Isn't that the point?

Sure. Of course, sometimes it would be nice to just tell a simple little story, y'know?

You could take up drabbles...

You could take up drabbles...

I tried that, and it's fun for awhile, but ... well, let's take this current monstrosity.

It started with a single little picture I wanted to paint--Justine as a slayer. In AtS, she was tough and fast--not superhumanly so, but enough that you had to kind of wonder if she had been a potential, too. Why not! So I wrote what became part one of this.

Then I decided I wanted to put her in a story, to explore a bit what had become of her. AtS hadn't ended yet, so I started a story that would involve her and Gunn crossing swords over protecting his old neighborhood. I figured the CoW would come in some where down the road, and I'd not decided what to do with that, but events on the show left me rewriting and changing gears so much that I eventually scrapped the story, except for what's still part one here.

I have one rule that I try very hard to keep to when I write these things, and it's that I don't violate canon. Evidence to the contrary, I don't like to suddenly change characters' personalities, or retcon them for no reason--yeah, I know what's going on with Faith and Willow above, but bear with me. I allow myself to look at things in a different light, certainly, to fill in gaps left over from the shows and such, but I like playing in the framework ME left behind. So eventually I scrapped the story all together, until I knew how AtS was going to shake out. Then I got busy, but the thing still rattled around in my brain.

So the short answer is ... Yeah. Drabbles. Great in concept, but I always want to know what the next thing is.

Yeah...well, I'm a fine one to talk. My last finished fic was forty pages long, and my drabbles always get overlong. But my heart's in the right place.

In the City
Part Seventeen: Past life regression

Connor marveled at how the wind felt against his skin as he leapt from rooftop to rooftop. He’d forgotten it when his memories were rewritten. Come to think of it, he didn’t ever really appreciate it before that, either.

He had the best of both worlds, now. He knew that—just like he knew his parents were home and thinking he was down here in LA visiting friends. Which was, technically, true.

He entered the building through a skylight. Inside, a small coven of scale-faced demons was huddled by a heater. The air smelled like stale feces. “What were these freaks living on?” he wondered. Didn’t matter. He fell gracefully to the floor, landing in a battle crouch, ready to spring.

“The Destroyer!” shouted one, as the others scampered behind him.

“Yeah, right,” said Connor. “The Destroyer.”

“Leave here now or we’ll…”

“Piss yourselves on my shoe?” The demons whispered and conferred in a language Connor didn’t speak, turning again to face him.

“What do you want?” asked the one who was obviously the leader.

“There’s big things happening here in Los Angeles,” said Connor, coolly. “You things are brokers to the netherworld. Small-time, true, but…”

“We’re not small-time, you whelp!” Connor started forward, and they cowered. “Well, OK, there’s bigger.”

“I want to know who’s using Wolfram & Hart’s L.A. resources,” said Connor. “I want to know what happened to Angel.”

Connor had never seen anyone turn greener before. The thing was obviously freaked. He was amazed how easy this part of it was—the memories of being “the Destroyer” were so distant, they seemed like another person.

“I don’t know,” said the leader, after some contemplation. “I don’t know who you’re looking for. There’s rumors of a shaman of some sort, but…”

“Where can I find him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you find out?”

“What’s in it for us if we do?”

“You get to live,” said Connor. The thing turned greener still. He could get used to this.

“Come back tomorrow,” and I’ll have information for you.” Said the leader.

“Tomorrow, then,” said Connor. “It’s a date.”

With a bound, Connor leapt through the open skylight into the night sky. This was exhilarating.

“Of course,” said a voice, “When you get here tomorrow, they’ll have all kinds of bad-ass troll thingies and stuff to gang up on you.”

Connor swung around to face the voice, grabbing his knife from its sheathe as he turned. Behind him stood a man with an eye patch in a sharp, black suit.

“Hey, easy on the fisticuffs,” said the man. “I’m a Superfriend!”

“Who are you?”

“I was a friend of your father’s. Well, OK, friend is a strong term. We knew each other, anyway.”

The man stepped forward, and put out his hand.

“My name’s Xander Harris. We should talk.”

I finished "Gingerbread Homicide"! The last two parts are at [link] and [link]

Woo hoo! Xander!

Woo hoo! Xander!

Heh. Yeah, Xander's my must use.

This week's Open on Sunday was "watching".

Watching for an Answer

She's watched it twenty times now: the Slayer, a stake, a look of surprise, dissolution.

Dawn's not certain when the question became an obsession: that change to ash, did it hurt? Did the vampire burn? Was it peace, and if so, how, since there wasn't any soul to lay to rest?

She stands back, silently obsessing, keeping her eye on the furrowed face, the gleaming golden eyes, the unnatural canine teeth. Arm goes up, comes down, into the heart. Dissolution.

Peace? Pain? Fire? Ashes to ashes? Try as she might, she can't get a definitive look.

Dawn watches, and wonders.

In the City
Part Eighteen: Blast from the past

The diner looked like the one they shot “Pulp Fiction” in, but Xander was quick to point out that that diner was actually in Hawthorne, and it wasn’t even open when they shot the film, but it re-opened afterward to cash in on movie geeks.

“You went there, right?”

“Just a burger and a Coke.”

Xander seemed all right. The eye patch made him look kind of secret agenty, but really, he was pretty laid back. Of course, Connor was anxious to hear what he had to say about his father.

“I don’t really know anything,” said Xander, sipping his soda. I know the government put together a team of mostly former bad guys to deal with the situation—which is OK, in a “Mod Squad” kind of way—but I’ve got a couple friends hooked up in the gig.

“I know this part,” said Connor. “They asked me to join, but I didn’t trust them. The whole thing was just …”

“Intense. I get that. But let me ask you a question….”

Xander had a way from shifting from … well, goofy… to serious in a heartbeat. His whole demeanor changed, and for a second, Connor realized that he kind of was a mystical secret agent sort of … guy. He didn’t have a name for it. Xander called himself a “Watcher,” but Connor didn’t know what that was supposed to mean.

“Why were those demons back there so afraid of you?”

“I guess they remember me from… oh”

Xander smiled, but there was a something both warm and terribly sad in that smile. Like he had figured something out, and was sorry that you had to know it, too.

“Right. No one’s supposed to remember you. I didn’t find out about you until the other day, and I’m pretty sure I’d have heard about Angel having a kid. So how did…”

“So how did the government know who I really was?”

“You want dessert?” asked Xander. “I want dessert.” Xander turned to flag the waitress while Connor processed the information. But as Xander turned, a thin, graying man in glasses was suddenly standing behind him.

“I’m sorry,” said the man. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Xander began sliding back against the seat, quickly drawing a revolver concealed beneath his jacket.

“You.”

“Now, now boys. If I’d come to fight, you’d already be dead. I just figured I’d come to extend an invitation.”

“Connor, run.”

“Connor, sit.”

Connor was paralyzed with indecision. This man seemed frail and genial, but Xander was clearly panicking, the gun aimed unsteadily in his shaking hand.

“You can call me, Doc, Connor. We’ll get along famously. I know a lot about losing loved ones.”

“Connor…”

“Don’t listen to him, boy,” said Doc, a blade quickly appearing in his hand. “This really doesn’t need to be a drama. I just want to have a nice, civilized discussion.”

Everything then happened at once. Xander fired, and the bullet’s impact seemed to stagger the old man, but not knock him down. Xander then leapt from the booth at the old man, who clasped his left hand around Xander’s throat while the right one stabbed the blade into his torso. Xander screamed in pain, dropping the revolver.

Connor stood to attack, but could see Xander—dazed and battered—mouthing the word to him.

“Run.”

And without another word, Connor leapt through the diner window, and in a symphony of glass, escaped into the night.