After a "previously on Buffy" reminder that Holden the thera-pire claimed sireage by Spike, Buffy makes a beeline to said sire's new digs. Xander the Expander and his trusty man-boobs respond to her frenzied late-night knocking. Buffy's looking for Spike, which must hurt Xander just a touch -- but Spike's not around at the moment, being, as he is, a creature of the night who, Xander opines, is likely out "creaturing." As Buffy wanders over to the many-blinded windows of Casa Xander, where she enjoys a refreshing bath of blue light, Xander senses that Buffy's desire to find Spike is not of the sexual sort, and wonders if Spike's in trouble. "I hope not," responds Buffy.
In this case, "trouble" is a poorly lit and rather cluttered room, made more troublesome by a grunty sort of humming and a pile of dirt, which is growing, thanks to regular contributions from a shovel. Spike, not surprisingly, is the hummer and the digger -- he plants his shovel and turns to gaze down at the lass he munched upon last week. She's slumped on the floor, still clad in denim jacket and pants (is there a gender-appropriate equivalent here for "Guido tuxedo"?) and looking quite open-eyed dead. Spike hoists her by her collar, throws her into the freshly dug hole, and begins burying the body. He keeps humming. I wish he'd stop humming.
Digital video of a red phone booth, a distinctive black taxicab, fish and chips, Queen Elizabeth, a pub, some bad teeth, and the words "London, England" make me think we're in London, England. But then, I'm pretty quick on the uptake. Now we're on a soundstage, far away from London, England -- oh, but we're supposed to think we're still in London, England, because there's a man wearing a blazer and reading a book. And speaking with a funny accent -- after entering an apartment (or maybe a house), prying himself away from his tome, and noticing an overturned side table and vase, he begins calling for "Nora," or "Laura." Luckily, her name isn't very important, because she's dead dead dead, lying on the floor in a pool of blood, which is probably ruining the rather expensive-looking rug to which she's inconveniently adjacent.
Upset, British Guy races to Nora/Laura's side; she's been stabbed in the back. One of the knife-wielding, black-clad assassins from weeks past quickly interrupts his grief. Wow, BG can read and fight -- he uses his briefcase to block the business end of the ninja's knife and whack the ninja across the melon. As BG makes for a long sword hanging on the wall, another ninja (or perhaps the same one, if s/he's nimble) jumps around the corner and plunges the extremely impressive knife into BG's back. BG staggers and falls to the floor.
Willow barrels through the front door of Chez Summers, calling for Buffy. "She's not here," drones Dawn, sitting on the floor of the trashed living room, clutching a pillow. "Dawn," says Willow, stating the obvious. Willow rushes over and crouches down next to Dawn, wondering what happened. Sticking to the plainly visible, Willow tells Dawn, "You're cut." After claiming she's fine, which is clearly not (nor has it ever been) the case, Dawn begins to tell Willow about her evening. "I saw Mom," she says. "She was here and she spoke to me." Willow adopts a standard you-poor-delusional-tripped-out-insane-girl tone, but Dawn sticks to her story. "She was right here and then she wasn't." Finally piecing together Dawn's cut face, her claims of maternal visitation, and the state of the living room, Willow realizes that Dawn was also visited by the big bad, "the one we knew was coming," and explains that they can't trust anything it said. Quite an entrance it made, I must say. Dawn, in her inimitable wisdom, decides to lie about what her freaky mommy said, omitting the part about Buffy not being there when times got tough, and works overtime to convince herself that Joyce meant protection rather than harm.