Cut to Xander and Willow, in her room again. They're lamenting what happened that afternoon. Willow feels like they overcompensated for the kiss by helping Cordelia, which led to the disaster that afternoon. They panic a bit, but then affectionately hold hands, making it clear that the kiss was no fluke.

Buffy walks out of her house to the limo. Her hair is up, and she's wearing an orange dress. Wouldn't have been my choice. And what's with the change purse? Anyway, she gets in to find a sullen-looking Cordelia in a shiny light green dress. I'm reminded of Maggie Smith in Gosford Park: "Difficult color, green." My poor Bitch-O-Meter wouldn't have lasted five minutes in that movie. And doesn't anyone wear black anymore? Of course, I'm from New York, so I'm biased. Black t-shirts, that's me. Recap? Oh, right. Buffy asks where Faith is, and Cordy hands her a letter. It's from their friends, saying that they're not riding with them because their group friendship is more important than who wins Homecoming Queen. It ends with, "The limo was not cheap -- work it out." Buffy notices there's a corsage, and Cordy digs, "I took the orchid." Buffy snits, "Okay." We see that the limo driver is a member of Team Sprockets. He's also pretty damn hot. In a German kind of way.

The limo drives down a dark road. Cordy and Buffy are bitching (to what degree, I can no longer gauge). We're meant to think they're working out their problems, but it turns out they're going on about Cordy taking the orchid. The limo stops, and they hear the driver run away. They get out to find themselves by the woods. They see a TV and VCR set up on a flat rock, with a big sign that says, "Press Play." Well, why not? It's not like it could explode or anything. Oh wait, it totally could. Buffy bites, and Mr. Trick appears on the screen, welcoming them to the SlayerFest. He explains that they are the hunted, and they have seconds to run for their lives. "Faith. Buffy. Have a nice death." Cordy protests loudly that she's not a Slayer, and the TV explodes. Just like my poor, lost Bitch-O-Meter. Sniff. The girls run.