Disclaimers:  I don't own FK or any part thereof, but ya know what, I can't
say I care.  Archiving permission is granted to Mel's and the DPs, all other
*must* ask first.  Comments may go to DPangel79@aol.com, and have I mentioned
I *love* comments?

This is post-LK.


Anymore (01/01)
by Shana Nolan
***********************

Cold.  Empty.

The Raven was abandoned.  Closed.  No Miklos, no Alma.  Urs was dead.
Janette was gone, and had seemingly promised to never return.

The music didn't play here any more.

Dark.  Forboding.

CERK was off the air, Nightwatch with the Nightcrawler silent to its now
abandoned listeners.  The microphone was unplugged, the multi-coloured lights
no longer lit.

The monolouges didn't come from here anymore.

Silent.  Haunting.

The furniture in the loft was covered with sheets or gone, a thin layer of
dust settling in.  The elevator motor was rusting.

The piano didn't get played here anymore.

Disquieting.  Hollow.

The church had been sold off to a realtor that was going to demolish it and
turn it into a condo complex.  The same fool realtor that bought Kessel
House.  Must have had a thing for supernaturally disposed buildings.

The guitar didn't get played here anymore.

Lost.  Forlorn.

Although a Coroners Office was never really closed, the techs didn't want to
be there, the daunting task of cracking open corpses to determine their
causes of death suddenly all the more miserable.

The bodies didn't rise from the dead there anymore.

Abandoned.  Forgotten.

The Carouche had left.  Apparently he found Las Vegas more appetising once
everything went wrong, and like a fool, she didn't go with him.  Figured it
would be better if she tied up loose ends that fallen friends could not.

Damn arrogant, that decision turned about to be.  Like she was some kind of
saviour or something.

So what was left?  Slipping away from the hosptial was traumatic.  Finding
real clothes was tragically comedic.  Tracking down the bald headed vamp and
shaking the answers from his cockneyed self was an exercise in patience.
Finding a shower, well, when in the company of a carouche who finds sewers
prefferable to apartments, that was a comedy of errors, especially since her
apartment was sold by her dear, wonderful dad as soon as he thought his
precious daughter was dead.

~Yeah, thanks, dad, sell the bed before you buy the grave.~

And slipping into the locker rooms of the 96th precinct was not exactly an
option.  They thought her dead and they didn't exactly expect a pair of fangs
to fix a bullet hole.

The only thing that made it worse was that the actual pair of fangs that made
her was gone.  Dead, as far as she knew, and that was good enough for her
anyways.

The thought that Nick may have had the actual gaul to save her life by making
her a vampire then leaving her behind for another city, not caring about her
ultimate fate was enough to enrage her for centuries.

~First you lie, now you leave.~

Heartless.  Unforgiving.

Toronto was the shell of the city it once was.  It didn't matter that al the
buildings were still there, just like her family.  Buit she just didn't care.
 She couldn't.

What once was her heart was now a cooling pile of ashes.

The city wasn't home to her anymore.

Gone.  Dismissed.

The waning moon shimmered on the surface of Lake Ontario, the CN Tower a
silouette in the city lights.  Everthing changed far too quickly.  No time to
think.  No time to feel.  No time to take a breath and look around.  No time
to give a damn.

She should have gone to Vegas with Screed.

Pulling the jacket around herself a little tighter, she glanced at the paper
in her hand.  The name of a city somewhere in the states.  A place for her
kind, apparently.

A place to try and fix her screwed up life and answer the questions her inner
demons were throwing at her.

Tracy was going to San Fransicso.

**********************

to be continued...


Comments and pics of the Golden Gate bridge to Dpangel@thegrid.net