Brian Andrews stood alone by the road in the darkness, hands drawn up in the sleeves of his basketball-letter jacket, furious with his friends for dumping him out of the car ten minutes earlier, when he'd said the inside of the car stank like gym clothes and dog crap. They'd hauled the car up short, popped the door, and pushed Brian out, saying, "Good luck sniffing out a better ride, chief!", then peeled rubber on the gravel, the red tail lights and their howling laughter fading in the distance.

Brian had grabbed a handful of gravel and hurled it at the receding car, but it fell short, and seconds later he was alone in the dark. With the sickle moon watching.

"You pathetic, brain-dead jocks!" he yelled down the empty road. "Just try to come back for me and you'll wish you hadn't! I'll show you what I think of your attitude!"

The only answer came from the crickets in the roadside weeds and the distorted banjo voices of bullfrogs in a nearby pond.

"You guys are sucky ballplayers, anyway, anybody ever tell you that? You play like girls! Ha!"

Nothing.

Brian tugged up his collar and looked around, not believing he had no way back to Sunnydale. He had never walked in his life, at least not to really get anywhere. He always had a car or a ride. Only losers were reduced to using footpower to go places. His own car was in the shop for a cracked engine mount, but his friends -- well, those idiots up the road who used to be his friends -- always had a couple of working vehicles between them.

"Now what?" he demanded out loud. He didn't care, fine, he'd sit on the side of the road and die before he'd walk back to Sunnydale. Let Charlie and Greg have it on their heads that he was dead. He was totally and completely not going to walk back. It had to be a whole mile or two away at least.

It was as if his demand was worthy of a divine answer, for at that moment, a white Volkswagen beetle came over the ridge, glowing in the moonlight, and slid to a stop. The driver's side window rolled down, revealing an incredible blond babe with huge blue eyes and a smile that went on forever. A pleasant whiff of perfume drifted across the space between them.

"Good evening," said the girl. "Am I to presume you have lost your way?"

"Huh?"

She laughed lightly and waved him over. Her nails were painted pink, as were her lips. On her wrist was a sparkling bracelet, set with what appeared to be real diamonds. She was the ultimate -- no ifs, ands, or buts -- and Brian was already imagining himself twenty minutes from now, her mouth on his, his hands on her. "I believe you could use some help. Please, be my guest."

Like I'm gonna turn this down! Brian thought hungrily.

He trotted around the front of the car, climbed into the passenger's seat, and immediately threw his arm across the back of the seat and put his feet -- which were attached to very long legs -- up on the dashboard for more space, so she would know he was the casual type. If the babe minded she didn't say so. She tossed her long golden hair back from her shoulders and asked, "So where do you want to go?"

Brian shrugged. "Wherever," he said. "Wherever you want to go. Babe." He winked, letting her know he was a man with confidence. Man, she smells great!

The girl laughed lightly, and touched his cheek.

Ah, yeah, he thought. This is going to be really fine. It must have been the good will of the gods for Charlie and Greg to kick me out of their car!

The girl jammed the stick shift into gear and drove for a half-mile without speaking. Brian paced himself according to his past successes. If he acted too early, she might pitch him from the car like his ex-friends had. And so he made small talk.

"Got twenty-eight points in our last game."

No response.

"Nice car. No offense or anything but mine's better. Got a Lexus."

Nada.

"I work out. I pump, lift. I'm pretty buff under these clothes."

The girl only smiled.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"What's in a name?" she answered without looking over.

"Um, I don't know." He fiddled with the radio. "Where's your CD player?"

"Ah, but you see, I make my own music."

She then pulled off the road onto a rutted dirt pathway and drove to the side of a small lake, the car bouncing all the way. Then she cut the engine and the lights. She stared ahead through the windshield, her pink-nailed fingers strumming silently, the bracelet sparkling with a distant, unknown light. Outside, cattails and marsh reeds stood like sentinels along the lake's edge, shivering in a breeze. Little creature-eyes blinked from between the stalks.

The parked car was Brian's cue. But she beat him to it, turning to him before he turned to her, taking his face in her hands, and running a pointed nail along the bridge of his nose. "You are a most impressive young man," she said softly, her breath cool and sweet like the inside of a flower shop.

"Yeah? I mean yeah."

Totally and supremely fine this is!

She traced her fingers down his face, then into his hair. As she leaned into him and kissed his neck, he thought, Just wait 'til I tell Charlie and Greg about this, those guys will wish they'd kicked themselves out of that stinking car. Those idiots, they're gonna...

But then she began to hum in his ear, a soft, soothing melody he'd never heard before, and his thoughts drained from his mind like pudding down a disposal. He pulled back from her, shaking his head to clear it, wondering if the overload of salsa-drenched hot dogs he'd had for supper was catching up with him. But he didn't feel sick, just calm.

A little dizzy, but very, very calm.

This is great, he thought, leaning back toward her. I'm a stud, I'm a hot exhaust pipe, she could see that from the side of the...

She put her mouth back to his ear and began to hum again, and the thoughts ran out, warm and easy. In their place came a trembling sensation in the pit of his stomach that felt a lot like seasickness. Fingernails dug long scratches down his neck that burned like fire. He tried to pull away but couldn't remember how to. He tried to speak but couldn't think of what to say.

There was something wet on his shoulders. It was coming out of his ears, thick and runny. What...? he thought, but that thought slid away, too. The tune grew louder in his head, disorienting and totally weird. He felt he might be in some kind of trouble, but couldn't be sure.

And then he was being dragged from the car, his head bumping across rocks and through razor grass, and was dropped into the lake.

He was sinking into the slime and the goose grease and the algae, and could no longer breathe.... He was drowning. The rancid water was flooding his mouth and making him gag, making him kick and thrash, but he could not for the life of him remember how to swim.

And as his insides began to burn with a lack of air, as his lungs screamed and imploded, and as his teeth, on their own accord, began to gnaw his tongue to shreds in feeble, agonized helplessness, he heard her. From up past the scummy surface of lake her musical voice was calling after him, "Give my regards to Charon!"

Buffy's friend Xander Harris had had a two-month-long crush on a beautiful Greek exchange student last year, during which time he had developed what he insisted was a well-honed affinity for Greek food; thus he had insisted they all go to show their civic support of the new establishment.

"I can just sit back, smell the simmering olive oil, and remember Helena," Xander said as he, Buffy, and their friends Willow and Oz met on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant's front door. "Nice sign."

Above the door dangled a painted wooden man in an orange tunic-thing holding a pan of lumpy, sizzling something. His head was topped with a puke-green laurel wreath, and he was smiling so broadly Buffy was reminded of the Cheshire cat. A very demented, lopsided Cheshire cat.

"I wonder who the artist was?" asked pretty, auburn-haired Willow Rosenberg with her usual hopeful smile. She was wearing orange sneakers, jeans, and a very fuzzy pink sweater. "It's kind of free and expressive, isn't it? Kind of cute like that Pizza-Pizza guy, only scary?"

"Hey," said Oz, Willow's musician boyfriend. He was dressed as formally as he ever got -- a Gumby tee beneath an unbuttoned shirt. "What's up?" He hooked one thumb in the back pocket of his baggy cargo pants and draped the other arm over Willow's shoulder.

"My mom's cooking at home tonight," said Xander. "My mom? Cooking? Hello? This place has to serve something better than one of Mama Harris's 'I am woman, see me poach' creations."

Buffy ran a strand of blond hair behind her ear, then shoved her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket. Inside, she could feel the smooth, thick pieces of wood she had brought with her just in case. Sometimes, with the day-to-day dilemmas she and her friends faced, she could almost, sometimes, forget for the briefest fraction of a second that she was the Vampire Slayer, and that it was she and she alone who stood between the demons of the night and the rest of humanity.

"Xander," she said, "breathe. Inhale, or whatever it is a Harris does to absorb oxygen. Can you smell that? It stinks! Do you honestly think it's safe in there?"

"This is Sunnydale," Xander scoffed. "You tell me."

"Xander...," complained Buffy.

"Just humor me. It's for old time's sake. It's a little nostalgia for the Xan-man, to bring back a memory of long legs in the desk next to mine in chemistry class, tucked as far away from me as she could possibly get them, her face showing every ounce of disgust she felt for me -- but next to mine anyway. The beautiful Helena, as mesmerizing as the goddess Diana."

"Diana was Roman, not Greek," said Willow.

"Whatever. Come on," said Xander. He tugged open the door. "The smells are probably distorted through a Sunnydale dimension warp or something. Let's eat!"

There was a single dining room inside, with the walls painted to resemble ancient Athens. On one wall, the Parthenon was slathered in accents of purple and lime. On the opposite wall were a bunch of peach-colored naked Olympians -- running, jumping, and wrestling, all with legs conveniently placed to pass this as a family dining establishment. The third wall, which contained the front window, was decorated with lime and blue grapevines, and the back wall, where the kitchen door opened, was painted with a slew of indistinguishable goddesses and gods peeking out from a cloudy Mt. Olympus. Some crockery -- most likely from Bargain Bazaar at the mall -- was on a shelf over the front door.

Buffy, Oz, Xander, and Willow stood in the middle of the room, the only patrons in the place. There was no host. No waiter, either.

"Hello!" called Xander. "Buy-one-get-one-free! We have arrived!"

Oz ran one hand through his hair. "Xander, I'm thinking pizza. I have band practice in two hours."

"Listen," said Xander. "We decided it was fair to take turns deciding what to do on a Friday night. It's my turn."

"It's a way poor turn," said Buffy, taking off her jacket. "A wrong turn, a U-turn, a--"

"Shh," said Willow, her voice low. "Someone's coming."

"Hi!" Through the kitchen door came a girl wearing a white apron over a flouncy floral skirt and a laurel wreath drawn up around her brown ponytail. It was Allison Gianakous, fellow student at Sunnydale High. She was a gangly, awkward girl who had no friends Buffy knew of. "I mean good evening!"

"Allison, hi," said Buffy, making herself grin. It felt like such a lie. "So. Newest Greek restaurant in Sunnydale. How about that."

"Only Greek restaurant in Sunnydale, in case you didn't know," said Allison, showing the four to a table by the naked Olympians. "My dad thought it was time the Greeks made a statement, culinarily speaking that is."

"Sure, yeah, time it is," said Willow. She folded her hands on the tabletop and nodded enthusiastically. "Smells great!"

Buffy gave Willow an I can't believe you said that look, but Willow refused to look back.

"We've only been open an hour," said Allison, shrugging and tipping her head in the direction of the empty tables. "I bet we'll fill up soon. You think so?"

"Sure," said Xander.

"Sure," said Willow.

Oz scratched his head.

"Oh god -- we won't!" said Allison, her smile collapsing into a scowl of dismay. She dropped into a chair at the next table. "This was such a major mistake! Who are we kidding? My father can't cook!"

"Can anybody's parents cook?" asked Xander.

Allison grabbed the laurel wreath in her fingers and yanked it down around her neck. It looked for a moment like she was going to hang herself, right there in front of everyone, with a bunch of leaves wrapped around coathanger wire. "This sucks!"

"I'm sure it's not as bad as you think," offered Buffy. "Really. Want me to hold that wreath for you before you -- well, want me to hold it?"

"But it is that bad," said Allison. She let go of the wreath and clenched one fist inside the other. "My father would kill me if he heard me say this, but anyone who takes a whiff will know the truth. Do you all have really bad colds or something?"

"I like the tablecloths," said Xander. "They're all white and pressed and stuff. Like in a real restaurant."

A booming male voice came from the other room. "Allison! We have guests? Turn on the music! Make sure they know the specials! And don't forget the water!"

"Yes, Dad," Allison called back, jumping to her feet and pulling a handful of menus from her big apron pocket. She looked Buffy in the eye. "My family's lived in Sunnydale since I was born, and the only Greek food we ate were gyros. Then my father gets a bug up his you-know-what and decides he should be a chef and I should learn my culture."

Xander shivered visibly. "Culture!"

"Allison?" Mr. Gianakous's face appeared at the door. "You tell 'em the specials?"

"Yes, sir, Dad!"

"And water first. Where is the water?"

"I'm getting it!" Allison's jaw clenched visibly as her father pulled back into the kitchen. "The restaurant's bad enough. But the main thing is... my father."

"You don't have to tell us this if it makes you uncomfortable," said Buffy, hoping it would make Allison uncomfortable because she felt it was going to get really personal really quickly.

But Allison continued. "Men!" she said, her voice lowered. "Always wanting their own way, doing their little power thing, flexing their testosterone. My grandfather. My brother. My father. I'm so sick of it!"

"Well, I don't know," began Willow. "It's not like it used to be. We're all equal, who doesn't know that, and I know some females who can whup some pretty good... who are like, well, pretty powerful and all."

Allison wasn't listening. "Just don't get me started! Don't get me started! Dad doesn't even consider me human. I'm a girl, after all! He's got this old-school attitude, and I can't handle it anymore! He expects to do what he wants, that I don't want anything at all. Selfish much? Taking my life away much? I'm not going to be taken advantage of -- I'm going to prove myself as a real woman soon, a powerful woman, just wait and see!"

In unison, Buffy, Willow, Oz, and Xander said, "Okay."

"Now," said Allison, trying to brighten. "Specials are the saganaki -- fried cheese; the plaki -- baked fish with garlic; and the pastitsio -- kind of a lasagna thing. These are specials 'cause you get free melitzanosalata with them. Eggplant dip. With Ritz Bits. Dad couldn't quite get the Greek bread to rise."