The sound of machinery wakes the San Francisco Bay. Heavy equipment picks up debris, resettling foundations that had stood for years, washed away like nothing by the tsunami just weeks before. The early morning sun brings light, but not warmth. Survivors do not feel like smiling.

Huddled around the television, waiting for a Presidential press conference to begin, Dawn wonders why, if the power is back, they cannot move into their apartment again. From her tone, she clearly dislikes the FEMA trailers set up for residents.

“The roads still aren’t safe,” Buffy says, staring through the window down towards the docks. “Even for people whose homes weren’t wrecked, it’ll probably be a few more days.”

Xander is cheerful. The cats have gone wild without him and are now nestling against his chest, eating greedily. “Hopefully things will get back to normal soon.”

Spike shoots him a sombre look from the couch. “Live long enough, you’ll find out for yourself there ain’t no such thing, mate.”

A few minutes later Buffy and Spike are next door, checking on Giles. Willow floats down from a high shelf, carrying volumes in her arms. Buffy asks if there is news.

Giles sighs. “I’m afraid not. Access to my library hasn’t provided the answers I’d hoped for.” Willow shakes her head. “I talked to my ex, Lake. She kept saying ‘classified.’ But the upshot seems to be that the military has come to the same conclusion we have. No one can find the Shenlong Dragon, or figure out why it attacked. The last recorded sighting we know of is in the late thirteenth century.”

Giles closes his book and leans back. “Presumably it’s returned from whence it came… another dimension or deep underground. The question is why it awoke in the first place. Our analysis of the mystic energy infusing the storm suggests a deliberate act.”

Buffy and Spike exchange glum looks. “So someone woke up a storm dragon and sent it to wreck San Francisco. We’re at war. And we still don’t know with whom.”

Dawn interrupts as they gather around the screen. “It’s starting,” she whispers.

On the screen, President Malloy, in his first term, stands before his podium, the White House flag behind him, banners unfurled. He looks drained, grey, as though all colour has left his face. Not only anxious, but sad.

“My fellow Americans… Following a tragedy like the one in San Francisco, it’s become a cliché to say we live in a different world. But the truth is, we’ve lived in a different world for some time now, one in which the supernatural has stepped out of the shadows. As the citizens of San Francisco can tell you, we have discovered, in terrible fashion, that we were not prepared for this world.”

Silence fills Giles’s apartment. Nobody takes their eyes off the screen as the President continues:

“For everyone’s safety, we must know which supernatural beings live among us. Where they are, and what they can do. To that end, we will be conducting a census of all magical individuals in the United States of America. Much like the census we’ve taken every ten years since 1790, our purpose is to better serve and protect our citizens. I thank everyone for their cooperation.” He beckons to a woman, older, shorter, hair neatly tied back. He introduces her as Ophelia Reyes, his new Secretary of the Supernatural.

The woman clears her throat, thanks the President, and announces she is happy to answer questions.

The first is whether the census is mandatory. She says yes. “But this one is arguably more important. It’s long past time we legalise and normalise the status of supernatural individuals in this country.”

Buffy looks amazed at the screen, then scoffs. “Yay. We’re going to be normalised.”

Giles thinks it a logical step, although Spike is enraged enough to stand and call him a fascist. “They want to keep us on a list, the better to round us all up!”

Xander tells Spike to calm down. “You sound like one of those guys who thinks the government’s coming for their guns. I feel like I should sell you a survival bunker.”

Willow thinks normalising them could be good in some ways. “I mean, Spike, technically, you don’t have human rights at the moment, being dead and all.”

“Well, I’ve got a soul, don’t I? But that’s hardly usual. I’m not sure I want the likes of Vicki Vampire having equal protection under the law.” He turns to Buffy. If vampires become legal citizens, is she dusting citizens without trial? Is she murdering? Dawn looks at her sister, who seems overwhelmed.

“I think we should get back to the trailer camp. Because it’s probably gonna be a long night.”

Down at the Bay later, at the Candlestick RV Park, Buffy hands Spike a packet of O‑Negative. He is thankful as he takes it — famished. Buffy tells him it took forever to get the blood here. They are trying not to rile the vampires.

Spike savours his few drops of nourishment, but Buffy hears something nearby and tells him to “Chug it.” He downs the last of it and follows as she turns a corner to find a mob forming around a demon. He has horns and hooves, but that does not necessarily mean he is a threat. Either way, the mob are insisting, in no uncertain terms, that he “should go back where he came from.” Some hold blunt instruments — Buffy can see this will not be settled quietly.

The horned demon wipes blood from his face as he tries to pick himself up. He says he would be killed in his home dimension. The mob does not care. One man yells that he lost his brother in the tsunami. “This is what we get for accepting the likes of you!” he shouts, pointing.

It does not take long for someone to strike the demon. Another man aims for his head, but Buffy stops him, grabbing the steel bar and bending it effortlessly.

“All right,” she reasons. “I know this place sucks, but we’re all stuck here together. So let’s try to get along. Trust me, this isn’t a fight you want.”

The demon runs. The mob squares up to Buffy. They are sick of being less than. There are more of them than there are of her. Spike whispers in her ear that there are quite a few, and he doubts she’ll let him rip them apart.

Buffy sighs. “You suppose right. Don’t kill them. But put them down.”

The mob surges. Buffy punches the leader straight in the nose, holding back. But Spike was right — there are too many. They overpower Buffy and Spike, pinning them to the floor. One suggests using Buffy’s Scythe to kill the vampire.

Spike struggles beneath their weight. “Running out of non‑lethal options here!”

Buffy asks for a minute, but relief comes quicker. A powerful voice commands the mob to disperse and, when they refuse, she picks one up and throws him aside like a rag doll. Buffy looks up to find herself face to chest with a tall, blonde, Amazonian‑like warrior, brandishing an ID card.

“Licensed Military Contractors. Anyone still here in thirty seconds is getting detained. And if you think your trailers are bad, wait till you see the holding cells.” She is confident, a slight smile on her face.

The mob begrudgingly obey. Buffy and Spike pick themselves up. The woman introduces herself as Jordan, shaking Buffy’s hand. They have met before: Jordan worked with Kennedy for a time. Buffy smiles. She had figured DeepScan would enter the peacekeeping realm. She thanks the new Slayer again. Buffy really did not want to hurt anyone.

Jordan tells her they are not with DeepScan anymore. The Federal Government has control of them: an army of super‑strong women whose mission statement is protecting humanity from… “How did it go again..? ‘The vampires, the demons and the forces of darkness… to stop the spread of their evil and the swell of their number.’” They have been recruited.

And they want Buffy Summers.

Spike instantly intervenes. “Hang on. The Government’s signing up magically‑powered women to harass other supernatural folk?”

Jordan shakes her head. “Just enforce the census and keep the peace. It is kinda what our powers are for. After the tsunami, which killed a bunch of Slayers too, if you hadn’t heard — a lot of us feel like it’s time to get back to basics.”

She turns to Buffy, smiling, confidence radiating again. “So, how about it OG? You in?”

“I’m gonna pass. Hard.” Buffy’s face is set in unpleasantness.

She is not thrilled at all. Jordan’s confident mask slips into barely‑veiled embarrassment, then hardens into snark.

“Lots of girls said you’d gotten soft. Too cosy with the enemy. Didn’t wanna believe it, but well… here you go. Gotta give you props for one thing though: sharing your power. You’re not the ‘Chosen One’ anymore. Just one of thousands. So… you don’t want the job, it doesn’t really matter. There’s plenty of us that do.”

She flicks her eyes back between Buffy and Spike, disgust plain regarding the vampire. Buffy thinks she would spit if she could.

“You have a good night now,” she finishes, then leads her fellow security enforcers away from Buffy. She mocks her with a salute as she turns.

Days later, in Spike and Xander’s apartment, the Scooby Gang are assembled. Willow is exhausted and increasingly irritable, and it comes across in her tone. “Nothing. Whoever woke the dragon is good at covering their tracks,” she says, a hint of jealousy in her eyes.

“And clever,” Giles agrees from the dining table, where Dawn and Xander are still poring over books. They’ve been at it for hours. Xander holds his head in his hands — this was never his favourite part. “This is no bueno. Without someone to blame, people are totally freaking out.”

Buffy thought it would get better once they were allowed home, but if anything it’s worse. “And it’s spreading,” Spike chimes in. “Folks are scared, which always leads to lashing out at whoever’s least like them.”

Another voice enters with the click of the front door. It’s Andrew, his bags packed behind him. “Which is why I’m decamping for the continent. And why you all should too, if you’re smart.” Buffy looks at him, surprised: he had mentioned this before, but she hadn’t thought he was serious. “You’re leaving the country?”

“I’m hardly the only one,” he enthuses. “Most of the magic people I know are going back to their home dimensions or more enlightened nations. Those lucky enough to have a choice, anyway.” Spike says he has nothing to worry about — he’s just an average bloke — but Andrew shakes his hand at Spike in response.

“When the angry mob runs out of magic targets, they’ll turn on the magic‑adjacent. And I have a history of summoning demons. I’m going to Italy before I get put on a no‑fly list. You guys should come. I’ve still got friends there, from our ‘New Slayer Outreach’ days.”

Dawn sighs. She couldn’t just give up school, their lives here. Spike doesn’t think there’s any guarantee things will get better — incidents like this tend to spread across political and territorial borders. Buffy, defiantly, says she’s never been one to run from a fight.

The group gather around Andrew, squeezing him tightly. “Well, I’ll look into underground railroad options, in case you change your mind. Call me paranoid, but I see this getting worse before it gets better.”

He looks at them all, one by one, then smiles, flips his scarf over his shoulder in a slightly less‑than‑dramatic way, and grins.

“Ciao, miei cari,” he says, and then, for now, Andrew Wells leaves his newfound family behind.

As soon as he shuts the door, Xander quips after him, “Somebody has seen Casablanca one too many times.” Giles ignores the humour and moves to adjust the television angle. “I wish I was as sanguine as you. I understood the census, but the emergency bill now pending in Congress verges on the draconian. It makes unauthorised use of supernatural powers a crime in most cases, with a shocking lack of specificity.”

He stares at the Press Secretary, prepping the audience on the screen. “Are we to be barred from casting spells? Is Buffy breaking the law by using her strength to carry groceries?”

Buffy agrees. “This goes way beyond profiling. It’s a violation of so many rights.”

Willow turns to her. “Which ones? Legally, until a couple of years ago, the supernatural didn’t exist. It’s not like the right to bear stakes is in the Constitution.” She adds that Coven members think their phones are being tapped.

Her words are cut off by a sound from her mobile. She looks at the screen, its urgent vibration stopping her mid‑sentence. The colour drains from her face. “Oh my Goddess,” she whispers. Without explanation, she hovers aloft, heads for the window, and floats into the night air.

“I have to go.”

Across town, in the apartment of two of Willow’s coven — Calliope Strachan and Linda Martin — four members of the group are hiding precariously behind a low sofa as projectiles, rocks and bricks, soar through their already shattered window. Calliope struggles to speak to the police over the phone. The officer asks if the mob outside are breaking in. Calliope can hear them pounding on the door. Thankfully, it’s locked.

She’s told to barricade everyone inside. Then comes the question: have they engaged in any supernatural activity? Her friends duck lower as Calliope demands what he means. “Yes, we’re Wiccans,” she yells down the phone, not in anger but over the din. The officer presses again — are they casting spells?

Calliope is aghast. “No. We can’t even conjure foxfire! What does this have to do with…”

She stops as a Molotov cocktail smashes through the window, igniting a lamp. Another follows, her friends screaming as Calliope ducks. In moments, the apartment is ablaze. Linda reaches for her. “We have to get out!”

Calliope drops her phone in the confusion. “They’re waiting for us,” she says, searching through the smoke for the missing mobile. “They… they… I think they want us dead!”

Outside, one man stops another from lighting another bottle, only to be told this is what you do with witches. “You burn them,” he leers, his face twisted in the flame’s glow.

Inside, Linda physically grabs Calliope, urging her to crawl. But then, through another window, hovering untouched by the flames, comes Willow Rosenberg.

“No. Let me.” Her eyes are black, her hands already glowing blue with fury. “Stay here,” she tells her friends, extinguishing the fire with a wave. “These monsters wanted to pick a fight with witches? They’ve got one.”

She swings herself backwards, exits the sodden building, and lowers dramatically in front of the mob. For the first time since they arrived, the people look worried.

“Do you people even know what Wiccans are?” Willow’s voice booms, echoing like a storm. “Most of them are regular people, just like you. But some are like me.” She moves her hands and light bursts from her like lightning, flickering through the mob, scattering them in fear.

Two hours later, Willow watches the confrontation back on a screen. “Remember that, the next time you decide to mess with one of us. And ask yourself what we’ll do if you really piss us off.” Her lightning lifts a few members of the mob before dropping them unharmed. As the footage ends, Willow sighs. “Okay. So it’s not a great look.”

She is at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratories, now appropriated by the United States Army. Large screens fill the walls, showing violence across the planet — in shopping centres, in bars, everywhere: demons and other supernatural beings resisting arrest. In front of her, suited up, stands her ex‑girlfriend, Lake Stevens.

“That mob tried to kill my friends because of their religion! That’s a hate crime!”

“Yes, well that part didn’t make it into the video,” Lake sighs. “It’s only you threatening normal people that’s gone viral. And that’s far from the only one.” She gestures to the screens. “Incidents like this are all over the net. Since the tsunami, fear and anger have been freed, breeding more tension.” Willow thinks she looks strained.

Lake doesn’t notice her ex’s concern. “Lucky for you, there’s never a clear shot of your face, and your friends have good relationships with local law enforcement. There won’t be any charges.”

Willow’s concern vanishes, replaced by rage. “Charges? It was self‑defence! They attacked us! You and your military‑industrial complex are complicit in this, Lake. Othering us with your census implicitly associates us with the tsunami.”

Lake looks away, switching off the screens with a remote. “‘Othering’. I can’t believe we didn’t break up sooner.” She points out that every piece of intelligence suggests a magic user summoned the dragon. “Can you say anything that proves we’re wrong?”

“No,” Willow admits quietly, her face turning from Lake’s eyes. “I came to the same conclusion.”

Lake softens slightly. “No one is painting all magical beings with the same brush. In fact, we recognise their importance. Your importance.” She stresses the word, and Willow follows Lake’s arm as she gestures to an approaching newcomer. It’s Ophelia Reyes, the Secretary of the Supernatural — the same woman Willow saw with the President on television.

“Ms Rosenberg,” Ophelia smiles, extending her hand. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.” Willow smiles back, relieved that someone in high office is working on the situation. “Be nice if there were some actual, y’know, supernatural people involved in it.”

Reyes smiles and mentions they’ve been recruiting Slayers. And she would like Willow to join them.

Willow shrinks from her gaze. She’s tried working with the military before, and it didn’t end well. Lake places a hand gently on her shoulder. This is her chance to make change, right at the top.

Willow likes the idea, but insists she would need to stay autonomous, her own boss. Reyes shakes her head. Impossible. There would be security issues, clearance levels. Willow would have to be sworn in as an Agent of the Federal Government.

Willow’s face hardens. “So that’s how it’s going to be now. Two kinds of supernatural beings. The ones you have on a leash, and the ones you have in a cage.”

She glares at them both. “My answer is no. You going to arrest me… or, I should say, try?” There’s menace in her eyes.

Ophelia glances at Lake. “I thought you were exaggerating.” Lake shoots her a “I told you so” look.

Then she looks back at Willow. “We’re not going to arrest you. It’s a free country. But also a nation of laws. You decide you want to be part of making them, call me.” She places her card on the table and slides it towards Willow. “Otherwise,” she says as she heads for the exit, “just abide by them. And we won’t have a problem.”

Later, at home, Willow tells her friends about Ophelia and Lake. Buffy thinks she should have taken the job if she wanted it, but Willow refuses to be a token. “I half think they just wanted the authority to throw me in jail.”

Giles looks up from the book he’s perusing. “It is getting bad. A divide I hadn’t seen before has permeated the country. The level of violence is troubling, to say the least.”

Xander, feeding the cats, yells over the sound of biscuits clattering into metal bowls. “Well, it can’t stay like this. They have to do something, right?”

Dawn smiles at his volume, then turns to the television. “I think they are,” she says, clicking the remote.

Ophelia Reyes appears on screen, again before the White House seal. Her face is determined, but angry. “Today in Ohio, two vampires killed three police officers in a confrontation that stemmed from their presence in a public park.” She details another case: a resident in New Orleans beaten into a coma based on rumours he once played a voodoo priest.

“This level of fear and violence is unacceptable. The current state of affairs cannot stand. In the past few years, the world has changed more drastically than ever before. Our policies and preparedness have not kept up. Disturbing images of violence are spreading on news broadcasts and social media. This is not the America we know. And it must stop.”

Giles begins to speak, but Willow hushes him. Reyes has more to say.

“Due to the continued threat from the masterminds of the attack on San Francisco, and the escalating tensions throughout the country, for the time being — I stress again, temporarily — until appropriate policies reflecting the new world we live in can be put in place, and for the security of all concerned, themselves most of all, supernatural beings will be relocated to a Safe Zone where their needs can best be met.”

Dawn looks at Xander. “’Safe Zone?’ That sounds like one of those reassuring names politicians give something that sucks big‑time. Like ‘transportation security’,” he mutters.

Reyes continues, speaking of repatriation to home dimensions for some demons. Dawn looks back at Xander, horrified. “They can’t actually mean…”

Spike interrupts her. “Course they can. They’re bloody well doing it, aren’t they?”

Buffy turns to him, horrified, unable to believe her own words as they leave her lips. She subconsciously grips his hand in hers tightly.

“They’re bringing internment camps back to America.”