The night was clear. Clear and quiet and so many of them were, in Luceti. Patrols had long ago grown into solitary walks and chunks of time that afforded Buffy Summers the opportunity to think. And boy, did she ever have a lot of thinking to do. Not only tonight but on most nights -- there was always one problem or another revolving itself and looping in her mind. Tonight, she was considering the practical benefits of drawing another soul or two into her grander scheme. An armour-suited man might not be such a terrible addition. Nor a witch, although Willow's participation was probably a given. Or so she assumed. It would only take the proper approach. Soon, Buffy thought. Soon.

And while she patrolled, she missed any and all relevant journal threats. Instead of a book, her hands held her scythe. Red and dangerous in the starlight and just as thirsty as the vampire it hoped to one day deal with. A second problem popped into her thoughts: how soon should she introduce Faith to the weapon's existence? Should even try at all? It was only fair...

But since when had anything ever been fair between the pair of them?

"Weeks and weeks and weeks," the Slayer said to the trees around her and to the pebbles beneath her feet. "Weeks of schlepping around these paths and those woods and I haven't seen anything new. Maybe she's got her very own golden ticket and went back to...harassing whoever the hell she was harassing before we got stuck with her."

Talking to herself. The evening was getting desperate, wasn't it? With a disappointed sigh, Buffy turned on her heel and began marching back in the direction of the village. Her bones were weary and while she sorely missed Cullen House, she wasn't sure she was prepared to face those consequences. Not yet.

And so, Seven it was.