Wesley sank onto the couch, drained and exhausted. His exhausted mind whirled in a state of near-delirium, scarcely registered the sounds of Chloe's, Ethan's, and Wilson's voices discussing sleeping arrangements. His thoughts grew more and more random and half-baked as he drifted closer to sleep.

He knew immediately that he was dreaming, because he had gone to a moment in his life that he would always remember with crystalline clarity.

Wesley stood outside the Academy one last time, hand on the doorknob, frowning in consternation at the sticky moisture he felt on the bottom of the knob. Just as he had before. The sole difference was that he was not half-way drunk from spending time and what little money he'd had at that tiny pub.

Not that it really mattered. What he would find inside would have shocked him into sobriety just as it had before.

There was no reason, it seemed, not to open the door. What was inside would be there whether he did or not. So Wesley pulled the door open and stepped inside.

He was struck instantly by the smell, a bright choking copper that had also been present at Graduation. He felt himself go pale as he looked at the hand that had touched the wet patch on the knob, knowing what he would find.

Blood.

The sight of it, combined with the oppressive stench, triggered his gag reflex so violently that he was incapacitated for several minutes after he had emptied his stomach. He leaned heavily against the wall, gasping for breath and at the same time trying not to take in any of that grim stench.

It was some time before Wesley was able to move on. He was only able to because of a need to know what was going on, because of a desperate hope that he was wrong about what he smelled and the substance on his hand.

The first classroom door he pushed open crushed that hope.

This was a class that focussed specifically on chaos demons. It was supposedly elective rather than required, but all students learned quickly that even the "optional" classes were expected to be on their itineraries.

This class had been full.

The teacher, a man Wesley had rather disliked, lay crumpled at the front of the room. His head had been smashed in.

In reality, Wesley's mind had shut down at this sight, allowing him to move through the devastation mechanically, checking for heartbeats and pulses on the less mutilated bodies, finding none. In this dream, though, his mind remained clear as, with a feeling of inevitability, he turned to see the students. Slashed throats, crushed chests, broken necks. He didn't bother to check each body for signs of life. He knew he would find none.

Next room. Mangled limbs, spattered brains, protruding bones.

Next room. Missing throats, missing limbs, missing heads.

Next room. His own - former - class. Slashed throats, protruding bones, pools of blood. Here, Wesley had found the body of a bright, argumentative girl who had reminded him of Rupert Giles. He had had high hopes for her.

Now, he found her in this fourth room, as expected. But there was also a new factor, one he knew for a fact hadn't been there before: a young girl was kneeling next to her body. Her head was bent, and he long, black hair fell forward to obscure her face from Wesley's view. As he watched, she reached out and tenderly closed the dead girl's eyes, then slowly rose and turned to him.

"Hello, Wesley." She smiled in greeting, but the smile did not reach her sad, vividly purple eyes.

"Hello, Sharna," he found himself replying calmly, as if his dreams were always invaded by dead Slayers.

"I've been waiting all summer for you to know enough to come to me," she told him.

There was no real reply to this, to Wesley's brain spewed out the first inane remark that came to mind.

"Your English is excellent." Since this was, after all, a dream, this non sequitur made perfect sense to both of them. Sharna smiled again, this time with a small sparkle of amusement in her eyes.

"I'm not really speaking. That's simply how your mind is translating what I'm telling you, because it is easier for you to understand."

"I see," Wesley murmured. Sharna nodded, then sobered, looking around at the bloody hellhouse that had replaced the pleasant atmosphere that Wesley had worked so hard at creating for the students. She moved over to another young man, one of the youngest students at the Academy, now sporting an efficient slit across his throat.

"Some of what my people are doing is good," she said quietly, not looking up from the still form. "It is important to eradicate evil, especially when it is masquerading as good." She carefully closed the boy's staring eyes, then looked up at Wesley. Her next words were formal, sounding ritualistic.

"I weep for the price these children have paid for their fathers' old crimes. I weep for the losses suffered by the Untrained Ones. I weep for your trauma in finding the dead innocents."

Indeed, her violet eyes had filled with tears, reminding Wesley that, despite her maturity, she was still a little girl, frozen in time by an unjust death. He reacted as most people do to a crying child - he crossed the room to her and embraced her gently.

The tiny girl rested her head on his chest for a moment before stepping back, eyes dry once more.

"It must stop," she said urgently. "My people have damned me by making this slaughter of innocents in my name. The only way Dhara will allow me to enter her arms is if it stops *now*. I did not cross before because those who killed me had not paid for their crimes, and I cannot cross now because the wrong people have. If my people continue this brutality, my chance for peace will never come."

"Why have you come to me?" Wesley asked softly. "Why not one of your people, or Ethan, or Mr Wilson? They would never believe your message coming from me."

Sharna shook her head. "Ethan and Sir would just dismiss it as wishful thinking, something concocted by the subconscious. And appearing to my people would only incite more violence, no matter what the message. But they do take dreams very seriously. You must speak to the Elder. He will confirm that this dream is real. That I have chosen to speak to you will catch my peoples' attention."

"I understand," Wesley murmured.

"The Council as it was before was evil," Sharna continued. "It no longer truly worked for good, but for its own purposes. My people are right in changing it, but they are doing it wrongly. Their crimes are beginning to eclipse those of the Council. Its poison is spreading to them. This has to be stopped before it sets and they destroy themselves."

She paused suddenly and looked alertly away from him, glancing somewhere beyond them both. "You must go now. Your slayer is tryng to awaken you."

She grinned, a fun, warm smile that fit her age better than the sadness. "If she doesn't succeed soon, she's going to have a panic attack."

Wesley smiled back briefly, then said solemnly, "I will do my best by you, Sharna."

"I know." She hugged him. "Thank you," and he awoke.

"Finally!" Chloe exclaimed. Wesley blinked up at her, momentarily disoriented.

"You had us worried," Ethan added. "What was going on? I don't remember you being that deep a sleeper."

"Well . . ." Wesley began.