Really, Johanna should've known that the moment she finished cataloguing that cursed Assyrian pottery they'd do something to fuck her up. She just wasn't quite expecting to be saddled with a goddamned Slayer.

"I don't quite know what to say, Quentin," she averred, instead of reaching across Travers' fake Queen Anne mahogany desk and wringing his neck like the turkey he was. "Surely there's someone better qualified," and less occupied with important work that doesn't involve babysitting some hormonal brat who can bench-press a car.

"No, Johanna, I'm afraid there isn't. I know, I was shocked as well," he tittered as though he had the goddamned right to pal around with her after throwing this albatross around her neck. Or ever, really. He was like the human equivalent of a lukewarm glass of skim milk with a shot of sawdust. "But really, you're one of our best Watchers, and I'm sure any Slayer would be better off with your tutelage."

Johanna smiled politely until she thought she could open her mouth without spitting stomach acid in his damn eyes, and said, "But what about my work in Room 42?"

"Oh, not to worry," Travers assured her. "That'll all be handled."

"By whom."

"...It'll be handled."

"By whom, Quentin."

"...Landen Serrano."

Before Johanna could scream aloud, Travers pulled out the final stop.

"Unless, of course, you're refusing the position."

Of course she wasn't. She couldn't. Refusing to take on the Slayer would be like... like refusing to become a fucking duchess. But come hell or high water, she would defend her right to go back to her apartment and bitch about it to her cat.

And then she was on a plane to America. God, it was sickening. And it was California, worse yet. She wanted to soak Quentin Travers' miserable little head in brine.

Now, she's settled into her apartment, settled into her job as school librarian on top of the goddamned Hellmouth, and settled into intimidating the living hell out of children as they attempt to check out books. At least she can have some fun.