Dawn Patrol

Okay… this is fine. Totally fine. Just me. In a graveyard. At night. Because apparently, “you can’t baby me forever, Buffy.” Ugh. Great pep talk, sis.

I mean, sure, I know how to hold a stake. I know the whole stab-to-dust routine. But what if I trip? What if I scream too soon? What if, like, five vampires pop out at once? I can barely handle gym class dodgeball, let alone undead dodge-fangs.

She adjusts the oversized leather jacket Buffy lent her, stake clutched a little too tightly in her sweaty hand. The night feels way too quiet—like the whole cemetery is holding its breath just to freak her out.

Don’t panic. Don’t panic. You’re Dawn Summers. You’re… okay, you’re not Buffy Summers. But you’re not useless either. If something comes at me, I’ll scream, I’ll swing, I’ll… probably regret this whole idea, but hey—points for effort, right?

Her sneakers crunch softly on the gravel path. Every shadow looks like it wants to jump her. She tries to put on a brave face, whispering to herself:

“Come on, vamps. Just one. One small, weak, clumsy vampire. I can handle that. Maybe. Kinda.”