by havocthecat
Copyright 1998

Sillyfic. Pure, unadulterated sillyness that hit me on the bus this morning.

Once upon a time, back when civilization began, there was a man named Dawson--or whatever Dawson happened to be in the language of the time, before all the transliteration and vowel shifts and such. Dawson--and we'll call him that because we don't speak the language his name was really in, it having been a few thousand or so years--was the keeper of a rather interesting secret. There were Immortals roaming the Earth. He only knew this because he'd seen one of his closer friends kill one of them and take what he'd called a Quickening. Dawson rather thought that it looked like the work of the gods, but he wasn't one to argue with his friends. Besides, once your friend ran himself through with his sword and then woke back up, you really weren't going to argue with him.

His friend had sworn him to secrecy, so Dawson hadn't told a soul. Well, except for a few friends he was *sure* could be trusted. After all, such an incredibly fascinating secret shouldn't be let go to waste. He and his friends formed a club--more of an excuse to get together and drink beer, really--to spy on Immortals and write down all their dirty little secrets. After all, the truth was a fairly important thing, and when the truth *and* beer were the purpose, well, no stone could go unturned. Besides, they played really fun games when they got together.

One day, Dawson was in the marketplace looking for some beer for that night's gathering. He'd done a certain amount of sampling already, and was more than a bit tipsy, and knocked into someone while weaving his way to the next brewer's stall. When the two men picked themselves up, Dawson offered a somewhat slurred apology to Giles--or, well, his name *would* be Giles eventually, in more than a couple of thousand years and a countless number of linguistic shifts--as well as an offer of a drink.

The two of them, Giles supporting Dawson just the slightest bit, made their way over to a tavern Giles said he knew of. Apparently what he really knew of was one of the wenches, because he seemed to keep a rather intent eye on her all day, and then into the night as well, behaving oddly whenever she left the room with what looked to be a, uh, customer.

All right, Dawson was puzzled as to why Giles would be concerned about a common tavern whore. I mean, most men didn't really pay all that much attention to the wenches unless they were late refilling their mugs of ale. The funny thing was, this wench would come back every time, and she would be covered in dust. Dawson was puzzled by this, and asked Giles about it.

"Well," said Giles a little blearily, for he was more than a little drunk at the time. "She's the...the...uh..." He paused and took a drink of his beer. "The Slayer!"

Dawson's puzzled face told Giles that he'd better explain.

"There's a...girl...an' she...schlay...there can be," said Giles, looking slightly green. "There can be only one girl in all the worlsh...world...with the shtrengh an' shkill t' kill th' vampires."

Dawson was interested, and in his alcohol-sodden brain he decided that he'd best perhaps learn more about the Slayer and the vampires. Besides, that watching thing sounded neat.

Unfortunately, poor Dawson got the facts a *little* mixed up at the next meeting of the Immortal Sneaks and Beer Drinkers Association Meeting (whereupon they collectively voted to call themselves the "Watchers," because it sounded really cool). The one Immortal who was there got as blindingly drunk as the newly-named Watchers, and *he* also mistook his facts.


"And that," said Adam Pierson. "Is how the Game began."

"Fascinating," said Giles, stopping his tape recorder.

"Weird," said Buffy, popping her gum.

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