Eight years later
He saw her walking down the hall. She didn’t look terribly happy, and judging by the direction and lack of ambition to where she was going, he decided she must have been sent to the office. What a perfect way to make my impression. The guy who delayed her office visit, he thought.
He’d gotten the call last night: The Last Slayer from Generation S was in hospital in Akron. She’d been beaten pretty badly; she was in a coma and there was no chance of her ever waking up. It was her family’s wishes that the plug be pulled, and it was scheduled for two o’clock this afternoon, at which point Leanne Shore may or may not become Slayer.
Will checked his watch. 1:59. He nodded to himself. The timing was perfect. He watched from afar as she lost her feet and fell. He knew what that expression meant. She was the Slayer.
He’d been spying on her for months. Well, now, that wasn’t the correct term. He’d been… keeping tabs on her. The months actually added up to a little over one and a half years. He knew she was a potential, potentially the most potential potential, and he was a thorough potential-Watcher.
But he was on no account stalking her, as he explained to Drusilla, who was not listening at all. He was only being thorough. Creepy, but thorough. And if she didn’t turn out to be a Slayer, then he’d stop.
But she was the Slayer, and there she was, kneeling on the floor, picking up her things. Will stepped forward and helped her pick them up. She noticed.
“Thanks,” she muttered without looking up.
Will opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Would she respond better to a stuffy British guy who was brought up by an even stuffier British guy, or would she respond to a cheap imitation of Xander? He closed his eyes and opened his mouth again.
“No problem,” he said in a perfect American accent. “It’s… Leanne Shore, isn’t it?” He picked up her trig text book and slipped the note he’d carefully written in there, handing it to her.
“Uh… yeah,” she answered, skeptically.
“I’m Mister…” he began, but caught himself. If she had any contact with anyone he or his father knew, he was screwed. He was trying to block out his past, not trying to bring it back upon himself. “…well, call me Will,” he amended. He finished the small conversation with his Slayer, throwing in some words like “unpeppy”. He walked away from her with his hands in his pocket, whistling Early One Morning, something he remembered his mom humming when he was a baby. He nodded to himself. This is going to go well, he thought. I can do this.
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