Effectively. no.

"What does effectively no mean?"

Well, with a Slayer in the ground and another in jail, we are, effectively..

Slayerless.

"So, no Slayer?"

I'd explained this a dozen times to a dozen different Watchers. They had been expecting the next Slayer to be called, and she hadn't eventuated. They had thought perhaps she had not been identified, much like the Slayer before her. The last girl had only been found weeks after she had been activated.

She had been untrained.

She had been ill-prepared.

She had probably been the best Slayer we had ever had.

Usually, one Slayer dies, the next arises. We had never thought that anything different would happen. The scenario that had presented itself had never been something dreamed of possible. I had to explain this to the Council, over and over again.

One more time, for those of us not on the same page.

Buffy Summers died. Kendra was called. Kendra died, Faith was called. Buffy Summers dies a second time. The Slayer in line after Buffy is. Kendra.

I see dawning horror on the faces around me.

Ah, we're finally on the same page.

"But surely - "

Surely nothing. One Slayer dies, the next rises. The next Slayer in line. The line part of it leads me to believe that there is a line of Slayers, not a branch of Slayers. A line is a static thing. There is certainly order to it, but something else.

No delineations.

The Slayer after Buffy is Kendra. Buffy Summers does not activate any other Slayer, other than Kendra. The only person that could activate the next Slayer would be. Faith.

"She's not in the field. She could live till she's a hundred in jail!"

They're finally catching up.

Buffy's Watcher is here. He looks haggard and frazzled, probably having been questioned by the Council constantly. Faith was under his charge as well. She went off the rails and Buffy quit. Then Buffy died, again.

"We've had rogue Slayers before."

Yes we have. Problem is, no jail anywhere can hold a Slayer. Once they bust out, they don't live very long. Something about the darkness eating them up whole. Ofcourse, Faith is looking for redemption, and that involves staying in jail voluntarily, which she's doing. She's out of the firing line and probably not going to be in any firing line for a long, long time. She could be the oldest surviving Slayer we've ever had, and the most useless.

A dark look has blossomed on Giles' face. He, before any of these other bureaucrats, realises what this means, and probably what we will have to do. He's been in the field for longer than most of us, and I envy him, but I also know what he's going to say. He loved his Slayer, and despite Faith's faults, he cared for her aswell. He dreads what I am going to propose but knows it's inevitable as the proverbial death and taxes.

"No." He breathes, his voice barely above a whisper, and unheard by the others, but I know what he says because his reaction was what I was looking for.

Faith has been charged with murder, has a signed confession and is in jail voluntarily. There's no amount of red tape we could cut through to get her out any time soon. She was a big victory for the D.A and they aren't going to let it slide anytime soon. She's also a murderer and tortured another member of the council. She went to a vampire for help, no matter how redeemed she thinks he is.

She's too dangerous to be out.

It's too dangerous for the world for her to be in.

A couple of other Watcher's get what I'm saying. They look horrified, but there is an emotion that Giles would probably never feel about this solution, evident on their faces also.

Relief.

Faith has been a nightmare. Proof that the forces of good are corruptible, which is something we never want to see. She is also living proof that we can completely drop the ball. Buffy was also evidence of this, but at least she's not around anymore.

Out of sight, out of mind.

I tell them.

I have someone that can take care of this.

"Take care of what?"

They feign ignorance to placate their collective conscience. Everybody at this table knows exactly what I'm talking about, every single person here with their button-down faces and their acres of tweed. They fidget with their teacups in nervous anticipation, hoping against hope that someone other than them will state the obvious so they can tutt-tutt, shake their heads and claim there was nothing any of them could do because the decision was out of their hands.

I could wait longer than any of them.

The room sat in silence for only a few minutes before Hector Beaks, one of the most nervous of the group demanded to have it spelled out for him.

"What exactly are we talking about here?"

We're talking about cold-blooded murder of a Chosen One. We are talking about doing the job of the bad guy, just so we can get another good guy on the team. We are trying to justify why it's okay and we are telling ourselves that in the long run it's for the best. What's one girl's life right? She's supposed to die at a young age anyway. We're not taking anything away from her by doing what we have to do. She doesn't have children, a husband and a career to look forward to. She has a graceless death at the face of an unknown and probably unworthy opponent.

That's how all Slayers die. They face Armageddon and total annihilation every day and they always die at the hands of a novice. They always die on a routine patrol. They always die at the hands of someone who doesn't realise what they have done.

They always die.

So what's the difference right?

"This is not what we're here for." It's Giles' voice, quiet as it is, that shuts down the hubbub that has sprung up over my previous statement. He takes glasses that are perched on the end of his nose, withdraws a handkerchief from his pocket, and begins to clean them methodically. Everyone at the table is staring at him, not daring to talk. A Watcher who has just lost a Slayer is always deferred to. It's a kind of morbid celebrity of sorts. So few of us have the chance to guard over the Slayer. Only one every five or ten years isn't a high turnover.

"It's like that saying." He continues, returning the glasses to their rightful place. "What came first, the chicken or the egg?" He looks at the assembled group as if he has spoken some great truth. I know exactly what he is driving at but the rest of the table is wearing a uniformly perplexed expression.

"There were Slayers before the Watcher's Council. There will be Slayers after the Watcher's Council. We like to tell ourselves that we have always existed, gives us a sense of ceremony and all that, but do we really think that first girl who faced her first demon had a Watcher behind her? Are we that naïve?"

The penny drops.

"Of course there was!" Somebody blusters. I can't remember his name and don't make any plan to. He's obviously a nitwit. Giles looks at this man with the patience only a teacher could have with an ill-advised student. "Don't be daft man." He says evenly, in a voice that seems to chill the room. "We don't even know why or how they exist. We didn't recruit them, they recruited us."

It makes perfect sense of course. It still leaves a gaping hole in the forces of good.

"The world will seek a balance. We don't need to push it. We never have, and we are kidding ourselves if we think we do." Giles had remained seated through this whole exchange, but now stood. "However, the fact that this Council thought they could make this decision shows me something very definite." He walked to the door, with everyone hanging on his every word and waiting for what he would say next with baited breath.

"I'm done with the lot of you."

What happened next was purely hearsay and speculation that I will merely report on.

After the door clicked shut behind him, Giles once again removed his glasses, and exited the ancient library the Council met in. He stopped outside and turned his face to the sun, probably trying to dispel the disgust he felt, taking pleasure in the simple act of feeling the warmth on his face. Those that saw him, all swore to one thing.

Standing behind him were two girls, one by each shoulder. One had hair the colour of the sun and rosy cheeks. The other was ebon haired with skin the colour of milk. Each placed a hand on his shoulder and for the barest of seconds Giles reached up and clasped their hands with his own.

As one, the two young girls and the ageing librarian turned from the Council.

The world finds a balance.

It always does.