(Disclaimer: I own none of the characters, no profit is being made, no infringement is intended.)
Chapter One:
A woman in threadbare clothing sits on the floor, absently flipping through a book.
An excerpt from the writings of Dawn Summers
It had been less than a year since they'd all been together like this, but it felt like more. And to be fair, they'd all been quite busy; trying to save the world, one way or another. It had taken months of planning to get everyone here, not like you could send an e-mail, or pick up a phone and call, not anymore.
The time before that had to be at least five years, oh yeah... Angel.
An excerpt from the filmed diary of Andrew Wells (un-edited)
A fire raging in a garbage can is the focus of this shot. Then the camera pans to the right to take in destroyed buildings steaming in the early morning light. A familiar voice narrates.
"This is all that remains of the treacherous law firm Wolfram & Hart. This blight, this cankerous sore, this evil has been vanquished, but at such a cost... This city, this windy city will never be the same."
The camera jerks as another voice interrupts.
"Chicago is the windy city, idiot. And would it kill you to help out?"
The camera pans suddenly to a brown haired angry young woman. In the background can be seen many more young women, girls, all wounded in some way or another.
The narrator whines.
"I don't want to get blood on the camera."
The woman huffs indignantly. He speaks again.
"Well, then what is L.A.'s nickname? Cause I had this idea while I was filming the whole 'death to dragons' thing Buffy and Spike were-"
"Angels."
The woman interrupts. The camera spins again, narrator asking.
"Where?"
In movements to quick for the human eye to catch the woman grabs the narrator by the scruff of his shirt halting his frantic movements. She pulls him in, her face unflatteringly close to the camera lens. She ignores it, in favour of staring down the narrator. She speaks.
"Los Angeles is the City of Angels. Moron."
She lets go, stalking off towards a pale, red haired woman, fuzzy in the background.
The narrator speaks; petulance can be heard in his voice.
"Oh... Nevermind"
The camera powers down and the screen fades to black.
An excerpt from the writings of Dawn Summers
L.A. May 2004
We were late. If anyone was to blame I'd say it was Cordelia, but seeing as she was dead at the time, it seems kind of petty. I mean what did she expect, showing up all uninvited with proclamations of doom and gloom.
We lived through The First, no way were we going to start listening to people we knew were dead. Then she made fun of Buffy's outfit. We were more, not trusting exactly but open, after that. So we gathered the troops; that took some doing. We'd spread out over the past year, seeing the world that owed us so many times over.
Anyway, we were late, and it cost us. Seeing Angel turn to dust seconds after our arrival didn't do wonders for anyone's moral.
"Dawn?"
The woman looks up from her journal, impossibly blue eyes meeting brown.
"It's time."
A.N.: Okay, so it's a little confusing... but it gets better, I promise.