The dying day had begun to lay long shadows across the parking lot, painting the world in black and gold. The old men had begun to wander home, as had most of the youngsters; the few that remained were huddled over by the burger bar, swapping idle chatter and trying to act like adults. The evening promised a quiet serenity – which was a promise unlikely to be kept, given the turn of the conversation between the three figures who had sought privacy in a secluded corner, somewhere between the empty shop that still boasted comic book posters in its window and the one with the decapitated naked mannequin and the ‘Fire Sale’ sign.

Three figures.

A perceptive eye would have spotted that the shop windows reflected only two.

That was the realisation which had kept Sky pinned to the spot throughout all of Buffy’s determined tale. If it hadn’t been for that – and that one, disconcerting glimpse beneath the vampire’s mask, Sky might have well have been thinking that she was wasting her time. She was even beginning to doubt her eyes. What exactly had she seen? A vampire? Or a trick of the light, a piece of masterful misdirection? She kept glancing at the windows, hoping to catch an echo of that dark coat and its owner’s shock of pale hair, but so far the reflected image had remained the same; just her and the younger woman – and a space where a man should be standing, an absence of existence that the reality denied. Buffy’s story was utterly fantastic – the kind of thing you’d expect to read in a cheap paperback, or the sort of comics they’d once sold in the now abandoned store. The more she said, the more the policewoman had difficulty believing her. Nesting demons, transference spells, vampires with restraining chips in their heads? The tale had tumbled out in haste, filled with words and allusions that had rapidly turned the speech into a foreign language. It hadn’t been helped by Spike’s amused interjections and was hardly supported by a grip on reality.

Nor was it making any kind of sense.

" … and as soon as it gets dark enough, you can take us to where you found Giles, and then Spike and I can track the Zamaroth and hopefully find the girl before anything actually hatches …"

"Okay," Sky declared angrily, "okay, that’s it. I’ve heard just about enough of this. I don’t know what your game is, but there is no way that I’m going to take you to an official crime scene and let lover boy here loose in the vicinity. There’ve been search parties combing the desert and searching the valley for hours. They’ve found nothing. I’ve no idea what you think you’re going to find in the dark. You listen here, young lady – " she ordered, losing patience with this whole charade.

"No." Buffy rounded on her, her face tight with fervour and fury. "You listen – please, just listen. I’m trying to tell you there are creatures – beasts, somewhere out there in the desert, with a lost child at their mercy and murder in their heart. If we don’t find them – stop them, then that child is going to die. And if they spawn, she won’t be the last. There’ll be others. Too many others. I can’t let that happen – and I don’t believe you can, either."

The policewoman frowned at her. She sounded so convinced. But – demons? Creatures of the night? This was just ludicrous. "The only beast," she told her company pointedly, "in Wilton Meadows I know about is under arrest and should be tucked up safe in West County Jail by now. A couple of nights in there might persuade him to talk to us. Tell us what he’s done with Jodie …"

"Agghwgh!" Buffy growled, throwing her hands up in total frustration. "How many time do I have to tell you? Giles is completely innocent. He never touched that child and he didn’t take her sister. He doesn’t know where she is. Look," she went on, wrestling for calm words and reasoned argument. "I know what it looked like. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. If you found a dying child, lying out in the desert, wouldn’t you have tried to help her? That’s all he did. And then, when he spotted the Zamaroth …"

"If he was chasing this – this thing you’re talking about," Sky responded, "then why didn’t he just say so? Okay," she admitted, recalling the arrest with a sudden twinge of guilt, "we might not have given him much of a chance on the scene, but – later … He refused the blood tests, he refused the medical exam, he refused the lie detector, for gods sake! If he’s as innocent as you claim, why isn’t he trying to prove it? Instead of sitting there with the weight of Job on his shoulders. I know guilty, Miss Summers. And that man is guilty of something. He’s carrying it around with him like – like the holy cross!"

"Oh god," Buffy groaned, dropping back against the mall’s prize winning abstract mural and letting her shoulders slump.

"You’re doing your best, love," Spike offered softly. "So’s he. Can’t be easy, living with – well, you know. He’s got a lot to deal with. That’s why he came out here in the first place."

"I know, I know." Buffy struggled to get her emotions back under control. "You didn’t see him, Spike. He was like a wounded animal. Just sitting there, waiting for the next blow to fall." She lifted her eyes to meet those of the deputy, who was watching her with puzzled concern. Sky had seen misguided loyalty before – friends and lovers proclaiming innocence for monsters who’d fooled them and the world for years – but this wasn’t that kind of reaction. There was real pain in the young woman’s voice – pain and fear. Desperate fear. "Let me tell you about Rupert Giles," Buffy began slowly, returning her gaze with a look of world-weary wisdom that didn’t belong on such a young face. "About this kind, gentle, wonderful man, utterly dedicated to the fight against evil and the forces of darkness. A man who’s faced horrors you couldn’t possibly begin to imagine; who gave up his life in England – his home, his family, all the prospects of scholarly honour and academic recognition – to come here, and be my Watcher. To train me, guide me, help me. To make sure I fulfilled my destiny when all I wanted to do was hang out at the mall, and date boys. He had a duty, and he did his best to do it, despite all the trouble I was to him, all the hard stuff and the heartache. I never asked him to be there for me – but he always was. He’s stood by me in the darkest hours and he’s never failed me. Not once."

Her voice was trembling. She had to pause to swallow and rub the start of a tear from her eye. "We haven’t always seen eye to eye," she admitted, around a wan smile. "I’ve made him despair on more than one occasion. But I’ve learned to lean on his strength, to trust his guidance – and to love him. Love him the way I should probably have loved my father, but – never got a chance to. The one constant in my life, dependable, solid … He’s the wisest man I know," she considered softly. "He’s one of the good guys, one of the white hats; he always does the right thing, no matter what it costs him, and he never shirks the hard work, or gives up, even when – even when …" She broke off, her voice cracking with emotion.

"Buffy – love," Spike murmured with concern, but she put up her hand and signaled for a moments space.

"She needs to know," the Slayer said determinedly. "I can do this. If I can’t, what chance does he have?"

"Know what?" Sky asked warily. The litany had caught at her heart; there was genuine emotion here, not staged performance or deliberate misdirection. Buffy Summers was speaking from the depths of her soul – and it showed.

"I already told you, deputy. Three or four times, I think. But we’ll go over it again. Just so you get it. I’m the Slayer. Vampire Slayer, strictly speaking, but I also get to deal with all sorts of other things. Once in every generation, a Slayer is chosen to stand against the forces of darkness and lead the fight – and she gets these – Slayer powers, you know? Strength and speed and stuff like that. That’s me. I’m pretty good at it, too."

"Most of them don’t last long," Spike interjected with a knowing grin. "Fight hard, live well, die young – always did like the die young bit. ‘Til she came along, that is. They have this – destiny with death, you know? It’s their gift. They die to save the world." He paused, looking at the Slayer with an oddly affectionate smile. "She’s done it twice. Special, our Buffy is."

"Thank you, Spike," Buffy muttered tightly. "This isn’t about me. It’s about Giles. About what he is, what happened to him. That’s what she needs to know. But to know that, she needs to understand about Slayers. About Watchers. About the world as we know it."

"A world of – demons?" Sky asked warily. She’d never put much credence in a belief in the supernatural world. Myths and fairy tales, all of it – just like the ones her father used to tell her. But Spike had no reflection - and she’d seen his other face …

"Demons, vampires, evil magicians, white witches – yeah, all that stuff. The Watcher’s council – they’re this – organisation, centuries old, created to observe and record the battle, watch over the Slayers. Guide them." She paused to quirk a small smile. "They’re not supposed to get involved. But they do. The ones chosen to actually watch the chosen one that is. Giles’ father was a Watcher. So was his grandmother. But he got to Watch me. And we make a good team."

"Really?" Sky tried not to sound too sceptical. From anyone else this would be sheer nonsense and madness – but there was a genuineness about the Summers girl that was hard to ignore.

"Really. We’ve thwarted the apocalypse, what – three, four times now? Me, and Giles and the rest of the gang. My gang. I’m not supposed to have one, but I do. And that’s pretty cool. They even brought me back from the dead." A briefly haunted look flittered across her face. "That wasn’t so cool. But it was – necessary."

"Destiny, love," Spike offered softly. She ignored him.

"Sunnydale – where we live – sits on a hellmouth. A mystical convergence thingy for bad stuff. You name it, we get it. Vampires, demons – mad gods. About – two months ago, an ambitious vampire tried to use this ancient artifact to summon up the usual parade – horde of evil, power of darkness, that kind of thing. Only, he opened the wrong door and - got more than he could handle. More than we could handle. Something so old and so evil, it gave demons nightmares." She paused to look the deputy straight in the face, challenging her to deny what she was hearing. "It took Giles. Took him into this – hell dimension. Took him because he saw in him the strength he needed, the quality he desired. He took our paladin, our gentle knight, our true champion – and tried to corrupt him, to remake him in his image." The challenge grew stronger, a look backed by a fierce and protective love. "He - he raped him," Buffy said, so softly it was barely a whisper of sound. "Abused and defiled him. Body, heart and soul. He twisted him, tormented him, reshaped him. Infected him with his evil and his madness. By the time we found him, it was almost too late."

She closed her eyes for a second or two, reliving the moment, facing the horror of it. A horror Sky felt, standing there beside the shell of a shop, recalling the haunted look in a man’s eyes.

"Just two months ago," Buffy went on bleakly, "I was kneeling at his side in a cold and bitter piece of hell, fighting to reach him, fighting to hold on to his soul. He was in deep and he was drowning, and we had to sear away a corruption that had sunk into every part of him. It was a bitter battle, and he’ll never lose the scars. But we won the war. He’s still got these – demon issues, but his heart is human – and his soul is lit by heaven’s fires. It’s just that – he’s a little fragile right now. Dealing with all of that. He’s not guilty of anything, deputy. He’s a victim. He’s hurt and he’s hurting, and he still needs time to heal."

"Bloody hell," Spike spluttered, looking shaken. "I didn’t know about … The Incandescent really ...? Christ!" he swore with decided feeling. "That’s his problem? Now I get it."

So did Sky.

She’d spent too long working with victims, working with battered, beaten women, wrestling with betrayal and pain, trying to overcome the terrors that had been inflicted on them. She’d seen the patterns of trauma and denial, the desperate self inflicted damage that came from enduring the unendurable; and she’d been seeing it in every haunted, hesitant look, hearing it in every effort filled word, as they’d hammered at a wounded man’s emotional defences, forcing him to confront a nightmare, again and again …

"My god," she breathed. The revelation had shaken her to the soul. Not least because of what it implied about the strength of the man she’d been so willing to believe was guilty, undeserving of her pity or her compassion. In all of that long night he’d not so much as hinted at the fantastic tale which Buffy had so graphically described. If he had, he’d not have ended up in West County – he’d have been well on his way to the Arthur J, destined for a padded room and probably a matching straightjacket.

Which – if West County lived up to its reputation - might be where she’d put him anyway.

"Don’t you dare say one word to him, Spike." Buffy was staring at her companion with wary chagrin; she’d been so intent on making her point that she’d obviously forgotten that it would be as much as a revelation to the rest of her audience as it had been for Sky.

He grimaced, looking uncomfortable. "I’m not a fool, love. I know what he’s got under his skin these days. Think I’d risk upsetting him? No chance. He’s always wanted an excuse to dust me – so I’m hardly about to give him one. And yeah, I know I might be able to fight back now, but that’s not the point. I hate to say it, but I like the guy. If only because he takes such good care of you." Buffy was still staring at him, still holding a hint of challenge in her eyes. He squirmed a little. "Look," he said, "I wouldn’t wish what happened to him on my worst enemy – hold on a mo," he realised. "Thinking about it, I probably would. But Rupes and me – we’ve had our moments. Cold hard cash moments most of them, but they count. He’s family. Much as something like me can ever have family. I took good care of Dru, didn’t I? I know about – touchy subjects. I swear. I won’t breath a word."

Buffy didn’t look entirely convinced. "You’d better not," she said. "To him – or anyone else. That goes for you too, Deputy."

Sky nodded slowly. "I wouldn’t dream of it," she said. "Miss Summers – Buffy. I – I specialise in victim support. I’m the one that gets to talk down the jumpers, look after the raped, take care of the abused … I know – what something like that can do to someone. But I had no idea …"

"No," Buffy agreed, shaking her own head with weary sorrow. "And you still don’t. I’m not talking about human brutality. He went through hell. And until you step over, come into our world, you’re never going to know what that means."

The policewoman stared at her for a moment or two. She was out of her depth in this, and struggling to make sense of it at all – but if there really was a chance that Jodie Millen was still alive, that she could be rescued and brought home safe and well, then that was a chance she’d have to take.

Wasn’t it?

There were rules about this sort of thing. Rules about not taking risks, about making sure you had backup, about never getting into situations you couldn’t handle. But she had the disconcerting feeling that she hadn’t really been handling any of this, right from the very beginning. If there were any truth in Buffy’s fervent defense of her friend, then it would mean that she’d seriously misjudged not only the man she’d arrested – but the acceptability of the way he’d been treated afterwards. What if he was innocent of rape and murder? What if he was just as much a victim as the murdered child? Buffy had been talking about serious – no, traumatic - abuse. The information was churning in her guts, re-colouring every moment she’d been witness to. He hadn’t resisted arrest, no matter what the report might say. Nor had he been ‘obstructive’ – which had been a creative way of describing the excuse the duty officers had quoted when they’d stripped the clothes from his back for the forensic tests and left him naked and shivering, handcuffed to the bunk in the holding cell for a good hour afterwards. And then there’d been those long hours of interrogation, when she’d been reading his hesitancy, his emotional distress as evidence of guilt, despite his defensive insistence that he’d had nothing to do with Angela’s death. She hadn’t been listening – to him, or to her instincts, which should have picked up on the clues, on the silent messages that were clearly there to be read. Some professional she was, if she couldn’t spot the difference between criminal and victim, between abuser and abused. Buffy’s story was totally impossible. But then there was Spike. He was standing right in front of her – and yet he had no existence among the reflected images in the empty shop windows. What had she seen, in that disconcerting moment of revelation? If there were vampires in the world, then why not Slayers and demons and all the rest? Had she been right, that very first moment she’d seen him? Was Rupert Giles a monster, or a lost and desolate soul? A murderer – or a knight errant, wounded in righteous battle and still bleeding inside? She didn’t know. But she couldn’t help remembering the haunted look in those oddly violet eyes – or how she’d stood by while Maybourne drove him away to a place even its Warden called ‘hell on earth …’

Rupert Giles was tired.

Bone tired; weighted with a desperate, weary exhaustion that numbed his heart and paralysed his soul. The emotional rollercoaster he’d been riding ever since the moment he’d stumbled over a dying child in the desert had finally rolled to a slow and unbearable crawl. Hold on, Buffy had said, parting words meant to encourage, meant to strengthen his resolve – but he had nothing to hold on to, no anchor in the sea of despair which had washed him from his fragile perch on the shores of sanity, and into which he was sinking with inescapable certainty.

Nothing seemed important any more. He went where he was pushed, sat where he was told to sit, stood when he was commanded to stand; the world passed by him in a blur of inconsequence while his mind endlessly replayed moments he could neither escape nor forget. From precinct to van, to desert road, to prison walls; he walked through it like a zombie, barely conscious of his surroundings or the people that populated them. The chafe of handcuffs was a distant irritation. The tainted, sour reek of the transport van barely registered. The over zealous policeman that dragged him to his feet and threw him out into the prison yard was little more than noise and nuisance.

It wasn’t until he was standing in a cold, white room, his hands bound behind his back and the Warden pacing round him like a prospective buyer inspecting damaged goods, that he finally surfaced from the sucking embrace of his despondency. The moment was too close, too raw; a memory of terror shattered his trance and plunged him back into unmerciful reality. For one, yawning moment, the chill that struck through his bones was the ice of Malador – and the figure that stalked around him was wrought from cold beauty and bitter steel …

"Doesn’t look much of a monster, does he, Martin?"

"They often don’t, sir. It’s the demons we can’t see that corrupt the world."

Two men, not one; neither of them bore any resemblance to a fallen angel, although one held himself with decided gravitas, and the other was deferring to him with obvious respect. Giles blinked, trying to make sense of where he was and what he was doing there. The shiver of alarm which had awakened him was swiftly replaced by anxious perturbation. The room was actually a tiled washroom, one of those communal, utilitarian facilities that could accommodate an entire football team and still leave room for several reserves. There was a line of basins down one side, an opening at one end that held a suggestion of showers, and several curved gullies in the floor, designed to channel excess water into the drains. One of the overhead lights was flickering with painful effort, and the air held a distinctly metallic tang. It smelt of disinfectant - and fear.

Menacing, ominous fear. There was a weight of it about the place; a permanent oppression of dread painted over each and every tile.

"That is so true." The stockier of the two men – the one in the suit with the white skin, the receding hairline and a hint of a double chin – moved to stand directly in front of the prisoner so that he could study his face. Giles took a half pace backwards, intimidated by the sudden invasion of his personal space, and the other man – the one in uniform with dark skin, dark eyes and what looked like a permanently worried expression – immediately lifted a long white baton and used it to halt his retreat.

Except it wasn’t just a baton.

It was a live cattle prod.

The shock jolted through his shoulders, sending white-hot shivers of pain jabbing into every nerve ending in his body. He gasped, gulping for breath and hastily suppressed the instinctive urge - not just to arch his back – but to unsheathe the blades buried beside his spine. "Rule number one," the uniformed man announced. "You stay where you’re put, you don’t move until you’re told to, and as far as your concerned, Mr Henshaw here is God. Get it?"

"That’s three rules, Martin," the man named Henshaw laughed. "But it’s good advice." He gave his prisoner a calculating look. "I’d pay attention to it if I were you. Ripper." He laughed a second time, savouring the sound of the label – the appellation the angry policemen had come up with, never knowing the irony of their choice. Giles shivered. His old nickname was all too apt these days – and he knew what these men thought, what the world believed he had done.

"I didn’t kill that girl," he said softly. "I never touched her."

Actually he had. He’d found her, close to death, whimpering with fear – and he’d tried to stop the bleeding, tried to hold onto her as she’d slipped further and further into the dark. But his desperate prayers had been in vain. Her body had been too badly broken, her spirit already straining to be free. She’d died holding his hand, clinging to him as the blood filled her lungs and her life ebbed away.

The very last thing she’d done was smile at him …

Electricity spasmed across his shoulders. The metal in his body took up the charge and set it dancing through his bones; it sparked across his hidden blades and discharged itself down his backbone. He bit back a second gasp, and clenched spasming muscles with agonised effort. Another one like that and he was going to sprout steel whether he wanted to or not.

"Did anyone say you could speak?" his torturer demanded harshly. Henshaw put out his hand and pushed the hand holding the humming baton away.

"Take it easy, Martin," he advised magnanimously. "We uphold the law in West County. We don’t take it into our own hands."

"No, Mr Henshaw. I’m sorry, I – "

"No need to apologise, either." Henshaw’s smile held hints of self satisfied smugness. "I applaud your diligence. But Ripper here has not yet been judged. Only accused."

For one brief moment, Giles felt his expectations rise a little, perceiving a glimmer of wisdom shining through the fog of assumption and prejudice that surrounded him; then his world fell apart completely.

"We’ll deal with that little matter tonight," Henshaw continued with confidence. "You get him cleaned up and looking respectable, and I’ll organise the court. It’ll entertain the cattle, and their masters are looking forward to new blood. If he’s as guilty as he sounds, well – my pets will feast for certain – and we will see justice done."

"Turned out," Giles observed pragmatically, "that West County had a little infestation problem."

"Vamps?" Gunn suggested.

"Rats?" Fred offered, almost at the same time.

Wesley smiled. "Codroth?" he offered, hazarding that his friend was talking about something a little more dangerous than a plague of rats – and a little less obvious than the living dead.

Giles shook his head. "Aslewaugh," he said, making it sound commonplace, like cockroaches or termites. Angel frowned, not knowing the reference – and Lorne nearly choked on his piece of apple pie.

"Tyrant bugs?" the Host exclaimed, recovering his breath enough to stare at their guest with surprise. "I thought they were extinct in this dimension. No-one with any sense keeps them as pets anymore. We had an infestation in Pylea, once – couple of hundred years ago. Took three rebel uprisings to overthrow the bastard at the centre of the problem. He slaughtered entire villages, just for fun."

"The Uta-cha?" Fred questioned. She’d been in Pylea long enough to have picked up a little of its history. Lorne nodded.

"That’s the guy. Real work of art. Started out raising an army to defend his homeland – and ended up crucifying his entire family and burying three of his kids alive. That’s what hosting a brood will do. Filthy things, Aslewaugh. Don’t care who or what they corrupt. Just so long as they get to eat."

"Eat what?" Cordelia asked. "Or is this another of those icky demon things?"

Giles snorted softly, a moment of wry amusement born of memory – and affection for the questioner, who had no idea what it was she was asking about. "They devour the essences of good and evil," he explained, sharing a look with his fellow scholar, who was frowning thoughtfully. "Along with some of the substance of the souls that generate them. They eat flesh, too. But only after it’s been thoroughly drained."

"They’re a form of demonic parasite," Wesley said, recalling lessons spent poring over history books and related grimoires. "The female bug choses a host – almost anything reasonably intelligent will do, mortal, demon, or any of the living dead. She latches on and then begins to produce a brood of males. The host gets certain – benefits – from her influence. Enhanced charisma, persuasive charm, a sense of incredible well being – and safety from illness, and most types of physical harm. Except that long term exposure inevitably drives the host completely insane. Caligula, Nero, Torquemada – evidence suggests they were all victims of the Aslewaugh. But Lorne’s right – they’re supposed to be extinct."

"They may well be - now," Giles muttered, looking vaguely abashed. Sky grinned at him. Angel was still frowning over the whole concept.

"I don’t get it," he said. "Surely someone with those kind of advantages isn’t going to end up in a small town jail – especially a high security one. And if they had – well, how come the bugs had managed to get a hold on the place?"

"Because their host wasn’t a prisoner," Fred realised excitedly. "It was the Warden, wasn’t it?"

Giles nodded. "Yes, it was," he affirmed. "And the situation was perfect as far as the Aslewaugh were concerned. A contained population, managed entirely by their host, who’d probably thought – in the early days – that he’d found the perfect solution to an impossible situation."

"That’s how they work," Lorne agreed, brushing pastry from his chin. "Mom feeds on good vibrations. So she picks someone with high ideals and a mallable soul – and supplies him with power and influence. Not to mention a whole bunch of soldier bugs whose soul purpose in life is to seek out the bad vibes, subdue their owners – and suck them dry. No more violence, no more evil behaviour – just a biddable zombie, more than willing to do whatever he’s told."

"But that’s good, isn’t it?" Cordelia frowned. "I mean – nobody would ever riot in a prison run that way. And if just the bad guys get whacked –"

"It only starts that way," Wesley interrupted. "Everybody has some evil in them – and even the smallest bite from a Tyrant bug exposes a victim to their enthrallment spell. It takes a pretty strong will to resist something like that – and you’d have to know there was something to resist in the first place. Remember that the brood mother enhances her host’s charisma and persuasive powers. Fall under the spell, and you’ll think the host can do no wrong, no matter what he does."

"They start with good intentions," Lorne picked up. "But that’s the whole point. By the time the corruption sets in, the chosen tyrant is in a position of power and the folk around him think he’s wonderful. The bugs hunger for evil. Once they’ve snacked on what little is lying around, they start to encourage it to happen. Benevolent dictatorship becomes tyranny. Oppression. Good, honest intentioned souls become brutal, heartless beasts. And then you get the real trick. Remember mom? She just laps up sweet innocent souls – so the Tyrant’s army starts sacrificing them to her. All the good guys get to be lunch for mom, and the rest get sucked dry and die young. The bugs win either way."

"Until their host goes mad," Angel concluded softly.

Giles sighed. "That can take a while," he said. "Longer for some than others. I suspect Henshaw still had a little way to go before the cracks began to show. He seemed rational enough on the surface, although there was this - cruel streak just beginning to show through. No doubt he’d been able to persuade his staff that the bugs were an ideal way to keep the prison under tight control. After all, every man who came through his doors was a criminal – and there he was, with the perfect arbiters of justice at his beck and call."

"Absolutely," Lorne agreed. "No need for judge and jury. Tyrant bugs can sniff out evil the way pigs go digging for truffles. If you’re guilty of anything, they’ll snack on down without hesitation. That’s one thing you can say for them. When it comes to sifting the bad from the good - the judgement of the Aslewaugh is indisputable."

Long Sea Crossing. Chaper Two, Part Four: This story has been written for love rather than profit and is not intended to violate any copyrights held by anyone - Universal, Pacific Rennaisance, or any other holders of Hercules: The Legendary Journeys or Buffy the Vampire slayer trademarks or copyrights.
© 2003. Written by Pythia. Reproduced by Penelope Hill