A Slayer can never approach battle without a desire for victory that is painful in its intensity. The drive to be the winner is paramount.
It has to be. In her conflicts there are no silver medals, no consolation prizes. There is only winning or dying.

Well, mostly.

Buffy stared at her opponent, determination etched onto her face, the struggle against pain clouding her eyes. Every muscle locked, every ounce of will power bent on her task, she fought valiantly.

Finally, it all got too much, even for her. Her breath exploded violently and she collapsed to the floor, gulping in air, gasping and panting.

Spike lounged at ease, watching her, his lithe body relaxed and his blue eyes alight with amusement.

"Give it up, Slayer," he advised as he saw her battle preparations begin again. "You'll never be able to hold your breath longer than me."


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