I think it's catching...
Miles glanced up at a sound, and saw a short blonde woman standing in the middle of the library, facing away from him, but apparently looking around in bewilderment.
“Hello?” he said, confused.
The blonde spun around, and saw Miles. “Jonathan? No… Who are you?”
Miles blinked. “Miles Vorkosigan, at your service, ma’am.” He bowed slightly, sitting, and, a bit of his confusion leaking onto his face, added, “Who are you?”
“Buffy Summers. The Vampire Slayer.”
“The what?”
“You don’t know what a Slayer is? I thought… never mind.” Her voice took on a singsong reciting quality as she continued, “Into each generation, a Slayer is born. One girl, in all the world, a Chosen One. One born with the strength and skill to hunt the vampires, to stop the spread of evil… Do you want me to go on?”
He shook his head, and said, “I don’t think we have any vampires here for you to, um, slay.”
“Which brings us to the real question: where the hell am I?”
“Um, Vorkosigan House. Vorbarr Sultana. On Barrayar,” he continued, as her baffled expression deepened, instead of clearing. She was Betan, by her accent, but he thought most Betans had at least heard of Barrayar, because of the Escobaran war, if nothing else. He tried a different tack. “Where did you come from?” He suspected he looked as baffled as her.
“The desert just outside Sunnydale, California. USA.”
“What planet… Wait, wasn’t ‘USA’ the name of a country on old Earth?”
Slowly, as if unconsciously, she began to slide into a fighter’s crouch. “What do you mean, old Earth?”
“Before extensive space travel, and the great Earth war, there used to be many different countries there. Now there’s just the planetary government.”
“Great. Tuesday, I’m singing and dancing, spilling my soul to all my friends, and today I’m what? On some far-future alien planet? If there aren’t even any vampires here, what the hell am I doing here?”
Miles spread his hands in a placating, and clueless gesture. “Your guess is as good as mine. It’s not every day we get random strangers dropping into our living room, either. Or at least, not usually quite so literally. You didn’t, I don’t know, do something to get here?”
“I was trying to go on some sort of healing-vision-quest-knowledge-seeking Wicca thing, and it sent me here. So I guess I’m supposed to find knowledge here.”
[I don't quite know what happens here; something, clearly]
“My friends should have just left me dead in the first place,” she muttered, almost inaudibly. Miles gasped, and jerked his head up in the old nervous-involuntary tic he’d thought he’d grown out of.
“You too, huh? I didn’t think they had cryofreezing in the twentieth century.”
“Cryo-what? Wait… me too?”
“I died a couple years ago: needle grenade blew my whole chest apart. My friends froze me, and I, ah, got better. Mostly. I guess the consequences are still catching up to me.” He cocked his head in an insanely conversational way. “You?”
Buffy snorted, but went along with his matter-of-fact tone. “I sacrificed myself to save the world from being sucked into hell.” Miles’s mouth formed an o, but she shrugged, obscurely gratified. “Last time, it was my boyfriend I had to sacrifice. Who knows who it’ll be next time.” Almost forgetting his presence, she continued, “I don’t want there to be a next time. Why couldn’t they have just left me dead, and let the next Slayer take over?”
“Ah, that one. Yes, I know that one very well. As a result of my death, and my own stupidity, I lost my job, which had been everything to me, and more than everything. I spent the next couple days essentially catatonic, thinking much those same thoughts. Minus the slayer part, of course. But my family and friends pulled me out of it, and made me get on with my life. And it got better. The best advice I got at that time was, you just go on.” Miles wasn’t sure what was prompting him to tell all this to a complete stranger. Perhaps it was the fact that here, at last was someone who might be able to understand that part of his life. So to speak. He was abruptly reminded of the day Ekaterin had come to tell him she couldn’t see him anymore, and he had told her some of the same things.
And I apologize to all non-Whedonites on the list.
“Hello?” he said, confused.
The blonde spun around, and saw Miles. “Jonathan? No… Who are you?”
Miles blinked. “Miles Vorkosigan, at your service, ma’am.” He bowed slightly, sitting, and, a bit of his confusion leaking onto his face, added, “Who are you?”
“Buffy Summers. The Vampire Slayer.”
“The what?”
“You don’t know what a Slayer is? I thought… never mind.” Her voice took on a singsong reciting quality as she continued, “Into each generation, a Slayer is born. One girl, in all the world, a Chosen One. One born with the strength and skill to hunt the vampires, to stop the spread of evil… Do you want me to go on?”
He shook his head, and said, “I don’t think we have any vampires here for you to, um, slay.”
“Which brings us to the real question: where the hell am I?”
“Um, Vorkosigan House. Vorbarr Sultana. On Barrayar,” he continued, as her baffled expression deepened, instead of clearing. She was Betan, by her accent, but he thought most Betans had at least heard of Barrayar, because of the Escobaran war, if nothing else. He tried a different tack. “Where did you come from?” He suspected he looked as baffled as her.
“The desert just outside Sunnydale, California. USA.”
“What planet… Wait, wasn’t ‘USA’ the name of a country on old Earth?”
Slowly, as if unconsciously, she began to slide into a fighter’s crouch. “What do you mean, old Earth?”
“Before extensive space travel, and the great Earth war, there used to be many different countries there. Now there’s just the planetary government.”
“Great. Tuesday, I’m singing and dancing, spilling my soul to all my friends, and today I’m what? On some far-future alien planet? If there aren’t even any vampires here, what the hell am I doing here?”
Miles spread his hands in a placating, and clueless gesture. “Your guess is as good as mine. It’s not every day we get random strangers dropping into our living room, either. Or at least, not usually quite so literally. You didn’t, I don’t know, do something to get here?”
“I was trying to go on some sort of healing-vision-quest-knowledge-seeking Wicca thing, and it sent me here. So I guess I’m supposed to find knowledge here.”
[I don't quite know what happens here; something, clearly]
“My friends should have just left me dead in the first place,” she muttered, almost inaudibly. Miles gasped, and jerked his head up in the old nervous-involuntary tic he’d thought he’d grown out of.
“You too, huh? I didn’t think they had cryofreezing in the twentieth century.”
“Cryo-what? Wait… me too?”
“I died a couple years ago: needle grenade blew my whole chest apart. My friends froze me, and I, ah, got better. Mostly. I guess the consequences are still catching up to me.” He cocked his head in an insanely conversational way. “You?”
Buffy snorted, but went along with his matter-of-fact tone. “I sacrificed myself to save the world from being sucked into hell.” Miles’s mouth formed an o, but she shrugged, obscurely gratified. “Last time, it was my boyfriend I had to sacrifice. Who knows who it’ll be next time.” Almost forgetting his presence, she continued, “I don’t want there to be a next time. Why couldn’t they have just left me dead, and let the next Slayer take over?”
“Ah, that one. Yes, I know that one very well. As a result of my death, and my own stupidity, I lost my job, which had been everything to me, and more than everything. I spent the next couple days essentially catatonic, thinking much those same thoughts. Minus the slayer part, of course. But my family and friends pulled me out of it, and made me get on with my life. And it got better. The best advice I got at that time was, you just go on.” Miles wasn’t sure what was prompting him to tell all this to a complete stranger. Perhaps it was the fact that here, at last was someone who might be able to understand that part of his life. So to speak. He was abruptly reminded of the day Ekaterin had come to tell him she couldn’t see him anymore, and he had told her some of the same things.
And I apologize to all non-Whedonites on the list.