A busy nightclub in the early hours of the morning, in the centre of London’s Soho district. Many years ago.

The noise is deafening, but this bar isn’t dominated by the chart-toppers of the 1970s – this one is filled to the brim with a cacophony of panic. Screams fill the air as people rush for the doors, stampeding to leave the club, even as the darkness is penetrated by the spotlight on the stage.

In the beam of light, shifting colours without a controller, are Rupert Giles and his grandmother Edna. As Giles swings his precious guitar up with both hands, he thrashes it forward. The guitar has been snapped in two, the main portion of the instrument now being sharp enough to pierce something. As his grandmother swings an ancient blade, forged by some warrior shamans from Tibet, Giles remembers seeing the weapon above his father’s fireplace as a child.

“You were right, Gran. This is precisely what I needed,” he states with a grin – pushing his make-shift stake into a vampire who runs straight towards him. His grandmother’s fencing takes the head off one vamp, dusting him. Another is at the edge of the stage though, nipping at the older woman’s heels. “Focus, Rupert!” she yells at him, with slight annoyance. “Remember your Watcher training. Vampires often make themselves look non-threatening to distract their prey. Do not let down your guard.”

Rupert is enjoying himself, perhaps too much. Grinning back and taking on another vampire, he chuckles at his relative. “No fear there. The merest hint of disco sends me into a murderous rage.” He plunges a stake into the back of a female vampire. Edna, a look of consternation on her face, makes something of a disapproving grunt that Rupert thinks is very un-ladylike. “Yes, because your style of music is so pleasing to hear.” Her tone gets her a look from her grandson. “You know, your brand of sarcasm is virtually identical to your sisters’.” The insult causes a smart grin across both their faces, with Edna chastising him playfully. “You are a wicked boy.”

Shortly afterwards, apart from the thin layer of dust now coating everything in the bar and a few overturned chairs – and the lack of patrons – things in the club are back to a semblance of normal. Rupert helps himself on a trip around to the serving side of the bar. “Well, I can fault the vampire’s taste in music, but not spirits,” he says, grabbing a liquor bottle from a shelf. He opens the top and offers some to his grandmother. She graciously accepts the glass. “I could do with a drink,” she nods. “This is a job for a Slayer, not a pensioner and a wayward boy.” She sits on a stool at the bar, extending her glass to her grandson in salutation. “The current Slayer is still in America,” she adds.

“You keep tabs, do you?”

“I hear things.” She chinks their glasses together, the ice rattling against the sides of the tumblers. Edna puts her hand on her grandson’s arm, a loving, soft gesture. She looks him straight in the eyes but Rupert avoids her gaze, staring at his black nail polish through his rapidly emptying glass. “You should come back, Rupert,” she urges him gently. “We pushed you into the Watcher Academy prematurely. I see that now, and I am sorry. Your father, as well… not that he’d ever say so outright. But you have a talent for this. You could do so much good.”

She lets go, downing what’s left in her glass all in one gulp. Rupert watches her, desperate sadness in his eyes. “Why? Because it’s my duty? That’s father talking. Perhaps I have no wish to spend my life immersed in horror before dying prematurely myself.” Edna looks at him now, resolute tone to her voice, “And yet, you’re rushing headlong down that path all on your own.”

Rupert pours himself another drink. He tells her that he often wonders what would have happened had he been older when he entered the Academy; whether or not that would have changed anything. He’s not convinced that age would have prepared him more, but his grandmother interrupts, scolding him.

“Good heavens, Rupert. I’ve admitted we pushed you too far, too quickly, but I was ten when I saw my first vampire. He and his sire tried to kill me…”

“Yes, yes, I know the story by heart, but I am not you, Gran. Not nearly as strong or clever. People have died, horribly, because I was stupid and selfish.”

Edna smacks him on the back of the head swiftly, causing Rupert to drop his glass. “You were a young fool who felt immortal and did remarkably ill-advised things. And yes, it cost people their lives. You bloody idiot. That doesn’t disqualify you from being a Watcher. It makes you perfectly suited to mentor a Slayer!”

Giles puts his hands in his pockets and looks down at the ground, admonished by his gran’s words. She changes her tone slightly. “They’re tremendous young girls granted tremendous power. Who can relate to them better? A man like your father, who’s done the right and proper thing all his life?” Giles still doesn’t look at her. “What I’ve done goes well beyond misspent youth,” he says, tone hushed. He begins to remove his jacket, exposing that horrid reminder, but he’s surprised when Edna grabs the sleeve of his jacket and pulls it off his arm.

“Oh, stop. I know all about Eyghon.”

Rupert looks at her, terrified of her next words.

“Perhaps your soul is damned,” she states, matter of factly, with no sympathy. “Perhaps he’ll claim it the moment you die and subject you to an eternity of torment. If you want to be selfish about it. A lifetime of good works may be the one way to save yourself from that fate. The only path to redemption.”

She cups his chin in her hand, turning his head to look at her. Her eyes are warm, full of love, but also concern. Terrified concern. He can tell. But Giles listens, focussing on her words. “And if you genuinely want to atone for what you’ve done, it’s your duty, much as you despise the word. You feel you’ve done wrong? Then stop crying about it and start making amends.”

Flash to the present day, the London townhouse, home of Alasdair Coames. The remaining Slayers are standing, staring at the newcomer who’s just walked through the threshold, inviting him into the dwelling. Faith leans against the dining table in the room, waiting. Angel stands there, staring at the newcomer, arms folded.

“Spike,” is all he says.

William the Bloody stands in front of his grand-sire, still puffing on a cigarette. “Hello Angel. Bolluxed things up again, have you? Good on you though, knowing when to call in the big gun. Sign of maturation that is.”

Faith looks surprised. “You called Spike? I mean, we can use the muscle, but I thought you guys were like, frenemies. The Betty and Veronica of vampires.”

Angel doesn’t get the reference. Spike picks it up right away. “Ah, he’s stubborn, but not stupid. Our Angel knows when he’s out of his depth.” He grins, resisting the urge to taunt Angel more. Barely.

Angel takes advantage of Spike’s silence as he smokes, reassuring everybody in the room of his intentions. “Eyghon can’t possess us because there’s already a demon in residence. I don’t love it, but we need the help.” He looks directly at Faith. “Not to mention the spaceship thing. It’s cannons should do pretty well against demons Eyghon’s size.”

Spike makes a coughing noise, walking over to what appears to be an ancient urn and flicks the ash from his smoke into it. “Ship’s gone. Sore subject. Don’t want to talk about it.”

Angel is disappointed, but then queries how Spike got to London. His only answer to Angel is that he’s resourceful and he was already walking the Earth for a change of scenery. As Spike continues to use the urn as an ashtray, much to Alasdair’s visible horror, Angel makes a flippant comment that earns a sideway glance from Spike. It’s a flash of anger.

“Buffy give you the brush off, huh?”

Spike turns and points at Angel. “I left of my own accord. She can at least stand the sight of me, unlike some undead people I could mention.” Faith sighs, brings her hand to her head, her expectations confirmed as the vampires both raise their voices. “And cue the slap fight,” she mutters, unheard by the two men. Spike hasn’t finished his piece it seems, and the more he rants, the angrier Spike becomes.

“I’m not you,” he states, waving his finger in Angel’s face. “Mooching about outside her window. I know when a bit of space is healthy for all concerned.”

Angel stops for a moment, putting the pieces together. “She’s with somebody, huh? A good guy, at least?” Spike looks away, folding his arms. “Been getting chummy with a copper. Seems a decent enough sort. Dunno if it’s anything – wasn’t about to hang around and find out. More important things to do.”

Angel looks back at Spike, somewhat regretting their spat. He understands exactly how it feels, watching Buffy move on without him. “My thinking exactly,” he says, agreeing with Spike, mostly to change the subject away from their ex. Spike pays attention, speaking up again.

“Oh, too right! You’re out to resurrect the librarian in the hopes she won’t hate you anymore.” He scoffs. It’s now Angel’s turn to get defensive, telling Spike that he’s at least trying to atone, which is more than Spike has done! Spike tells Angel he doesn’t know what he’s talking about – he hasn’t even checked in with the Scooby Gang since he killed Giles!

A shuffling on the other side of the living quarters distracts Spike and he stops mid-sentence. He turns. “What’s this then?”

Nadira and the Slayers are standing in the doorway, weapons drawn. Nadira has a look of resolution on her face. She stomps straight up to Spike, blade in hand, words precise. “William the Bloody. Mass murderer. Killer of two Slayers.” She grips the hilt of the sword that much tighter.

“I have something for you.” She steps forward, but rather than striking Spike as expected, she pulls the sword into both her hands and offers the ancient enchanted blade to him, unreservedly. “The only way to kill Eyghon is to decapitate him. Alasdair called this a vorpal blade. Don’t pick your fangs with it.”

Spike reaches out to take the sword, smiling. Angel is incredulous behind him, shouting at Nadira in frustration: “Wait a minute! He gets a pass?”

Nadira throws him a sarcastic look. “He didn’t kill a squad of my friends – and the fact you’re still alive means you got a pass too.”

Spike grins. “Baby Slayers. I missed baby Slayers. The angst. The attitude… Bit like a soap opera with weapons.”

Spike is pleased as punch to be chosen over his rival and marches past Angel, noting the slight scowl on his face. He approaches Faith with a smile. “All right, Faith? How’re you, then? Captain Forehead made a shambles of your life yet?”

Faith gives him an angry look: she’s in no mood for jokes and has no time for pettiness. “I’m at war. So can we take care of business?”

She explains the situation to Spike: Eyghon has a hold of their friends, Giles and Ethan’s reanimated bodies, he’s in his pure demon form and he tried to get in her head. Angel looks behind his shoulder, reacting to something in the next street. Faith reasons that if she could see into Eyghon’s head then it probably works in reverse, which means Eyghon could be upon them at any time.

Angel gets up a split second before it happens: the front window of Alasdair’s house is smashed from the outside, a jagged claw reaching through. Eyghon has arrived. As he pushes himself through the gap and through the wall, the possessed Slayers, zombies, Giles and Ethan walk into the room. Eyghon snarls at the assembled heroes.

“I offer you a final chance. Submit and live.”

Giles looks straight into Faith’s eyes, leering at her. “Become one with Eyghon,” he chants at her.

As the battle begins, Nadira quickly pushes Alasdair out of the room. Angel yells at everyone to stick to the plan and remember their roles. Giles, swinging a sword at Spike, tells them that all they have to do is die. Spike is not impressed, parrying the former Watcher’s blow with ease.

“Well, look at zombie Giles. Undead and still a crap fighter.” Spike turns around in a spin and collides his boot into Giles’s chest. “Go play with the girls,” he tells him. “I’ve got important business. Me and Angel don’t agree on much. But one thing’s never changed: put us together and there will be blood.”

Angel and Spike stand now, back to back, Champions together, moving as one. Just like old times. They cut a swath through the zombies as Faith directs the Slayers behind her on the far edge of the room.

Vanessa and another possessed Slayer – Faith curses herself for not remembering her name – launch towards her, weapons bared. “You’re lost. We’ll die for Eyghon. You won’t even kill us to save yourselves.” They taunt Faith, who smiles. “Don’t have to,” she grins, as a net, clearly mystical in nature, engulfs the possessed girls – long enough for them to be bound and restrained. Faith yells at the girls. “Cuff them faster.” She sighs. “Am I the only one who’s dated a cop? MOVE IT!”

She hears a voice from behind her. Giles. “Ah, yes. The jokes. But not hiding the self-hate. Only reinforcing it. You’re such a disappointment to me, Faith.”

She turns and catches his sword with her blade. “Like I give a rat’s ass,” she tells him angrily. “You’re Eyghon. Not Giles.” Her former mentor doesn’t stop, reigning down the blows as she parries and catches every single one. “But I have the core of Giles within me. His essence. The best of him. I know all he knew.”

This doesn’t deter Faith, who’s latest swing disarms the Watcher. “Then you’re just lying.” Having lost his weapon, Giles raises his hands. “Yes, please. Go ahead. You know the only way to stop me is to decapitate me. It will be worth it to see the agony it causes you.”

Faith smirks that grin again. Another net comes out of no where, covering Giles. “Wrong again,” Faith jibes, “There’s another way.” She looks over at Eyghon, then looks down again at the unconscious Giles. “We kill him. And I got my best guys on that.”

Outside the townhouse, in the garden surrounding it, Angel is slicing away at Eyghon with his sword. “Know what I like about your true form? It can die. I’m ending you forever,” he says with steeled conviction.

Eyghon laughs back at him. “With your pitiful sword, blessed by a drunken, syphilitic friar?” He batters Angel and he goes careening backwards at speed, smashing into the side of the house, cracking the wall. “Amuse me some more,” the demon sneers.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Spike appears above the demon, wielding the mystical blade. “He’s just the opening act, mate,” he yells as he plunges the blade deep into the demon’s neck. “I’m the main event!” he snarls, but Eyghon turns, grabbing Spike with his claw. As he holds Spike, he starts to smoke and sizzle. As the heat starts to rise in him, he looks down at Angel. “Bugger,” he states.

Eyghon eyes him curiously, the way a viper looks at a mouse. “You’re strong. I can use your body.” Spike is quick to sneer. “That’s what they all say. Pity there’s already a demon paying rent.”

Eyghon smiles, if such a thing is possible. “And if I were a dimension away, that would stop me, as before. But I am here, in my true form, at the peak of my power.”

Spike’s face begins to resemble the demon’s now, his form changing, his features morphing. “Your demon is outmatched,” Eyghon declares and, to prove a point, speaks through Spike’s body. “The only choice for those who defy Eyghon are assimilation, death or both.” Eyghon lets Spike’s possessed form fall to the ground, where he turns and snarls at Faith. Faith has just enough time to swear under her breath and turn before the sword comes down from the blonde vampire.

Outside, swinging his tail to hit Angel, but missing, Eyghon seems excited. He grabs a hold of Angel in his claws. “At last,” he jeers. “Years later, I still feel the pain of being cast out of your body. The humiliation.” Angel’s features begin to change, just as Spike’s did, into the form of Eyghon. “Shall we try again?” the demon asks, squeezing Angel tighter.

But nothing happens. In fact the scales that had appeared on Angel’s face have already dissolved. Eyghon pulls Angel closer, keen to know what happened. “Things are different for you this time, huh?” Angel asks the demon. “Me too. Last time there were two of us in here.”

He looks at the demon and lets his words sound in the air for a second. “Now there’s three.”

Eyghon studies him again and realises. “The Tooth of Ammut! I begin to see.” He rips open Angel’s shirt, exposing the ring on his chest. “But there is a flaw in your plan. One of the souls within you is only partially present and belongs entirely to me.” Angel cries out in pain as the demon scales return through his flesh. Once again, he manages to hold it at bay.

Then he speaks again to the demon, this time with Giles’s voice! “Yes. By my own doing. These others are innocent. I will not allow you to harm them further.”

Eyghon is intrigued by the voice change. “Ha! The pawn finds his voice! You see innocents here, Ripper? I see souls more damned than yours! And you allow me nothing. You do as I say. And I say submit.”

Angel doesn’t say anything. Neither does Giles. He just continues to remain in the demon’s claws. This time, instead of Angel sizzling and burning, Eyghon starts to burn. “This is intolerable,” he yells. “You are mine. You have no will of your own.”

Giles’s voice comes forth from Angel’s mouth again. “What the denizens of Hell refuse to accept is that damnation is, at some point, a choice. As is this.” He pulls Angel’s fist back and launches it forward, straight into Eyghon’s eye, blinding the creature, who rushes his claws to his eyes, screeching in pain.

Angel leaps harmlessly to the ground, just as Faith takes Spike out with a kick between his legs. The vampire grunts and collapses to the floor. Faith picks up his sword and throws it straight up into the air, calling Angel’s name. He catches it and races back towards the demon, as his followers all begin to chant. “All must be Eyghon!”

Angel runs towards the demon, leaps straight into the air. As Faith watches, he seems to glide for a moment, like a movie effect. She can’t help but be impressed and grins. He lands on Eyghon’s knee, just for a second, and propels himself up the demon’s chest, his sword pointing in the right direction. He bounces off the demon, swings the blade and decapitates Eyghon.

As Angel leaps free of the giant corpse landing, Spike tackles Faith to the ground. By the time he looks down at her, the possession is gone. The compromising position is noted by Faith instantly. Spike, embarrassed, simply asks if they won. As Faith pushes him off her, she looks inside at the bodies on the floor and the chaos around them. “Yeah,” she says, unsure. “Yeah, we won.” Giles’ dead body is on the floor, silent.

As Angel recovers from his killing blow, a swirl of green energy comes from Eyghon striking him in the chest. He stands there, unable to speak as the green glow surrounds him. And then he goes dead-eyed and screams the unholiest scream anyone has ever heard.

Memories swim through his mind at a hundred miles an hour. Faith. Jenny Calendar. Buffy. Willow. Angelus. Twilight. Giles’ death. All of Giles’ memories, his essence, travel through Angel’s head. He sees it all, and then sees his own lives as his body stands immobile.

Inside, Alasdair comes out of hiding and surveys the damage with a worried look on his face. Spike brushes himself down and winces. “Well, my work here is done. And like all the best scraps, I can’t remember a bloody thing. Why do my bollocks ache?”

Faith shrugs it off. “Beats me. Is Angel okay?”

As she watches Daphne turn over Ethan Rayne’s now dead corpse, Spike checks on Angel, who has slumped against a tree. “Vacant stare. Drooling like the village idiot. Yep. All’s right with old Angel.” He turns to walk away and then something catches his notice. He bends down towards Angel.

A grin reaches across his face. “Is that a nipple piercing?”

Faith comes over, concerned. “It’s magic, smartass.” She begins to explain what the artifact does, but Spike is already aware that it’s a conduit to channel souls. Which means Giles’s soul is now somewhere in Angel.

Angel stares blankly into space and begins to speak, this time in Giles’s voice. “I’ll do it Gran. If you teach me, I’ll finish my training. I will become a Watcher.”

Spike is impressed by the accent coming from Angel, calling it passable. Faith notices that that wasn’t Angel, but Giles. Spike nods. And Angelus is in there too. “Must be a right racket. Angel was never much of a talker, but those other two, bloody hell, they never stopped. Loved to hear the sound of their own voices, they did.”

As Faith helps Angel to his feet, his blank features suddenly become alive again, this time morphing into vampire face and snarling. Faith asks Angel if he’s okay, but it’s Angelus who responds.

“He’s destroyed your life and you’re still worried about him? Is that all it takes? A man wants you for something besides a quick rut and you’re so pathetically grateful you bend over backwards. Ignoring the sound of your own spine breaking.”

Faith may not have been prepared for Angelus, but she’s quick to react, mostly in anger. She punches him to the ground, and when he speaks again, this time, it’s Angel’s voice that comes through.

“Stop it, Wesley. I’m fine. Tell Cordelia no more calls today. I just need to lie down. Clear my head.”

Spike looks at Angel, confusion on his face. “Bug-eating mad. Really, what’s shocking is that it took this long!”

Faith silences him. “It’s only because of Giles. We can fix it.” Spike shakes his head. He’s more concerned about Angelus. “That bloke only needs a moment to kill us all.”

Nadira comes over, sword in hand. “We got a problem?” She raises her sword above the blank Angel. “Problem solved.”

Faith slams her backward. “He saved your life. All our lives. That’s who he really is. Not Angelus, not Twilight. Not this.” She points at the Slayers. “If you wouldn’t kill them when they were possessed by Eyghon, you’ve no right killing him. And if you still want to try,” she finishes, preparing a fist, “you’ll have to go through me. I’m done apologising for that.”

Nadira looks at her for a moment and then shrugs. “Fine. I suppose he’s earned a chance. But you haven’t. You lied to us. We put our trust in you and you betrayed us.” She turns to the Slayers, angry now. “And you lot! You look like a pack of beaten dogs. I can see it on your faces. You’re going through with it, aren’t you? We lose a friend and instead of avenging her, you’re going to run and hide like the cowards you are. At least Faith’s never quit.”

She shakes her head, annoyed. “You all chose your sides,” she says, walking off. “I’ll carry on myself. Still plenty out there who need Slaying.” She turns around one final time before she leaves. “In the old days, there was a Chosen One. Suits me if it’s that way again.”

And then Nadira is gone.

Spike has lit a cigarette. “Someone’s a drama queen.”

Faith turns to Daphne. “What was she talking about? I know I disappointed you, but you have to know I never would’ve done anything to hurt you guys. You’re my friends.”

Daphne stops her, looking at her sadly. “Faith, Nadira’s got issues, yeah? But she’s not wrong. We were talking, most of us. After Drusilla killed Marianne, before all of this business happened. The rules have changed. Being a Slayer doesn’t make you a Chosen One anymore. We have a choice.”

She looks and gestures at the bodies and the wounded. “And we don’t want this. We’re done Faith. We’re going our separate ways.”

Faith says nothing and looks to the ground. “You helped us tremendously,” Daphne assures her. “When we needed it. We’ll never forget that. We got this power and didn’t know how to use it. Suddenly all these people, and not people, wanted to kill us. Our whole world turned upside down. You taught us to be strong. How helping people weaker than us helps us as well as them. You showed us how to take control of our lives.” She holds Faith close. “That’s what we’ve decided to do. Go after what we want. We don’t all want the same things, but we all agree we don’t want a life like, well, yours.”

Faith gets it. She’s happy for them all. She just has to be sure. “If I hadn’t lied to you, would you still?” Daphne shrugs. “Maybe not this soon, but we would’ve gotten to this point eventually. Better to realise it now than keep arsing about because we’re having fun, isn’t it?” She turns. The other Slayers are already at the door, waiting to leave. “We’ll keep in touch,” Daphne promises as she waves goodbye and joins the Slayers. They’re soon gone.

Spike is inside the house with Alasdair, asking him directly. “You, old fella. You’re the poor man’s Giles, aren’t you? Make with the knowledge. How do we get Angel back to his old personality? Such as it is.” Spike thinks that the Tooth can work in reverse and Alasdair reaches for one of his large volumes. “In theory, yes. But there’s no way, I’m aware of, to specify which soul. If something went wrong, we could unleash Angelus.”

Spike sighs. “We’ve got Giles’s body, don’t we? One would think his soul wants to go home.”

Alasdair can’t tell if Spike is serious or not, but answers him anyway. “Even if that were true, which I have no evidence of, there is more to resurrection than placing a soul back into a dead body. If you wish to end up with something other than a zombie or a revenant, great magic is required. Or was, when spells still functioned.”

Spike nods at Alasdair’s words as Faith walks back into the house. “Well,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Presumably someone had some ruddy idea how to resurrect the man before you started all this!” He gets louder with frustration. Faith looks at him, glumly. “Sure,” she says, pointing to Angel’s blank form, still lying on the ground outside, unmoving, unblinking, unseeing.

“Him.”