay” gesture.

CUT TO:

Arsenic bar. A memorial concert for Amanda the ukulele player. Most of the patrons are gathered near the stage where a skinny college kid in a rugby shirt is strumming a guitar, singing Dire Straits' “Romeo & Julie”.

At his usual table Spike sits, drinking alone. Thursday comes up behind him, holding two beers.

THURSDAY: This seat taken?

Spike gestures for her to sit. They silently listen to the music.

THURSDAY: You were right. It probably would've been better if me and Rene weren't there.

SPIKE: Turned out alright though.

THURSDAY: Maybe.

Spike shrugs.

THURSDAY: Listen, just say the word, and you won't ever have to hear from me again. You can fly solo, just like you always wanted.

Spike doesn't react.

THURSDAY: *sighs* Yeah…so…I'm just…gonna go.

SPIKE: You weren't so bad. Took those crates on like a pro.

THURSDAY: *laughs* Sure. But my back still makes funny noises when I reach for something high up.

SPIKE: You just need a little practice, is all. If someone were to show you the ropes, you could be a real fighter.

THURSDAY: *smiles* Thank you.

They sit in companionable silence. Spike takes a sip of his beer.

SPIKE: Just one question, though.

Thursday watches the performance, answering without looking at him.

THURSDAY: Yeah?

SPIKE: What's your first name?

Thursday slowly turns to look at him, with a strange expression in her eyes.

THURSDAY: Spike, honey…I like you.

She stands, pulling something from her left hand.

THURSDAY: But we don't know each other that well, so…

She shrugs, placing something on the table in front of him. She walks away. Spike looks down at the table.

It's his skull ring, gleaming in the dull light of the bar.

Spike stares after her for a long time.

FADE OUT: END CREDITS