Joss Whedon has cited Richard Slotkin's book, Regeneration Through Violence: The Mythology of the American Frontier, 1600-1860, as being a seminal influence on the creation of Buffy (although Star Wars and Joseph Campbell are undeniably in there too). Slotkin offers up a term known as "mythogenesis," defining it as the creation, "in both maker and audience, [of tales that are] mystical or religious, drawing heavily on the unconscious and the deepest levels of the psyche, defining relationships between human and divine things, between temporalities and ultimates."

What I find truly interesting about existentialism is its prevailing idea that humanity's condition is defined by two primary elements - the tragic and the absurd. When seen in this context, Buffy goes from being compatible with this philosophy to simply representative of it. What could be more tragic than a star-crossed love affair between a vampire with a soul and a vampire slayer? What could be more absurd than going on a field trip only to discover some of your classmates were possessed by hyenas? Or vice versa?

More to the point, one could argue that history has the same effect in the Buffyverse as in the Realverse. On Buffy, history isn't an endlessly repeated, hermetically-sealed cycle, as on Family Ties or Northern Exposure. These series use each episode as a means of teaching its main characters a facile lesson ("Money can't buy happiness," "Small towns have big values"), only to have the lesson promptly forgotten by the next installment. They teach that history is something passive yet didactic, like a dim Hallmark homily. In reality, history is an active, unstable, volatile force. Joss Whedon is aware of this fact. On Buffy, history can hurt.

When William the Bloody first turns up in Sunnydale at the beginning of season two, he makes an immediate impression. With his sire and lover Drusilla at his side, he takes over the local vampire gang, dusts the Anointed One, and very nearly defeats the Slayer at a particularly exciting Parent-Teacher Night, all in a single episode. It is his intent to have "a lot less ritual" and "a lot more fun," quickly establishing himself as the Sid Vicious of the Sunnydale vampires. Acquiring the nickname Spike because of his reputation for torturing his human victims with railroad spikes, he is Buffy's nemesis for an entire season.

At least since Coppola, apocalypse has been used commonly in reference to the destruction of the world; Buffy is no exception. Notably, Riley, in "A New Man," says, "I suddenly find myself needing to know the plural of 'apocalypse.' " While cataclysm, extinction-level event, or the theological eschaton (from the Greek escaton, meaning "the last") might be more pleasing to the ears of prescriptive logophiles, apocalypse is the signifier Joss attaches to the concept of "The End of the World." But exactly what does the signifier signify?

Adolescence being a fairly new phenomenon in human society (at least as we now think of it), it provided Whedon with a perfect playground in which to stage his drama. The inner life of the American teenager is projected outward, and the apocalyptic emotions of the age become real end-of-the-world scenarios. Myth is often defined as the sacred stories that humans use to make sense of the world as well as find their place in it, and Buffy is really the first to do this for adolescents.

What students find especially difficult to reconcile is the body of evidence supporting humanity's gradual evolution out of the jungle to a more civilized state, with the independently unconfirmed account of our original ancestors as negligent tenants evicted out of the posh paradise of Eden Estates. This is not meant to castigate religion; merely to point out, as my mentor once did to me, that one cannot bring literal-minded notions of the supernatural into a legitimate historical discipline. (Well, one can, but then one would be the author of Chariots of the Gods.)

The world you perceive is sometimes called the idios kosmos, from the Greek for "one's own order" or "personal universe." It is contrasted with the koinos kosmos, "shared universe," which consists of the common interpretations of our perceptions which we must establish in order to communicate our perceptions to each other. When someone's idios kosmos diverges too greatly from the koinos kosmos, we tend to treat that person as defective in some way. It is not insignificant that idios is the root of the English "idiot."

Behind all the metaphor and drama of the last season, a very powerful question was being addressed - namely, how does one live in a world where Nature demands killing and death all the time, yet still retain anything that even slightly resembles genuine humanity? ... Clearly, the answer to it and other vital issues cannot be given by the Parents Television Council or any like-minded organization, all characterized by a stubborn refusal or inability to deal with any kind of real moral dilemmas beyond whether or not a television show has too many bad words in it. No, only a modern myth like Buffy can probe the existential issues that delve into the very heart of what it means to be a human being in contemporary society.

Because of her moral compass, Buffy enjoys ethical control over Spike. Despite Spike’s insights into the human heart and his reforming behavior, Buffy still has the moral high ground. Her comments last night about him being not a man, but an evil thing reinforce that, and again, those comments have been an ongoing theme.

Spike, long established in the Buffyverse as the teller of uncomfortable truths, keeps reminding us that things have changed. In fact, both episodes are book ended by this notion. Early in Smashed, Spike tells Buffy, “A man can change.” After he finds out that his chip is still functional, he then comments, “It’s about the rules having changed. Everything is different now.”

It is nighttime, and Buffy proceeds dutifully through one of her regular patrols. But something is different about this night. Music swells in the background; it thumps lightly, yet with a keen sense of urgency and purpose.

Despite Buffy’s persistent refusal to accept her destiny, forces beyond her control push her out on the road. The seemingly innocuous decision to go to a club that evening takes her to the Threshold of Adventure. She meets with another Herald figure in Angel, who appears only as a tall, dark, handsome stranger; but of whose character we know nothing. Buffy again refuses the call, but, in the time honored tradition of Heralds on the Hero’s road, Angel leaves her with a parting gift, a small silver cross necklace.

Giles pulled into the parking lot at his old apartment. Marcus was unable to move without help; Buffy and Giles half-carried, half-dragged him into the apartment. Buffy lowered Marcus onto a dust-covered sofa as Giles snapped on a nearby light. Buffy sucked in her breath. There was a splattering of blood on the sheet - and a lot more on Marcus’ shirt.

"Don’t you dare," he breathed, miserable, and not a little drunk, "don’t you dare shine when she’s not here," he slurred, and hefted another rock at his fifteenth lamp pole. It gave a satisfying shudder and showered glass fragments onto the waiting pavement. Spike nodded at it appreciatively. "Bastard," he glanced up, and found he’d reached his destination. End of the street. No more lampposts. Just a graveyard that stretched along the street for a mile, casting great stone shadows across the grass. She was under one of them. He climbed, hand over fist, to the top of the cast-iron fence, and paused for a moment there, swaying. He hiccuped once and dropped to the ground sideways, tangled in a heap. There was a silence, and he hiccuped again.

They were about halfway through their Monopoly game when the lights went out. Spike stepped out onto the balcony, both to have a quick cigarette and to check the extent of the power outage. He picked up the phone on the way out. "No dial tone, looks like everything’s out," he called softly. He looked up at the stars as he smoked, remembering Dru’s long harangues about naming them.

"Pretty little dolly thought I was her Mum. I gave her violets and nougat for her tea. Then she was naughty so I had to punish her. North Wind told me how to keep it a secret. Why didn’t you come for me, Spike? The man in the moon said you would, but the dark roses sang me to sleep at night. Many, many songs, full of blood and lies. Too many stars to play with, they all started fighting duels with each other."

He filled two garbage bags with the aftermath of the small party Dawn had had and decided to take a short break. He sipped at his second cup of coffee and mentally listed the chores to be done that day. It was a good thing that Red and Tara had taken him under their wing—helped him with the shopping, shown him how to clean a house and teaching him how to cook. Otherwise, papers or not, Dawn would have been thrown into a foster home after the first month. ...They got along fairly well, once they had settled into their new roles. He had re-educated her musical tastes. "Backstreet Boys indeed" he snorted; and she had introduced him to Dawson’s Creek. He still thought Dawson was a bloody poof, but now he kept his opinions to himself.

“Once more from the top.” Spike pointed to himself. “Nasty demon.” He pointed to Dawn. “Soon-to-be-snacklet.” He crept towards her menacingly, hands raised. “I come towards you from behind. When you feel my evil breath on your neck, slip your shoulder down, grab my arm, push your hip out, and toss me right over.” He dropped his hands. “Then run like bloody hell, preferably screaming blue murder. Got it?”

Buffy was shattered. This was not the way it was supposed to be. Although they were no longer enemies, and were, in fact, friends, there was nothing more between them. That is what she told herself every single time she was with him and when she dreamed of him. She could have defended herself if he had thrown her to the ground. She could have continued the charade if he had exhibited any kind of passion whatsoever. His tenderness was her undoing.

“I-it must’ve been Dawn,” Willow said, abruptly breaking the silence. Xander nodded. He had been thinking the same thing. Buffy had collected stuffed animals when she was younger and even after becoming the slayer she had continued this hobby, albeit somewhat erratically. She had purchased a hedgehog on a whim and had named it “Mr. Pointy,” after her lucky stake. Somehow, Mr. Pointy had ended up in Dawn’s possession. At Buffy’s funeral, Dawn had left the toy at the graveside. Now there were twenty or thirty of the stuffed animals scattered about the grave. “I-if she only brought one of them a day to the cemetery,” Willow continued, “she would’ve needed to be here almost every single day since the, uh, death. It’s not healthy.”

Xander gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Love you, babe." Anya's sure grown, these past couple of months, he reflected, as he went to call Dawn. Lookin' after the Magic Shop, havin' Dawnie here with us - she's only twenty, herself. Well, not countin' the other century or so! "Hey, Dawnster! Come on, kiddo, you're gonna be late for school." As he spoke, he knocked loudly on the bedroom door. After a couple of seconds, with no answer forthcoming, he knocked again and opened the door slightly to listen. Hearing nothing, he opened the door wider, and looked in. Dawn's bed, though neatly made, was obviously empty. Frowning, he glanced into the bathroom on his way back to the kitchen. Empty. Ditto the living room.

Ah, that's why he's all pissy. Buffy is out there without him. I have deciphered his language by now. It's Slayer when he's peeved, or wants to make a point; pet or ducks when he wants to tease her; Buffy when he's completely serious about something; love when he dares; and nothing at all when he's seriously pissed. We both hear the angry yells. Spike flips his cigarette out the window and floors it up the long driveway. "Hope your seatbelt's on," he says as he cranks the wheel.

The following is an excerpt from the research notes of a Watcher named Nigel Rey. He was doing research for a thesis on the history of the Watchers and the Slayer. However, he disappeared prior to filing his report. His whereabouts remain unknown.

He drains the bottle in one long swallow and tosses it over his head. "Everyone is at my apartment planning my wedding. Not that the wedding is bad, that's good, but everyone is planning it. Do you have any idea how many bridal magazines there are? Modern Bride, Brides, Bridal, Modern Weddings, Traditional Weddings. I haven't seen Vengeance Demon Bridal yet, but I'm sure it's out there." Voice spirals out of control and I sprint for the fridge. Cold beer's overrated anyways.

He looked down at her for several moments, searching her features. She looked well, better than the last time he'd seen her. No thanks to me, he added to himself. His gaze was drawn to her neck, the veins showing blue against the creamy whiteness of her skin. Sudden memories assailed him: Kayla, sitting in front of a mirror, brushing her hair, baring her neck for him; the sweet, warm taste of the blood she offered freely. Without volition, his features changed, the demon in him surfacing, and he had started to bend towards her, hungrily, when the now-familiar agony struck him, and he straightened with a loud yell.

"I had to do this Shakespeare scene for my drama class. I totally suck at Shakespeare you know, and he helped me with the scene and he didn't even have to read the lines, because he already knew them, and you should have heard his voice. God, it was so amazing, all refined-like and not at all like he really sounds, and then when we were done he kept talking like that...." Dawn finished drying the last dish and tossed the towel on the counter.

Spike thought he’d make a swing around the bus station before heading home. He shook out his shoulders as he walked. Hadn’t been busy lately, thank goodness. Ever since Buffy... He didn’t want to finish that thought. What’s that? He headed in the direction of the noise. As he rounded the corner, he saw a slim, dark-haired girl beating up a phone booth with the receiver. He got closer and heard her grunted words.

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Angel, Cordelia and Wesley nodded absently while watching the carnage below. The three men suddenly winced and did the 'grab crotch, raise one knee slightly' move. Cordelia squealed, "Did you SEE that? Just popped right off..." The glares from the guys would have quailed a lesser mortal, Cordelia only sniffed. "Look, just because you have issues."

"No way! It's my turn to pick the television show! You promised!" "Damnit, when I agreed to the schedule you never said anything about watching poofy shows." He might be grumbling, but she knew he had already turned to the correct channel and was probably doling out snacks. She was still stunned by the way Dawn and Spike interacted. Six months since she...died and four months since she had been brought back and she still couldn't get used to it. She had been told over and over again how Spike had stepped in to care for Dawn but everyday it was still a shock.

The scream was Karen's. The startling voice had come from behind a tree close to the crypt. Matt waved the flashlight in the direction of the voice. For a second he thought that he saw a horribly disfigured face, and yellow eyes. He caught his breath, but then saw that the face looked perfectly normal, with what looked like blue eyes. The face and eyes belonged to a man dressed in a neat black suit, though it was stained with dirt.

Jonathan looked momentarily stricken, then said defiantly to Willow, "I don't have to answer your questions o-or put up with your abuse. This isn't High School. You may have been Snyder's favorite little Gestapo girl back then, but he's not around to protect you anymore."

Nineteen half-smoked butts on the ground. It was kind of artistic, like a small child had been arranging twigs into various shapes. A monkey with one ear until this one and that one, shoved slightly here and there rearranged the picture. He tried to write her name, but that was too complicated, so he tried another.

He stood in the centre of the dark street, and looked up at the heavens. As he stared, the clouds rolled away from the bright moon, but the light he was suddenly bathed in wasn’t the pale glow of moonlight, it was a strange, soft, iridescent green, and he held up his arms in wonder.

“It’s a funny story, really.” Angel looked at her disbelieving face. “Okay, maybe it’s not really funny, and it’s actually a really long story—do you like history, ‘cause there’s lots of history—and there might be some funny bits in it, remind me to tell you about this time I passed out in an alley sometime, and—you’re still waiting to hear about the mirror, aren’t you?”

Rack was drunk, quite drunk, deliciously drunk. To borrow a phrase from Dickens; there is no doubt whatever about that. Had he been sober, surely the events would have been different. Although, knowing Sunnydale, one can not be one hundred percent sure.

Dawn gave up on the window idea after checking each wall of the crypt twice. She pulled her stake out of her jeans and crept towards the door of the crypt. It was open just wide enough for her to get through. She adjusted her grip on her stake and went inside. She froze. She was no more than a couple of feet away from the cause of Claire’s ‘anemia’.

Drusilla looked at the woman curiously. "Why aren't you scared of me?" She slipped back into her vampire face and snarled once before letting her human face return. "The moon whispers in the ears of the pixies. They dance to fear, you know. I don't see pixies dancing around you."

If this hadn’t been so important, Giles would have found it hilarious. The Council all managed to half-run, half-levitate to the back of the room. He heard some scraps of their conversation “William the…” “VAMPIRE!!” “…wants to be guardian…” “…trust him with a…” He and Spike shared a grin. “That’s put the cat among the bleeding pigeons!” Spike whispered.

“I’d be safe. Is that it?” Okay. I’m a vampire. I’m a vampire. I’m a vampire. No matter how many times I say it inside my head, it’s still not making sense. However, going on all available evidence, Spike’s right, because that pan of blood is looking mighty tasty. I think of Willow. Do I want to snack on her? Not in the “suck all your blood, big evil” kind of way, no.