Sunnydale.

 So few people know what this city is really like. Very few people. Only three or four families know to stay in at night. A few more are simply superstitious enough to carry a cross with them.

 My family is of the former. We are quite aware of the underground nightlife that exists in this seemingly peaceful town. And I, as what seems like a job at times, am the family historian.

 A historian of what, though, is the question. To the common eye, I am simply a researcher of our lineage, to trace the bloodline as far back as it will go. However, in truth I am on a quest to see when the curse of the Hellmouth fell upon this raggedy town.

 The history cards state that the Spanish called this place “Boca del Inferno”, literally, “The Hellmouth.” I have been unable to trace history back any further, but now I have a chance to learn things about this city few others alive shall ever know.

 Once night, while covering my tracks of my true mission, I stumbled upon the mention of a Willow Rosenberg. She was listed as being one of my direct ancestors. This I found amazing, seeing as my last name is Rosenberg as well, and Willow had no siblings. The custom of her era was to take the name of the man she wed, but she must have shunned that option.

 Or so I thought. The data repository I had accessed had very little information on Willow Rosenberg. So I tried another, and another, and another, but none of them bore any more information. It wasn’t until a few days later my idea struck me.

 For the last hundred years or so, families have been required to keep a lockbox of all ancestral possessions. These boxes serve as reminders of how far mankind has come and of haw far we can still go. These artifacts range from diaries to used sugar-candy wrappers.
 
 So I made a trip to the storage building in the heart of Sunnydale, withdrew the box, and brought it back home. After answering the necessary questions to open the lock, I drew out the box labeled “1950-2050”.

 Inside were the answers to my questions and the information I needed to continue.

 That’s why I’m here, in Sunnydale, at night, in an alley, armed only with basic self-defense and a stake. I had purposely left my emergency wristband at home so I did not seem to be too much of threat.

 The man I am waiting for will not see me as a threat, though. This man had killed hundreds upon thousands without remorse in the second millenium. I don’t know why, but for some reason I am sure he had survived through the third as well.

 Otherwise, this is all for naught.

***

 The voice came from the shadows.

 “Isn’t it a little late for a walk?”

 I try not to panic. I simply stand there and swallow, fingering the stake resting in my pocket. I don’t know if this is the man I am looking for or not. I need to see his face.

 I search for a witty response. I used to have a repertoire of them in secondary school. That is, I used to… “Perhaps.” Not the best comeback, but better than silence.

 He moves into the light a bit, but I still can’t see enough of him to be sure of his identity. “There are unkind things about. You should go home.” He said this simply, leaving my own imagination to what could be roaming the streets at midnight.

 My imagination does not need fueling, for I have read many cards and even ancient texts on such matters. True, I am nearly scared to death of even thinking about the streets of Sunnydale at night, and yet I am still out in the dark, alone, and now cornered.

 “Such as?” I ask curtly, wanting to get this confrontation over with. If this is not the one I am waiting for, I wish to get him dispatched so I can wait for the other.

 The man walks into the light of a street lamp. “Such as me,” he says ominously, approaching me slowly.

 His face matches those of the various sketches and paintings I had studied so intently. This is the man I need to complete my work. This is the man that changed my ancestor’s life. And hopefully, he won’t kill me.

 “Angel,” I breathe in a gasp, and the shock on his face is apparent.

 “How do you know me?” he growls at me menacingly, approaching swiftly and grabbing my elbow.

 I twist out of his grasp, retreat, and hold the stake up in a pale fist. “My name is Elâra,” I pant, still wielding the sharpened piece of wood.

 He looks at me with a mix of amusement and annoyance. “That doesn’t explain why you know my name,” he says darkly.

 I know that my next line will most definitely keep his attention. “Elâra Rosenberg.”

 The newest wave of shock replaces the old, and Angel’s jaw drops. “I should have sensed it on you…but you’re different than Willow. I never would have thought that a single bloodline would last this long nowadays.”

 I lower the stake slightly, and look him in the eye. “Her knowledge of the magickal arts increased our survival rate. I’m just surprised you lasted this long.” I smirk at him slightly.

 “What can I say; I lay low.” He steps forwards, reaching a hand out, and touches my hair gently. “Your hair is just like hers,” he murmurs, “at least she lived on in you.” His sad eyes meet mine, and I can feel that there was more behind Willow Rosenberg and Angelus D’al Luth than what my ancestor had written about it.