The ground quaked violently beneath Xander's feet, the air thick with the stench of sulfur and decay. The Hellmouth had opened wider than ever before, spewing forth a torrent of demonic creatures that poured into Sunnydale like a river of nightmares. This was far worse than anything the Scoobies had prepared for—worse than anything they could have imagined.
Xander fought to keep his footing as the world around him seemed to crumble. The sky above had turned a sickly shade of red, churning with dark clouds that crackled with unholy energy. The Hellmouth had become a gaping maw of darkness, swallowing everything in its path, and Sunnydale was quickly becoming a battlefield unlike any the Scoobies had ever faced.
Buffy was a blur of motion, her scythe slicing through the waves of demons with deadly precision. Faith fought beside her, both Slayers giving everything they had to stem the tide of evil. Willow stood further back, her eyes glowing with raw magical power as she cast spell after spell, each one sending bolts of energy into the horde of monsters. Spike was a whirlwind of fury, his fists and fangs tearing into anything that got too close.
But no matter how hard they fought, it wasn't enough. The Hellmouth was unleashing Hell on Earth, and they were losing.
Xander swung his ax with everything he had, but for every demon he cut down, two more took its place. He caught glimpses of his friends in the chaos—Dawn desperately fighting alongside Anya, Giles frantically chanting protective spells—but the sheer number of enemies was overwhelming. The ground itself was beginning to crack and split, fiery chasms opening up to devour the fallen, friend and foe alike.
Then, with a deafening roar, the Hellmouth surged. The ground beneath them buckled and heaved, sending shockwaves through the battlefield. Xander was thrown off his feet, crashing hard into the ground. Dazed, he looked up just in time to see the Hellmouth expand, its dark energy surging outward in a massive wave.
Buffy screamed for everyone to fall back, but it was too late. The wave of energy hit them with the force of a hurricane, blasting through their ranks and sending them sprawling. Xander watched in horror as his friends were engulfed by the darkness, their forms disappearing into the chaotic storm.
"No!" Xander's voice was a raw, desperate shout as he tried to push himself to his feet. His body ached, his vision blurred, but he forced himself to stand. He had to find them. He had to make sure they were okay.
But as he staggered through the battlefield, the full horror of the situation became clear. The Hellmouth wasn't just open—it was expanding, growing, tearing through the fabric of reality itself. Demons of all shapes and sizes poured out of it, an unending flood of terror that was quickly overtaking the town. The sky was burning, the ground was cracking, and the screams of the dying filled the air.
Xander stumbled over the body of a fallen demon, catching sight of Spike's remains nearby—charred ashes scattered across the broken pavement. He looked around frantically, his heart hammering in his chest, but everywhere he turned, there was nothing but death and destruction.
Buffy's scythe lay on the ground, abandoned, and Xander felt his stomach drop. He found her not far away, lying motionless amidst the rubble. Her eyes were closed, her body battered and broken. Xander's breath caught in his throat as he knelt beside her, shaking her gently.
"Buffy… Buffy, wake up," he pleaded, his voice trembling. But she didn't move. She was gone.
A cold, hollow feeling spread through Xander's chest as he looked around at the devastation. Willow was crumpled on the ground nearby, her hair singed and her spell book charred. Faith was nowhere to be seen, and the ground where Giles had been standing was now a yawning chasm.
Everyone was gone. Everyone except him.
Xander's legs gave out, and he collapsed beside Buffy's lifeless body, his hands shaking as he clutched her hand. He could barely breathe, the weight of the reality pressing down on him. They had lost. The Hellmouth was open, Hell was unleashed on Earth, and he was the last one standing.
A sudden, horrific screech tore through the air, and Xander looked up to see the Hellmouth pulsing with dark energy. The demons were still pouring out, an endless wave of monstrosities that spread out across the land, devouring everything in their path. The world was ending, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
He wanted to give up, to lie down beside Buffy and let the darkness take him, but something inside him wouldn't let him. Maybe it was stubbornness, maybe it was the need to survive, or maybe it was the simple fact that he couldn't let his friends' sacrifices be in vain.
With a cry of rage and despair, Xander forced himself to his feet, grabbing the ax that had fallen from his grasp. The Hellmouth loomed before him, a monstrous, gaping maw that seemed to mock him with its sheer size and power. But he wasn't going to go down without a fight.
He charged towards the Hellmouth, his ax raised high. The demons turned towards him, snarling, but Xander didn't stop. He was the last of the Scoobies, and he was going to make sure that whatever happened next, he went down swinging.
The battle was a blur of blood and fury, but Xander didn't care. He was beyond caring. All that mattered was that he kept fighting, kept moving, kept swinging that ax until he couldn't anymore. He could feel the heat of the Hellmouth on his skin, the darkness pulling at him, but he pushed forward, desperate to do something—anything—to stop this.
But it was hopeless. The Hellmouth was too powerful, too vast. The ground beneath him cracked open, flames licking at his boots as the world around him crumbled. And then, with a final, earth-shattering roar, the Hellmouth erupted in a blinding flash of light.
Xander was thrown back, the force of the explosion ripping the ax from his hands. He hit the ground hard, pain shooting through his body as he tumbled across the broken pavement. Everything went dark.
When he opened his eyes, the world was silent. The Hellmouth still loomed in the distance, but it was no longer spewing demons. The streets of Sunnydale were empty, the air thick with the smell of smoke and ash.
Xander tried to move, but his body wouldn't respond. He could barely keep his eyes open, his vision fading in and out. He was alive, but just barely. And he was alone.
The last of the Scoobies, the last one left to witness the end of the world.
---
Two years had passed since the Hellmouth opened, unleashing Hell on Earth. The once vibrant city of Los Angeles had turned into a wasteland, a shadow of its former self. The streets, now desolate and abandoned, echoed with the distant wail of sirens and the occasional sound of shuffling footsteps. Xander Harris, his heart hardened by loss and pain, moved like a ghost through the ruins, driven by a relentless need to keep fighting—though for what, he was no longer sure.
It was in this shattered world that Xander had made his stand. The memories of Sunnydale—of Buffy, Willow, Giles, and the others—haunted him every day. They had all fought valiantly to close the Hellmouth, but it had been for naught. One by one, they had fallen, until Xander was the only one left. He had become a nomadic hunter, moving from one skirmish to the next, driven by a need to avenge his fallen friends and protect what little was left of the world.
But the years had not been kind. His once youthful face was now lined with scars and etched with sorrow. His left eye, taken in a long-forgotten battle, was covered by a patch—a constant reminder of the price he had paid. His body, though still strong, bore the marks of countless battles, each one a testament to his resilience and determination to fight on, even when hope seemed lost.
Xander paused at the entrance to an abandoned factory, the wind howling through the broken windows. This was the place. He had tracked the demon here, a creature of immense power that had been terrorizing the city for weeks. This was no ordinary fight—something about it felt different, final, as though this battle would be his last.
He adjusted his grip on the axe in his hand, the weapon familiar and comforting. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the factory, his senses on high alert. The interior was dark, lit only by the occasional flicker of a dying fluorescent light. The smell of decay was thick in the air, mingling with the scent of rust and old machinery.
"Come on, you ugly bastard," Xander muttered to himself, his voice rough and weary. "Let's get this over with."
A low growl echoed through the factory, sending a shiver down his spine. He moved deeper into the shadows, his steps silent on the cracked concrete floor. The demon was close—he could feel it. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, but he pushed forward. He had come too far, lost too much, to back down now.
Suddenly, the demon appeared from the shadows, a hulking mass of muscle and darkness. Its eyes glowed with an unnatural light as it towered over Xander, its claws scraping against the floor. Xander didn't flinch—he had faced worse, much worse.
"Ready to dance?" Xander taunted, raising his axe. The demon responded with a deafening roar, lunging at him with terrifying speed. Xander sidestepped the attack, swinging his axe with precision. The blade bit into the demon's flesh, but it barely seemed to notice. It turned on him, slashing with its claws and sending him crashing into the wall.
Pain exploded through Xander's body, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand. Blood trickled down his chest, but he ignored it. Pain was nothing new—it had been his constant companion for years. He charged at the demon again, driven by sheer determination. The battle was brutal, each strike of the axe met with a vicious counterattack. Xander knew he was outmatched, but he refused to give in.
The demon roared again, grabbing Xander by the throat and lifting him off the ground. He struggled against its grip, his vision blurring as the pressure on his neck increased. The world began to fade, darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision. This was it—this was how it would end.
As his strength waned, Xander's thoughts drifted to his friends. Buffy's smile, Willow's laugh, Giles's steady presence—they were all gone, taken by the relentless fight against the darkness. He had fought to protect them, but in the end, he had failed. The realization hit him like a wave of despair, and for a moment, he welcomed the darkness that was closing in around him.
But then, just as he was about to give in, a surge of energy coursed through his body. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before—intense, electric, and overwhelming. The darkness receded, replaced by a blinding light that seemed to come from within him. The demon, sensing something was wrong, released him and staggered back, but it was too late.
Xander fell to the ground, convulsing as the energy consumed him. It felt as though every nerve in his body was on fire, the pain excruciating yet exhilarating. He screamed, the sound echoing through the empty factory, and then… everything went black.
When Xander opened his eyes again, he was lying on the cold concrete floor of the factory. The world around him was eerily silent, the only sound his own ragged breathing. He blinked, disoriented, the memories of the battle flooding back to him. He remembered the demon, the pain, the feeling of dying… and then something else, something powerful that had coursed through him in those final moments.
He sat up slowly, wincing as he did. The wounds that had raked his chest were gone, the blood that had stained his clothes dried but no longer bleeding. He felt… different, though he couldn't quite put it into words. As he looked around, he saw the demon's body lying a few feet away, its massive form lifeless and still.
Xander stood, unsteady at first, his mind racing to make sense of what had happened. He had died—he was sure of it. He had felt the life drain from his body, the darkness closing in. And yet, here he was, alive, unscathed, stronger than before.
And then he saw it.
His left eye—the eye he had lost so many years ago—was back.
Xander froze, his breath catching in his throat. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached up and touched his face. The eye patch was gone, and in its place was something he never thought he would feel again: his own, warm, living skin. His fingers traced the outline of his eye socket, and when he blinked, both eyes responded, the world coming into focus in a way it hadn't in years.
"No way…" Xander muttered, his voice trembling with disbelief. "This… this can't be real."
But it was. He could see out of both eyes, clear as day. The scars that had once marred his face were gone, replaced by smooth, unblemished skin. He felt stronger, more alive than he had in years, as if every cell in his body had been rejuvenated. The weight of fatigue, the constant ache of old wounds—it was all gone.
He stumbled to his feet, his legs unsteady beneath him, and made his way to a broken piece of metal that served as a makeshift mirror. When he looked at his reflection, he barely recognized the man staring back at him. The face was his, but younger, healthier, almost untouched by the years of battle. His once empty eye socket was whole again, the brown eye staring back at him in shock.
"This is… this is impossible," Xander whispered, his mind racing. "What the hell happened to me?"
---
He was no longer just Xander Harris. In those final moments, something profound had changed. He had felt death's cold grip, but something had brought him back. As he lay on the cold concrete, the memories of Giles's teachings and his own research came rushing back—legends of beings who lived through the ages, only able to die by beheading. Immortals. The kind of stories he'd dismissed as mere fantasy, another piece of lore to file away. But now, he understood. He was one of them.
The truth settled into his mind, heavy but undeniable: he was an Immortal now, a warrior reborn in the fires of battle. He remembered Giles mentioning them in passing, ancient beings who survived death only to fight another day, their lives entwined with a code of combat and survival. Xander had never thought those tales would apply to him. But here he was, living proof.
As the realization took hold, a grim smile crossed Xander's face. The world had gone to hell, but he was still here. The fight wasn't over—not for him. He had been given a second chance, and this time, he wouldn't fail. He couldn't fail. The rules had changed, and he had changed with them.
With renewed purpose, Xander picked up his axe and walked out of the factory, the weight of his new reality settling on his shoulders. The world had been transformed into a nightmare, and so had he. But as long as he still drew breath—no, as long as he still existed—he would keep fighting.
Hell on Earth had come, but Xander Harris, the Immortal Rebel, would meet it head-on, armed not only with his experience and determination but with the knowledge that he was part of a much larger, older world—a world where the only rule was survival, and the only limit was the edge of a sword.
---
Seventy years after the Hellmouth failed to close, the world has become a desolate wasteland. Human civilization has been driven underground, with only a few hundred people left, scattered in hidden cities deep beneath the earth. Above, the surface is ruled by demons, with one particularly powerful demon, Malakar, having established dominion over the remnants of the world. The resistance, a mix of humans and Immortals, is planning a final desperate assault to take back their world.
---
The world above had long become unrecognizable—a twisted reflection of the nightmares that humanity had once imagined. For seventy years, Xander Harris had fought relentlessly, carving out a path of resistance in a world overrun by demons. He had witnessed the downfall of civilization, fought alongside legends, and survived battles that should have ended him. But every time death came close, the unique gift of immortality pulled him back, his body healing without a trace of the wounds that would have killed any ordinary man.
His face, once marked with youthful energy, now bore the weariness of decades of relentless combat. Though he carried no scars—his Immortal nature prevented any lasting damage—his eyes told the story of a man who had lived through more than most could imagine. Those eyes, hardened by loss and sharpened by survival, were focused now on the battle to come.
As Xander stood at the center of the underground resistance base, he scanned the group assembled before him. They were a mixture of humans and Immortals, each one as battle-hardened as he was. They all shared the same grim determination—the same understanding that this battle was more than just another skirmish. This was the last stand, the final push against Malakar, the demon who had claimed dominion over the earth.
The room was dimly lit, with maps and tactical charts strewn across a large table in the center. The atmosphere was thick with tension, the air heavy with the knowledge that the outcome of this mission would decide the future—or the end—of humanity.
"Alright, listen up," Xander's voice cut through the murmur of the room, and all eyes turned to him. He may have started as a jokester, but decades of leadership had made his voice one of authority. "This is it. Malakar has been tightening his grip on the surface, and every year, we lose another city. We don't have many left. This is our last chance to stop him before he finds our underground sanctuaries."
Xander paused, letting his words sink in. "We've all lost people. We've all seen cities fall. But as long as we still stand, as long as we still fight, there's hope. Today, we take that fight to him. We hit Malakar's fortress, take out the source of his power, and we give the surface a chance to breathe again."
He gestured to the map on the table, a detailed layout of Malakar's fortress—an imposing structure where the Hellmouth's energy was concentrated, feeding the demon's vast power. "The Hellmouth is Malakar's lifeline. Destroy it, and he loses the source of his strength. But it won't be easy. His fortress is heavily guarded, and we'll be walking into a war zone. This is an all-or-nothing mission."
The faces around him—human and Immortal alike—were resolute. Some had been fighting beside him for years, their loyalty and skill tested time and time again. Others were newer, but they all shared the same fire in their eyes, the same unshakable resolve. Among them was Duncan MacLeod, an Immortal who had become one of Xander's closest allies, and Callista, a former Slayer who had joined the resistance after the fall of her last city.
Xander's gaze swept over the group before continuing, "We move fast, we move smart. We'll split into teams. Duncan, you'll take the east flank with Callista. I'll lead the main force into the heart of the fortress. Our objective is simple: get to the node, destroy it, and get out. If we succeed, Malakar's hold on the surface weakens. If we fail…"
He didn't need to finish the sentence. They all knew what was at stake.
Xander's voice hardened, his tone that of a seasoned warrior. "We've trained for this. We've bled for this. And today, we make sure every sacrifice counts. If anyone's having second thoughts, now's the time to walk away."
No one moved. They were all committed.
"Alright then," Xander said, a grim smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Let's show that bastard what we're made of."
The group dispersed, each preparing for the assault. Xander took a moment to check his own gear. His body might heal from any wound, but the fight was still real. His axe—his weapon of choice for decades—felt familiar in his hands, a constant companion in his journey as a warrior. He remembered Giles once saying that an Immortal's true weapon was not just their skill but their will to survive. That had been tested time and again, and Xander had never backed down.
As he moved toward the exit, Duncan caught up with him. "You ready for this?" the Immortal asked, his tone as serious as the situation warranted.
Xander nodded. "Been ready for seventy years."
Duncan chuckled softly, though there was no humor in it. "You've done well, Xander. Leading this resistance… You've kept them fighting when most would've given up."
"I don't know about that," Xander replied, his voice quiet but firm. "But I do know we're not done yet. As long as there's breath in our bodies—or in my case, as long as I keep coming back—we're going to keep fighting."
They exchanged a look of mutual respect. Two men out of time, fighting in a world that no longer resembled the one they were born into.
As they made their way toward the underground tunnel that would lead them to the surface, Xander felt the weight of the years pressing on him—not physically, but mentally. The memories of every battle, every friend lost, every sacrifice—it was all there, swirling in the back of his mind. But it wasn't a burden that dragged him down. It was fuel for the fire that burned within him. The fire that had kept him going long after others had fallen.
He was Immortal now. And though he bore no scars, the weight of what he had seen and done was etched into his soul.
As they reached the exit, the cold night air hit them, a stark reminder of the wasteland the surface had become. But Xander was not afraid. He had faced the worst the world had to offer, and he had come back stronger every time. And now, as he prepared to lead the final assault on Malakar's fortress, he knew that this was the moment that would define everything.
Hell on Earth had come, but Xander Harris, the Immortal Rebel, was ready to face it head-on.
---
The battlefield was littered with the fallen, the last remnants of Xander's team lying motionless around him. His heart pounded as he surveyed the carnage. Duncan MacLeod's broken sword lay discarded nearby, and the new Slayer—young, fierce, and untested—was slumped against a crumbling wall, her lifeblood staining the ground. Xander was the only one left standing, barely clinging to his immortal strength, facing the towering form of Malakar, the Devourer.
The Hellmouth pulsed behind the monstrous figure, wide open and spewing forth waves of dark energy. Demons poured from it, but they no longer mattered. The real battle was between Xander and Malakar. His team of Immortals had fought bravely, each of them falling in the struggle to reach the heart of the Hellmouth, but now they were gone. It was just Xander, alone against the First Evil.
Malakar grinned, a grotesque and twisted expression, his eyes glowing with hunger. "Your team is finished, Immortal," he hissed. "You thought you could stand against me? I am the First. I am the Devourer. Everything you know—everything you love—will be consumed."
Xander gripped his axe tightly, his knuckles white. His breath came in ragged gasps, but he refused to give in to fear. "You talk too much," he spat, lifting his weapon in defiance. "I've already lost everything once. What's one more fight?"
Malakar laughed, the sound deep and rumbling, like the breaking of the earth. He moved with terrifying speed, his claws swiping at Xander. Xander dodged, but the effort cost him—his body was battered from the battle, and he could feel the strain of his immortal regeneration struggling to keep up. He swung his axe, but it barely made a dent in the demon's hardened skin.
"Is this how it ends for you, Harris?" Malakar sneered, stepping closer. "You, the last of your pathetic group, alone and outmatched?"
Xander didn't respond. His mind was racing, searching for any kind of plan, any last trick up his sleeve. But there was nothing. His team was gone—Duncan, Callista, the others—all dead. There was no one left to save him. It was just him and Malakar, and the Devourer was going to take his head.
Malakar's hand shot out, claws aimed for Xander's throat. Xander barely deflected the blow with his axe, but the force of it sent him flying backward, crashing into the rubble of a fallen building. Pain shot through his body, but he forced himself to stand. He couldn't stop now—not when everything was on the line.
"You can't win," Malakar taunted, his voice dripping with malice. "I will take your head, Immortal, and when I do, your power will be mine."
Xander wiped the blood from his mouth, struggling to his feet. "I don't plan on losing," he said, his voice steady despite the odds.
But even as he spoke, he could feel the reality of the situation sinking in. He was running out of time. Malakar was too strong, too fast. The Devourer's connection to the Hellmouth made him nearly invincible, and Xander was barely holding on. If Malakar took his head, he would absorb Xander's immortal power, becoming even stronger. And then there would be no stopping him.
Malakar moved again, closing the distance between them in an instant. Xander swung his axe, but this time, Malakar was ready. He caught the blade with his hand, snapping it in two with a flick of his wrist. Xander staggered back, weaponless, as Malakar's claws reached for his neck.
And then—something happened.
A surge of energy pulsed through Xander's body, a feeling unlike anything he had ever experienced. The world around him seemed to slow, the air thick with power. Malakar froze for a moment, his eyes narrowing in recognition.
"No…" Malakar growled, his voice filled with fury and fear. "Not now. Not this."
Xander felt the pull—something was happening, something beyond his control. The energy surrounding him intensified, warping the space around him. Malakar seemed to realize what was going on, and with a roar of rage, he lunged for Xander, his claws aimed directly at his neck.
But it was too late. Just as Malakar's claws were about to strike, the energy enveloping Xander pulled him away. One moment he was standing on the battlefield, and the next, he was gone—whisked away by a force he couldn't comprehend.
Malakar's claws closed on empty air, and the Devourer screamed in frustration, his voice shaking the very ground beneath him.
"NO!" Malakar bellowed, his eyes burning with rage. "You will not escape me, Immortal! I will have your head!"
The battlefield trembled as Malakar unleashed his fury, tearing through the rubble with his bare hands. Demons scattered in terror as their master's rage consumed the landscape. The Hellmouth surged behind him, a gaping maw of darkness, but even its power could not soothe Malakar's frustration.
He had been so close—so close to claiming the Immortal's power, to securing his dominance over the Earth. And now, Xander had been taken from him, spirited away by forces beyond his control. The Powers That Be, no doubt. They had interfered, stolen his prize at the last moment.
But Malakar's anger was tempered by a cold, dark certainty. He knew what had happened, and he would not be denied.
"The Powers," Malakar hissed, his voice low and venomous. "They think they can protect you, Harris. They think they can save you."
His eyes burned with malevolent fire as he surveyed the battlefield, his voice rising once more in a roar of defiance. "But no one escapes the Devourer! I will find you, Xander Harris. No matter where they hide you, no matter where they take you—I will have your head!"
As the Hellmouth pulsed with dark energy behind him, Malakar turned away from the wreckage of the battle. There were still souls to consume, still power to gather. He would continue to devour everything in his path, growing stronger with each passing day. But his thoughts remained fixed on Xander—the Immortal who had slipped through his grasp.
---
Xander's vision swam as he was pulled through a vortex of light and shadow. His body felt weightless, caught between dimensions. He had no idea what had just happened—one moment, he had been facing certain death at the hands of Malakar, and the next, he was being whisked away by some unseen force.
When the world around him finally solidified, Xander found himself lying on soft grass, the sky above him clear and blue. The sounds of battle were gone, replaced by the peaceful chirping of birds and the gentle rustle of leaves in the wind.
"Where the hell am I?" Xander muttered, struggling to his feet.
As he looked around, he saw a figure standing nearby, watching him with calm, knowing eyes. The figure wore white robes, their presence serene and powerful. Xander recognized them immediately—one of the Powers That Be.
"You've been saved," the figure said softly, their voice echoing with a gentle authority. "The Powers That Be have intervened. Your fight isn't over."
Xander frowned, still disoriented. "Why? Why did they save me?"
The figure stepped closer, their gaze intense. "Because you are the one, Xander Harris. The Devourer has not yet claimed victory. But the battle is far from over. There is still much you must do."
Xander took a deep breath, the weight of the words settling over him. He had been spared, but for what purpose? As he looked around, he realized that his journey was far from finished. Malakar was still out there, and now, more than ever, Xander understood that his fight wasn't just about survival—it was about stopping the First Evil once and for all.
---
The soft rustle of grass beneath Xander's feet felt foreign, almost unreal. The warmth of the sun on his skin, the fresh scent of earth, the sound of birds chirping—it all clashed violently with the memories he had lived with for the past seventy years. He stood in the middle of a wide, open field, the peacefulness of the landscape surrounding him like a cruel joke.
His mind raced as he scanned his surroundings, struggling to make sense of what had just happened. The battlefield, the Hellmouth, Malakar—all of it was gone. Instead, he was standing in a place that shouldn't exist. Not like this. Not anymore.
Xander took a few shaky steps forward, his body still trembling from the adrenaline of the battle. His hand reached down, brushing against the blades of grass as if he needed to confirm that it was real. It felt soft, cool against his fingers, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe. He hadn't seen a field, not one this untouched by devastation, in over seventy years.
"Where… where the hell am I?" he muttered under his breath, his voice cracking.
Panic began to creep up his spine. This was wrong. The world hadn't been like this since the Hellmouth opened, since the day everything fell apart. Los Angeles had been a wasteland for decades, nothing but crumbling ruins and ash. Yet here he was, standing in a place that looked untouched by time, as if the apocalypse had never happened.
His breaths came faster, more ragged. His heart raced, pounding so hard it felt like it would tear through his chest. He spun around, trying to find something—anything—that made sense. But all he could see was the endless field, the clear blue sky, the distant silhouette of a city on the horizon.
That's when he saw it.
Los Angeles. Whole. Intact.
Xander stumbled back a step, his legs giving out as he fell to his knees. "No… no, no, no. This isn't real. This can't be real."
The city stood tall in the distance, shining in the sunlight, skyscrapers reaching for the sky like the world had never ended. The Los Angeles he knew was gone—burned, broken, consumed by the Hellmouth's fires. This… this was wrong. It was like stepping into a memory of a world that didn't exist anymore, a world that had died along with everyone he loved.
Xander clutched his head, his fingers digging into his scalp as if trying to hold himself together. But the panic kept rising, overwhelming him. His breath came in shallow gasps, his vision blurring with the sting of tears he didn't even realize were there. He hadn't cried in decades, not since the fall of Sunnydale, not since watching the people he cared about torn apart by Malakar's forces. But now, in this moment, he felt like he was drowning in everything he had tried so hard to bury.
"What the hell is happening?" Xander whispered, his voice trembling. He felt the walls inside him begin to crack, the weight of seventy years of survival crashing down all at once. He had fought and bled for a world that was gone, lost everything, and now he was standing here, in a world that shouldn't exist, feeling like he had been thrown into a nightmare that wouldn't end.
He slammed his fist into the ground, the shock of the impact sending a jolt of pain up his arm, but it did nothing to ground him. The field, the city—it was too much. His mind raced with questions he couldn't answer. Had the Powers That Be sent him back in time? Was this some kind of illusion? Some twisted game Malakar was playing with his mind?
"No, no, no!" Xander screamed, his voice echoing across the empty field. "This isn't real! It can't be real!"
The last seventy years felt like they were unraveling before him. He had watched the world die, fought for every inch of ground in a wasteland ruled by demons. And now… now he was here, standing in the middle of a field that shouldn't exist. His thoughts spun out of control. What if it was all a lie? What if everything he had fought for, everything he had lost, meant nothing?
Tears streamed down his face, and he couldn't stop them. He didn't want to stop them. The pain, the anger, the confusion—it all flooded out of him, years of holding everything in, years of trying to be strong, crashing over him in a wave he couldn't contain. He had kept fighting for so long, but now, here, in this place, it all felt so pointless. What was the point of surviving if this was the end?
His sobs echoed in the emptiness around him, raw and broken, the weight of his losses pressing down like a suffocating blanket. Every face, every name he had buried deep came rushing to the surface: Buffy, Willow, Giles. The Scoobies. His team. His friends. He had lived through their deaths, watched them die one by one, and all for what? To stand in a world that shouldn't exist?
He was losing his grip. The walls inside him were shattering, and the memories he had fought so hard to lock away came flooding back. All the pain, all the suffering, all the moments he had pushed through just to keep going—it was too much. He had survived for them, for the world they had tried to protect, but now, looking at the city in the distance, he couldn't understand why.
For a long time, Xander knelt there in the grass, his body shaking, his mind broken by the overwhelming impossibility of the situation. How could the world be like this? How could it be whole when he had spent so long in the wasteland, when he had lost everything?
After what felt like an eternity, the sobs began to quiet, leaving him with nothing but the hollow ache in his chest. He wiped at his face, trying to pull himself together, but the shock still clung to him. He didn't understand. He didn't know where he was, or when he was, or if any of this was real.
Slowly, he stood, his legs unsteady beneath him. His head spun as he looked back toward the city—Los Angeles, whole and untouched. He needed answers, but he wasn't sure if he could handle the truth when he found it.
With a deep breath, Xander turned and started walking toward the city, each step feeling heavier than the last. He didn't know what he would find there, but one thing was clear: something was very, very wrong.
---
Xander stumbled through the city streets, still trying to make sense of everything. Los Angeles looked so… normal. People went about their business, cars zipped by on the street, and there was none of the devastation or ruin that had marked the world he knew for the last seventy years. It felt surreal, like he was walking through a dream.
Then he saw it: a payphone. Xander stopped in his tracks, staring at it like it was an alien artifact. He hadn't seen one in decades. In his time, phones were long gone, destroyed along with most of the infrastructure after the Hellmouth had opened. But here it was, standing on the corner, as if nothing had ever changed.
He made his way over, heart pounding. He needed answers, and he only knew one person who might help him get them. His hand shook as he picked up the receiver, feeding quarters into the slot. He barely remembered how to use one of these things, but muscle memory kicked in as he dialed the operator.
"Operator," the voice said on the other end, calm and professional.
"I… I need to place a call to New York," Xander said, his voice unsteady. "MacLeod Antiques, 38 West 52nd Street. Can you connect me?"
There was a pause, and for a moment Xander feared that nothing would happen. But then the operator responded, "Please hold while I connect your call."
Xander swallowed hard, gripping the receiver tightly. He didn't know what he expected, but he needed to talk to Duncan. He needed to hear a familiar voice, to confirm that this wasn't some kind of twisted illusion or dream.
After a few moments, there was a click, and the phone rang. Xander's heart thudded in his chest as he waited, every second feeling like an eternity.
Finally, the call connected, and a familiar voice answered. "MacLeod Antiques, this is Duncan speaking."
Xander felt a wave of relief wash over him. "Duncan! Thank God, I—" he began, but his words caught in his throat as he realized something was wrong.
There was silence on the other end of the line, and then Duncan's voice came again, cautious and confused. "I'm sorry… who is this?"
Xander froze. The tone in Duncan's voice—it was as if he had no idea who Xander was. "It's me, Xander. Xander Harris. We've been fighting together for years! You—" He stopped, his mind racing. How could Duncan not know him?
"Look, I think you've got the wrong number," Duncan said, his voice firm but polite. "I don't know any Xander Harris. I think you're mistaken."
"No, wait," Xander said, panic rising in his chest. "This can't be right. We fought Malakar together! You're Immortal, I'm Immortal. We've been leading the resistance—this can't be happening."
Duncan was silent for a moment, clearly trying to figure out what was going on. "Immortal?" he finally said, his voice suspicious. "Who are you, really?"
Xander's pulse quickened. None of this made sense. Why didn't Duncan know him? Why was everything so… different? He glanced around, his eyes landing on a nearby newspaper stand. Something in the back of his mind nagged at him. He needed more information.
"Duncan, please, just tell me what year it is," Xander said, desperation creeping into his voice. "I know this sounds crazy, but I need to know."
There was a long pause. Xander could hear Duncan breathing on the other end, clearly wary but curious. "It's May," Duncan said cautiously. "May 23, 1999."
Xander felt the world tilt beneath his feet. "1999?" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "No… no, that's impossible."
His knees gave out, and he slumped against the payphone booth, his mind reeling. 1999? That was over seventy years in the past. He had been in the wasteland, fighting the forces of Malakar, for what felt like a lifetime. The Hellmouth had opened in 2024. He had lived through decades of destruction and death, and now… now he was back in 1999?
Duncan's voice crackled through the phone, but Xander barely heard him. "Are you still there?" Duncan asked, more urgently now. "What's going on?"
Xander's grip on the receiver loosened, and he stared blankly at the city around him. The cars, the people, the buildings—it all made sense now. He wasn't in the world he had known. He wasn't even in the right time. Somehow, he had been sent back. Back before the Hellmouth opened, before everything fell apart.
"I… I'm here," Xander muttered, though his voice sounded far away even to his own ears. "I don't understand. This isn't possible."
Duncan's voice softened, concern evident in his tone. "Listen, whoever you are… if you know about Immortals, then you're not just some random person. But you sound like you're in shock. Where are you?"
"I don't know," Xander whispered, his eyes unfocused as he tried to make sense of it all. "I don't know anything anymore."
For a long time, neither of them spoke. Xander's mind was spinning, his thoughts chaotic and fragmented. He had gone back in time. He was in 1999, a time before any of the horrors he had lived through had even begun. The people he had lost—Buffy, Willow, Giles—they were all still alive. The Hellmouth hadn't opened yet. Malakar hadn't risen.
And that's when it hit him. He had a chance. A chance to stop it all before it ever happened.
"Duncan," Xander said, his voice suddenly steadier. "I need your help."
There was a pause on the other end. "I'm listening," Duncan said cautiously.
Xander took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. "I can't explain everything right now, but something's coming. Something that could destroy the world. I don't know why I'm here, but I think… I think I've been sent back to stop it."
Duncan didn't respond right away, but Xander could sense the Immortal's curiosity growing. "You're talking about something serious, aren't you?"
"Dead serious," Xander said, his mind racing as he tried to piece together a plan. "There's a demon… Malakar. He's the First Evil, the Devourer of Worlds. Three and a half years from now, he'll rise, and the Hellmouth will open, and everything… everything will fall apart."
Xander could hear Duncan breathing on the other end, but the Immortal didn't interrupt.
"I don't know how much time I have, or why I'm back here," Xander continued, his voice trembling with urgency. "But I need you to trust me. I need your help to stop this before it's too late."
There was a long silence, and then Duncan finally spoke, his voice cautious but firm. "Alright. I don't know if I believe all of this, but you've got my attention. Where are you?"
Xander glanced around, trying to get his bearings. "I'm in LA," he said. "I'll find a way to get to New York."
Duncan hesitated. "Be careful," he said. "I'll be waiting."
Xander hung up the phone, his heart still pounding. He leaned back against the booth, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. Somehow, against all odds, he had been sent back in time. The weight of the knowledge pressed down on him—he had a chance to change everything, to stop the world from falling apart. But with that chance came a terrible responsibility.
He couldn't let this happen again.
---
Xander's eyes drifted to the newspaper stand as he hung up the payphone, still trying to make sense of the chaos in his mind. The paper, sitting innocently on the rack, caught his attention. For a moment, he didn't register what he was looking at. The date seemed to blur in his vision, a relic of the past he thought was long gone.
May 23, 1999.
His heart skipped a beat as it all clicked. It wasn't just May 1999. It was …today. Graduation Day.
The memory came rushing back—the day Mayor Richard Wilkins transformed into a giant, demon snake. The day Sunnydale High School became a war zone. The day so many students, faculty, and residents either died or were turned into vampires, all in the middle of a sunny Californian afternoon.
He felt his chest tighten, his breaths coming faster. He was back on **that day**, the day Buffy, Giles, and the rest of them had banded together to defeat the mayor in an all-out battle for Sunnydale. Xander had been there, coordinating the students, fighting alongside them to survive. They had won—but the cost had been high.
Xander gripped the edge of the payphone booth, his knuckles turning white. His first instinct was to run straight to them, to warn Buffy and Giles about everything that was coming—the Hellmouth, Malakar, the apocalypse 70 years in the future. But then the harsh reality settled in, cold and sharp. They didn't know him anymore. This wasn't his time. He was nothing but a ghost from the future, carrying the weight of a world they hadn't yet lost.
He couldn't see them. He **wouldn't** see them.
But he also couldn't ignore what was happening. Graduation Day was today. Lives would be lost, no matter how well they had fought. He had to make sure that everything went down the way it was supposed to—no more, no less. Even if that meant staying in the shadows.
A sharp pang of guilt twisted in his chest as he thought about Buffy, Giles, and Willow. Seeing them alive again, untouched by the horrors to come—it was a temptation almost too great to bear. But he couldn't interfere. He couldn't change what was already written. Not this. Not them.
Xander took a deep breath and clenched his fists. He had to be smart. He had to make sure the timeline stayed intact, but he also had to make sure that people didn't die unnecessarily.
Steeling himself, Xander scanned the street. He wasn't going to make it to Sunnydale in time if he didn't act fast. He needed transportation—now.
His eyes landed on a car parked nearby, its door slightly ajar. The owner was nowhere in sight, probably inside one of the nearby shops. Xander's conscience gnawed at him for a moment, but he shoved it aside. He didn't have time for this. Lives were at stake.
"Sorry about this," he muttered under his breath as he pulled the door open. He slipped into the driver's seat, hot-wiring the car with shaky hands. It had been a long time since he'd done something like this, but survival in the wastelands had taught him more than a few necessary skills.
The engine roared to life, and Xander wasted no time. Tires squealed as he peeled out of the parking spot and sped down the street. The city blurred past him as he headed for the highway, his heart pounding in sync with the rhythm of the car's engine.
As the cityscape of Los Angeles faded in his rearview mirror, his thoughts turned to Sunnydale, the place where everything had started. His memories of that day—standing side by side with his friends, facing down the mayor-turned-snake, watching as chaos erupted all around them—came flooding back. He had been a part of something bigger that day, something that had felt like the end of everything.
But it hadn't been the end. Not for him. He knew what was coming—far worse than anything they had faced that day. The Hellmouth would open, and the world would fall. It was inevitable. Yet here he was, racing toward it, determined to make sure that—for today, at least—it would end the way it was supposed to.
The familiar road to Sunnydale stretched out before him, the landscape of his past rolling by like a ghostly reminder of what he'd lost. He hadn't set foot in this town for decades. Now, here he was again, chasing down a memory, trying to make sure that history stayed on course.
"I shouldn't be doing this," he muttered, gripping the wheel tighter as the sun began to sink lower in the sky. "But I can't just sit back and watch it happen either."
Xander's thoughts raced, the faces of Buffy, Willow, and Giles flashing in his mind. He would do whatever it took to make sure they survived the day—even if it meant not revealing himself. He couldn't change the future, but he could make sure the present played out the way it was meant to.
As Sunnydale approached, Xander's determination solidified. He was going to make sure the battle against the mayor unfolded as it should. No more deaths than necessary. No surprises. And most of all, no interference from him.
---
Xander moved quietly through the familiar halls of Sunnydale High, his mind racing with the surreal reality of the situation. The pristine school looked the same as it had when he'd walked these halls all those years ago, but now, everything had changed. This wasn't the world he knew. And the tension in the air only confirmed his worst fears—something in this timeline had gone horribly wrong.
As he neared the library, voices echoed through the door, sharp and laced with venom. One voice, in particular, made Xander's blood run cold. It was his voice, but twisted—dark and malicious. He pressed himself against the wall outside the door, listening intently.
"Come on, Buff, you always thought you were better than everyone else," the voice taunted, full of contempt. "The righteous Slayer, saving the day. But when it really mattered, you couldn't even save your friends. Not all of them."
Xander's heart pounded. That was **his** voice—his vampiric counterpart, twisting the knife as only someone who knew them inside and out could. He slipped through the doors silently, keeping to the shadows, and what he saw chilled him to the core.
Buffy, Giles, Willow, Oz, and Cordelia stood tensely, facing a group of vampires. And there, at the center of the group, was **Vampire Xander**, leaning casually against the table, a dark grin on his face. Standing beside him, arms crossed with an expression of deep regret, was **Angel**—but not the Angelus Xander had feared. This was Angel, with his soul restored, and the guilt was evident in his eyes.
"You don't get it, do you?" Vampire Xander continued, his eyes locking with Buffy's. "Angelus turned me. He made me see the truth, Buffy. And you know what? He was right. I was always the joke, the weak link. But now?" He grinned, flashing his fangs. "Now, I'm the one in control."
Buffy's knuckles were white as she gripped her stake, her face tight with barely contained anger. "That's not you, Xander. Angelus did this to you. But it's not too late—you don't have to follow him."
Vampire Xander scoffed. "Follow him? Angel here's got his soul back. He's all broody and guilt-ridden, just like you like him. But me? I don't regret a damn thing."
The real Xander watched from the shadows, his heart aching as he saw the pain in Buffy's eyes. ~This~ was what Angelus had done—he'd taken one of their own, twisted him, and turned him into something dark and cruel. And now, Angel, with his soul back, was standing there, forced to watch the consequences of his actions play out before him.
Willow took a tentative step forward, her voice shaky. "Xander, this isn't you. Please, we can help you."
Vampire Xander turned on her, his smile vanishing, replaced by something cold and dangerous. "Help me? Oh, Will, you always wanted to fix everything, didn't you? But you couldn't even stop me from dying. You couldn't save me then, and you can't save me now."
Willow's face fell, her eyes filling with unshed tears, and Xander felt a surge of anger rise within him. His vampire counterpart wasn't just attacking them physically—he was attacking them emotionally, using their insecurities, their guilt, their pain.
Angel, standing silently beside Vampire Xander, looked as if he wanted to speak, but the weight of his guilt held him back. He'd turned Xander a year ago, when he was still Angelus, and now, with his soul restored, he could only stand by and watch as the consequences of that act unraveled before him. He looked at Buffy, his expression one of deep regret.
"I shouldn't have—" Angel started, his voice heavy with remorse, but Vampire Xander cut him off with a sharp laugh.
"Don't go all noble on me now, Angel. You did me a favor," Vampire Xander sneered, turning to face the group. "I'm stronger now than I ever was. No more being the sidekick. No more being the loser. I'm what I was always meant to be."
Xander clenched his fists, anger boiling over. He couldn't stay hidden any longer. He had to stop this.
With a swift motion, Xander stepped out of the shadows, stake in hand. The vampires barely had time to react before he dusted one of them. The room erupted into chaos as Buffy and the others sprang into action, but Xander's focus was on one thing—**himself**.
Vampire Xander's eyes widened in shock as he saw his human counterpart for the first time. "What the—?"
Before Vampire Xander could react, Xander drove his boot into his chest, sending him crashing into the bookshelves. Books tumbled down as Vampire Xander scrambled to his feet, glaring at Xander with a mixture of fury and confusion.
The room went still, the two Xanders staring each other down. Buffy, Willow, Giles, and the others stood frozen, caught between shock and confusion. Angel's eyes darted between them, clearly struggling to process what he was seeing.
Vampire Xander wiped the blood from his lip, sneering. "Who the hell are you?"
Xander's jaw tightened. "I'm the Xander who didn't sell out to Angelus."
Vampire Xander's eyes flashed with anger. "You think you're better than me? You think you know what it's like? I didn't have a choice! Angelus made me this, and now… now I'm stronger than I ever was!"
Xander shook his head. "You're not stronger. You're just lost."
Buffy, still trying to process the sight of two Xanders standing before her, finally spoke, her voice cautious. "What's going on here? Who are you?"
Xander glanced at her, then back at his vampire counterpart. "I'm from an alternate timeline. In my world, this didn't happen. None of this did."
Vampire Xander let out a low growl, his fangs bared. "You think you can change anything? It's too late. You don't understand what it's like, being the weak link, always overlooked."
Xander stepped forward, his eyes hard. "I understand perfectly. But I didn't let it destroy me."
The tension in the room was thick, the two Xanders locked in a battle of words and will. Angel, standing by, looked like he wanted to say something, but guilt kept him rooted in place. Buffy's eyes darted between them, still trying to comprehend what was happening.
Vampire Xander's anger boiled over, his voice dripping with bitterness. "You think you can stop me? You can't even stop what's coming. The Mayor's going to win, and when he does, you and all your friends will be nothing."
Xander's grip on his stake tightened, but he knew he couldn't kill his vampire counterpart yet. Not here. Not now. There was still too much at stake.
"I'm not going to let that happen," Xander said, his voice steady. "And I'm not going to let you destroy them."
Vampire Xander glared at him, his fists clenched in frustration. For a moment, it looked like he might attack, but then his eyes flicked to Angel, and something shifted. With a snarl, he turned on his heel, retreating toward the exit.
"You haven't seen the last of me," Vampire Xander hissed as he disappeared into the shadows.
The room was left in stunned silence, the tension thick in the air. Xander stood there, breathing hard, his heart still racing from the confrontation. Buffy, Willow, and Giles stared at him, clearly struggling to make sense of what had just happened.
Finally, Buffy broke the silence, her voice barely above a whisper. "What the hell just happened?"
Xander turned to face her, the weight of his alternate timeline pressing heavily on his shoulders. "It's a long story," he said quietly. "But right now, we have bigger problems to deal with."