Rome, 1953. Dusk.

The Roman twilight casts long shadows across the cracked marble facades and flickering lamplight of the Trastevere district. Inside a secluded villa with shuttered windows and velvet-lined walls, silk sheets stir faintly as a breeze slips through the wooden frame.

Pearl lies tangled in soft linen, her pale skin glowing under the dim chandelier. Her white hair spills across the pillow like smoke. A slow, southern purr curls from her lips, languid and sated. “That was wonderful.”

She shifts slightly, reaching for the goblet of red wine on the beside table. “You were most enthusiastic, if a bit rough. But if it didn’t take, we’ll try again. Mother sent me to get pregnant. Not just to sip wine on the Piazza.” A tall, jagged voice answers from across the room – a snarl dressed in syllables. Pearl lifts her head, blinking slowly.

The voice belongs to her partner – a demon, local to Rome but monstrous in form. His six eyes glisten in the low light, mandibles clicking with hunger as he creeps across the bed, his spider-like limbs curling toward her with quiet menace. “Sorry darlin. Didn’t you know? I’m a Black Widower demon.”

Pearl’s breath catches. Her hand clutches the bed sheet tighter to her body as the demon looms above her. His teeth shine in a jagged grin. “And we always feed after we mate.”

A scream tears from Pearl’s throat, shrill and panicked. “Nash!” She bolts for the door as it explodes open – carved walnut shattering on impact. Nash barrels into the room, his fine Italian suit torn at the collar, fists clenched, fury barely restrained. He launches into the demon mid-leap, tackling him away from Pearl. She crumples to the floor, breathless.

The demon growls as he slams Nash against the wall, lifting him by the throat. “Idiot welp! I’ll make short work of you. Then take my time with your sister.” Pearl’s eyes burn white, a beam of energy firing from her fingertip in a flash of rage. “Leave him alone!” she yells.

The blast fizzles across the demon’s carapace, doing little more than singe a single mandible. He snarls, curling one clawed hand into a fist as he seizes Pearl by the waist, lifting her high. Her silk sheet slips as she struggles. “If you’re in such a hurry to get eaten, I’ll oblige you. Go ahead, squirm. It’s better that way.”

Just then glass rains from above as the opulent window erupts inward. Moonlight floods the chamber. Through the chaos comes the unmistakable figure – black jacket, hair wild, boots mid-flight. A Saracen sword glints in his grasp. Punk incarnate.

Spike lands hard, crouched low, sneering. The demon, startled but far from cowed, breaks into a nervous grin. His jagged mandibles twitch as he raises both hands in welcome. “Spike! Hey man, I was just coming to see you after I had a light snack. I’ll get you your money I swear!”

Spike doesn’t blink. He levels the sword, the blade catching the gleam of chandelier light. His voice is gravelled velvet, soaked in contempt. “They warned me not to play cards with you, Widower.” He takes one slow step forward, fang-tips glinting, and narrows his gaze. “Now it comes out of your hide, mate.”

The demon staggers back, panicked, hands raised further in pleading desperation. “I’ll pay you double,” it begs. “I’ll pay you anything!”

There’s no mercy in Spike’s face – only cold certainty.

Pearl, curled in the corner, watches in mesmerised horror as the blade arcs. The Widower’s head hits the floor with a dull thud, six eyes wide and forever stunned.

And then, the air shifts.

From the jagged remains of the window, a silhouette floats in – Drusilla, wrapped in elegance and madness. Her Italian gown drapes like dying roses. Her face is vamped, regal and cruel, her eyes flickering with riddles. “Looks like you’ve got a fan, pet,” she says, nodding toward Pearl. “Hearts and eyes flutter, tears like the petals of a dead flower. All breathless and maiden anticipation.” Spike turns, face twisted in confusion.

“What are you on about, Dru?” Then he spots Pearl, still shivering. “Oh. Her,” he sighs.

Pearl’s voice barely stirs the air. “You… you saved me.” Drusilla offers a delighted smile that dances dangerously near madness. “Saved her. Precious. My clever Spike.” Spike stoops, picks up the severed head, and – without ceremony – uses his fingers to manipulate its mouth. He mimics a ridiculous cockney voice, lips curled in dark amusement.

“Spike’s a good bloke, he is. If I have to be decapitated by anyone, I hope it’s him.”

Drusilla leans gently onto his shoulder, like a ghost teasing gravity. “Heroes are paid rewards, aren’t they?” she asks sweetly. “What price a life? How to shape a maiden’s gratitude into a hero’s boon?” Spike lights a fresh cigarette, eyes flicking between Drusilla and Pearl. He exhales slowly, a curl of smoke wreathing his face like myth. “Rewards, eh? I could use a good booning. And what exactly does bite size here have to offer?”

Now, the present day. The Seed Chamber hums with faded power. Stone arches rise like broken ribs from the earth, half-lit by the flicker of dying magic. Dust dances in pale shafts of moonlight slicing through cracks in the ceiling. Spike stands in its centre, cigarette angled loosely between his lips, eyes scanning the emptiness like it owes him answers.

Footsteps echo behind him – measured, confident. Pearl’s silhouette slips into view, white hair catching the glow. She walks with casual elegance, gaze locked on Spike, and as she reaches him, she purrs with sugar-soaked sarcasm: “Well, if it isn’t my favourite vampire. Spike.”

Spike doesn’t turn. He exhales, flame warming his face as he lights the cigarette, then speaks through smoke. “Hello Pearl. What brings you to this particular hole in the ground? You aren’t here to shag any fish demons, are you? I’d have saved you one.” Pearl loops around him, eyes trailing low. Her voice drips amusement, but her fingers brush his shoulder like a predator tasting nostalgia. “So thoughtful, Spike.”

“You really do look out for me. My brave gallant vampire. Saved me from a big old demon last we met. Now I know better.” Morgan, watching nearby, stiffens at their banter. “Do you all know each other?” she asks, uncertain. Nash groans from the far side, rubbing his jaw, voice dry. “Just Pearl. I was unconscious at the time.”

Across the chamber, Frisky twitches nervously. “What’s happening?” he whispers. Seb’s antennae flick thoughtfully. “We must be prepared. Master Spike will have a brilliant plan up his sleeves.”

Pearl sharpens her stance, mood shifting. Her eyes narrow as she steps into Spike’s gaze. “At eighteen I thought you were my hero. Such a naïve, little girl. You’re no hero.” Spike inhales slowly and shrugs.

“Have to give back the decoder ring I suppose.” Pearl circles him like memory incarnate, her voice going soft and steely. “That was a long time ago, wasn’t it? Funny how time and experience can help one focus – make you see yourself and others more… clearly.”

Yeah. Lot of that going around. Spike’s mind starts to wander as he watches her walk the perimeter of his focus, tone now quieter, colder.

Neither of us are the same. So much bloody water under the bridge. Pearl’s become crazier. Harder. And me? What have I become? Not the same villain. Nobody’s idea of a hero. Drifting in No Man’s Land.

Pearl frowns, attention slipping away from her. She jolts back into the centre. “Did you go somewhere? Mister, I hope I’m not boring you.”

Spike blows smoke past her, dry smile forming.

“Not at all. Lovely to see you again. I was feeling a little nostalgic for the old territory. But now that we’ve seen it, I guess we’ll be on our way.” He turns sharply, waving the cockroaches forward. They scuttle to follow, antennae twitching, weapons awkwardly raised. Spike kneels down beside Seb, voice low.

“Get ready to grab the new girl and run.” Spike’s boot scrapes against loose gravel as he turns to leave, but Pearl’s voice slices through the stagnant air, sharp as glass. “Not so fast, Spike.”

He pauses mid-step, cigarette hanging from his lips, turning just enough to catch her gaze. Her tone is tight, commanding, and it draws his focus like a magnet laced with venom. She saunters toward him with calculated grace. Pearl tells him she and Nash are there on a little “scavenger hunt.” Spike raises an unimpressed brow and plods over slowly, his tone flat.

“Cigarettes or bug armour on your list?” Pearl’s jaw tightens, eyes flashing. Her voice rises a notch, echoing ominously across the chamber. The sound sends a ripple of nerves through the cockroach brigade – they quickly usher Morgan toward the tunnel mouth, antennae twitching, trying not to be noticed.

Pearl confirms they’re looking for pieces of the Seed. She doesn’t explain why, just lets the words hang heavy with implication. Nash doesn’t share her patience. He steps forward, eyes filled with contempt, pointing at Spike. “We’re wasting time. Turn out your pockets, bloodsucker, or I’ll do it for you.”

Spike doesn’t flinch. In one swift motion, he grabs Nash’s hand and twists hard, snapping a finger with a satisfying crack. Nash howls, rage igniting. Before Spike can land a quip, Nash’s other fist surges with crackling energy, and he swings – hard. The impact hits like a freight train, sending Spike sprawling with an expletive that burns as much as the hit.

Sebastian pulls Morgan close, nudging her toward the tunnel exit. “Time to go, miss,” But Morgan resists, eyes darting back toward the fight. She sees Pearl advancing, eyes glowing blue and wild. Each strike hits Spike like a bolt from the ether, charged and merciless. “Teeing him up for you, brother,” she smiles, unleashing blow after brutal blow.

Nash is right beside her now, fists pulsing with light. “I never get tired of hitting this guy!” Pearl steps back, panting slightly, satisfied. “Finish the job.” “My pleasure,” Nash grins, powering up again.

But Spike’s already pivoting – instinct kicking in. As the twins lunge together, their energy streaks like angry comets, he dodges just in time. They crash into the wall with seismic force.

The Seed Chamber shudders. Cracks snake across the ceiling like veins of doom, finally giving way in a thunderous collapse. Debris rains down, engulfing the chamber. Spike doesn’t look back.

He bolts through the tunnels, every footfall a countdown. As he bursts out into the moonlit crater, he shouts – “Get us in orbit!”

Sebastian doesn’t need to be told twice. Spike leaps aboard the craft just behind Morgan, the hull already lifting from the ground. Engines roar and the ship ascends – out of reach, out of time.

Below, Pearl and Nash claw their way from the rubble, dust-covered, wild-eyed. They gaze up in awe and fury as the ship vanishes into the stars.

Onboard, Spike apologises to Morgan for scooping her up and interrupting her journey. He asks her if there’s anywhere they can drop her off, and she simply asks to be dropped off at the nearest Hellmouth.

Spike tells her that Hellmouths don’t come easy to find, but she has her ways and she smiles, turning to a map and directing Spike to the location of one. He tells the bugs to prepare a course, even though he’s surprised at the location – he would not have called their destination a Hellmouth – not in a million guesses. Frisky, at the helm, tells Spike they will arrive at their destination shortly after sunset.

Seeing time to prepare, Morgan asks if there’s a shower onboard she can use. Spike directs her, but before he can carry on, Sebastian asks for a moment of his time. He’s concerned about their new passenger: she’s a succubus by nature, and she has just directed their next journey. Spike jumps up defensively. “Give me a little credit, won’t you, Seb? It’s not my first rodeo, okay? I’m not about to fall prey to any demonic manipulation.”

“Then why, Master, are we so agreeable to take Ms Morgan to a Hellmouth when we know it is impossible for her to open it without magic?” Sebastian looks up at Spike, his finger pointed upwards. “Is it possible that a shard of the Seed remained, Master? A shard that would allow her to open the Hellmouth? Have you not considered this?”

Spike turns to object and then realises that he hasn’t. He thanks Seb for the ‘good talk’ and asks to be excused while he looks into something.

A few minutes later, Spike is peering into the bathroom and hears the water running. He reaches in, without looking, for Morgan’s clothes, hoping to find a clue.

Before he can finish however, Morgan turns the water off and seductively tells him to go ahead and look. Through her clothes, she means. She asks him to hand her the towel and looks at him. “And let’s talk,” she says.

In the communal area on the craft, Spike is pouring a drink. Morgan tells him that she always thought serious talk went better with a stiff drink. Spike pours the whiskey into a glass and leans back. For a moment there’s awkward silence, neither knowing where to start.

As he lights up, Spike finally asks if she’s a succubus. Morgan sighs, but confirms his answer. “I’ve always heard if you want trust, you’ve got to give some.”

Elsewhere on the ship, Spike and Morgan’s private conversation is being spied on by Sebastian. He tells Frisky that he is simply observing, but his companion doesn’t believe him. He can tell that Seb is concerned and that the woman has an influence. He uses the word with disgust.

Sebastian brushes off his crewmate’s worries. “I have already made Master Spike aware of my concerns. It is out of my hands.” Frisky is appalled, repeating his words from earlier at his superior: “What about all those things you said, how we are family and must look out for one another?” Sebastian pauses for a moment, and then tells his friend to ‘talk fast.’ Frisky simply wants Seb to wait and watch, just in case.

In the communal area, Morgan begins her tale. Yes, she’s a succubus, but she claims to be more ‘high end’ – she much prefers the term ‘Courtesan Demon’.

Spike is about to suggest something unladylike about the name, but wisely shuts himself up as Morgan continues. “My sort of demon was often summoned and bound to ancient rulers. Great men often find it so difficult to trust women. We were useful. Valued.”

Throughout history, she explains, they were comforters and friends. Advisors to great men and kings. And yes, she admits, the other things Spike imagines they do… As she finishes she tells Spike that she hopes that puts her in a better light. Spike apologises again, this time for his assumption. He’s also noticed she left out all the details about transforming into a creature. She asks his story and he sighs, telling her it’s the same boring tale: boy becomes vampire, rides around in space with giant bugs. His current usual.

Morgan asks if she can ask Spike something personal, to which he nods. She wants to know what Pearl meant when she stated that Spike was a hero, albeit sarcastically. Spike tells her that Pearl was once dumb enough to think he was heroic, but now she’s smarter.

Realising Morgan wants more than flippancy, he concedes. “But I am different than I was then. There was something very direct about the person I used to be. At least I knew what I wanted most of the time. Seeing Pearl and Nash again reminded me.”

He looks up at his new friend. “Like seeing yourself in an old photograph, wearing an outfit you thought was so stylish. And yet, also realising you are the baddest badass of all and if anyone can make that outfit look good, it’s you.” He grins.

Morgan looks at him with a smile. “Still. Some might call that growth.” She reaches out to touch his arm, a movement that reminds Spike of another obvious reason why powerful men wanted her around.

Morgan changes the subject abruptly, bringing up what he said in Sunnydale about the shards. Spike leans back and admits that there was indeed a plan in place, in case: “The Slayer knew dangerous folk like Pearl and Nash would come looking.” He briefly mentions Buffy, but thinks better of revealing their connection to Morgan. “Anyway, we couldn’t just leave the little bits of the Seed lying around.”

Morgan smiles. “Of course,” she says. But she has a further question. She asks Spike if he’d be willing to take her to where the pieces of the shards are hidden now – if she could simply borrow even a sliver of magic? Spike interrupts. “The Slayer knew we had to get rid of the shards for good. I shot them into the sun,” he tells her. He leans forward, tossing his used cigarette into his empty whiskey glass.

“Look, without a magic garage-door opening, going to a Hellmouth might be a wasted trip. If you want, I can have the bugs change course, ” he offers Morgan.

Morgan declines. She just wants to find a way home and is willing to talk to the Slayer. “Please,” she looks at Spike, pleading.

Spike folds his arms, looks into Morgan’s eyes and smiles.

Observing from just beyond the room, hidden behind the hatchway, Frisky and Sebastian watch as Spike and Morgan talk and bond. Frisky turns to Seb, look of longing in his eyes.

Seb takes one look back at Spike and their guest and, as he walks away, declares to Frisky that he should no longer be worried. “Steps will be taken.”