Ooh, so good Connie.

Connie, I usually don't read historical AUs, but I love this one.

You know, there'd be discussion on the board for days...is it redball? Or red-ball? Maybe it's from the French... Thank you, Astarte.

What does Redball mean in this context?

So, there was this whole end of the world ficathon thing.

My assignment?

Pairing: Wes/Illyria (shippy or not) End of the world scenario: Illyria kills off humanity - lots of death and destruction. Wes... is kinda indifferent about it. Two requests: The line "I've got the magic stick" and Illyria in a better outfit than she has now. Written for: mimsilla

Title: Ashes Rating: PG-13 (violence and bloodshed)

I took some liberties with the request... (second post w/story to follow)

Twilight shimmers with the echo of day, and Illyria stands, fascinated by the dull glow of what was once -- according to the signs and markings that remain clinging to their poles and posts -- the corner of Hollywood and Highland. She has done this, brought this world to ruins. She thought it would be more satisfying.

Perhaps if she had intended it.

Walls and facades have crumpled into rubble, and the fires have reached the point where you cannot see the heat at all during the day. Only at night, when the half-breeds walk boldly, searching for food amongst the outlying encampments. She should not be here; Wesley has warned her that the survivors will not take kindly to her presence. Illyria knows his concern is not for her safety, but theirs. For one who seemed so ripe to leave this world, he seems unwilling to accept that what remains of it will soon wither and die.

She does not leave immediately, but chooses to crouch unnoticed near the lingering heat of the ruins. Rags, scavenged from the dead and draped around her shoulders, serve as adequate cover. Illyria watches a squabble over a loaf of bread too moldy to sustain them break out in one of the camps.

"Back off!" The speaker is no more than a boy, not even old enough to have begun scraping hair from his face. Beneath his arm, he holds his prize; in his hand he holds a metal bar taller than himself. "I've got the magic stick!"

Raucous laughter from his elders. "Ass end of a stop sign ain't no magic stick, kid." A sound of flint on metal, then a sharp explosion and sulpher fill the air, mixing with the child's moans of pain. "This, on the other hand? Might just be."

A gurgle of bloodied froth from the corners of chapped lips, and the moans cease. The child is better off this way. His suffering has been shortened. The one with the weapon will die in agony within the span of two days, as will most of the encampment; the muddied water they drink to stay alive will prove to be their death, and the handful that escape its ravages will soon wish that they had not been spared. It would be a kindness to massacre them.

She does not. There would be no point to it. Their lives and deaths do not concern her, and besides, she would take no pleasure in a fight so easily won. It would be over in seconds.

Wesley is sleeping when she returns, covered with a shroud of sheets on the shell's bed, the candles by which he was reading burnt almost down to nothingness. The smell of whisky is fainter now, overpowered by the smell of illness and despair, different notes than those she observed when she was first awakened. She runs her hand over his forehead, amazed that something so soft and fragile as man can be filled with such a hunger to survive. The skin is hot and slightly damp, the eyes that fly open at her touch unfocused.

"Fred?" So much hope in such a small word.

"You are unwell."

Wesley shudders back into awareness. "Illyria." He looks at her, taking in the clothing with a frown. "You've been out."

"I wanted to see." She takes in the room, carefully charting the curves of the walls. It remained intact when so much fell, yet she does not know why. Perhaps this is where she was when it happened. She has no memory of the event, just before and after.

"It wasn't your fault. You never intended for this to happen." Wesley speaks in soft reassurances that she does not need yet he seems compelled to give.

This is another thing he is unwilling to accept: the possibility that there was purpose to her actions, even if the purpose and the actions themselves have been lost in twists of time she cannot undo. "Didn't I?"

Without looking, she can feel him flinch, but he says nothing. Illyria listens to the ragged thickness of his breath. Smoke and sickness have filled his lungs, slowly smothering him. She observes him drifting in and out of consciousness, the slight shifts in breathing and temperature revealing his the changes in his state. Minutes pass, perhaps hours, before she speaks again. "It is beyond my power to restore you. You will not last more than a handful of days. Why does this fill me with regret?"

She does not expect an answer. Even if he were awake, she does not think he could tell her the reason, anymore than he could tell her the reason why the building they are in still stands, or why he alone survived, of all the vampire's people. She strokes his face again, and this time, his eyes remain closed.

Swiftly, she grants him the mercy she denied those at the encampment. One hand on either side of his neck, a quick twist, and it is over. She stays beside him until the last vestiges of heat have left his body.

Shrugging off the rags, Illyria rises and makes her way to the roof. Even with the glow of burnt-out buildings, the night is dark in ways it never was in the time between her awakening and the destruction. Stars shatter the sky, hairline cracks of light against the blackness. Over the smells of banked fire and decomposing flesh, the salt smell of the ocean whispers promises.

Once, her name caused armies to tremble and drop to their knees, and the very earth itself answered to her every call.

There are no armies left, her followers have long since crumbled to dust, and her name is just an echo that stirs nothing.

She has done this, made this world her own, and it changes none of those things.

Gathered coals, piled and fed, set the building ablaze, a flaring pyre that's soon reduced to smoldering ash.

This is her world, alone.

Wow.

That was good.

And what the heck did they mean -- a "better" outfit -- what was wrong with Illyria's outfit?

A redball is a case that attracts a lot of media and management scrutiny and means a lot of overtime for the detectives. Like people drop everything to work on it. A Buffista death might be one cause we're all tourists. (Oh, I've got a couple more scenes to write then.) Jonbenet would have been a redball in Balmer. Cause, kid, sex angle, swarming media members. I wouldn't mind seeing those parents in the Box, either, but there are limits to this RPF thing.)

Plei, wow. Just - wow.

Connie, it's building nicely.

“John, I don’t care about my clearance rate, ok?”

“Who are you and what have you done with Kay Howard?”

I just nearly choked to death on my gum...

I'm glad, but you can't really die reading this...even I can't take that much sick irony.