Castaway: All that was Left

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Title: All that was Left
Author: Sunnyd_lite
Fandom: Buffy Between Season 2 and 3
Rating: G
Prompt: Castaway
Words: 768
Summary: After duty, what is there?
Feedback/Concrit: Hit me baby! without concrit, you'll keep reading the same mistakes every week. For your own self-preservation, help me!
Disclaimer: I don't own Buffy, Joss and various corporations do. Written for fun and not profit.
A/N: Thank you to bigsciencybrain for bouncing ideas which sparked this story and of course hugs and cookies to my beta spiralleds for helping ride herd on random thoughts. She didn't see the final edit, so all errors, as always, are mine.



She didn't bother to dodge the sheet of old newspaper as it blew against her legs. She knew she was shuffling her feet, she could hear her mother say, "Pick up your feet, Buffy, and stand up straight." She could also hear her mother say, "You walk out of this house, you better not come through that door again." See? She did listen to some of what her mother said; she'd only gone back for some clothes and even then she'd climbed in the window. And it didn't matter if she was shuffling, she wasn't Buffy anymore.

So, she walked, huddled, hoping not to be noticed by the cars slowly cruising for those who'd fallen. The polyester uniform normally put them off, but some were looking for kinks. At first she'd reacted, but she soon learned to keep her head down and keep walking.

Each night she took a different path at the end of her shift; her hand curled comfortably around a small stake in her windbreaker pocket. She couldn't help herself from scanning every alley she passed. Sometimes she'd find, and stop, trouble. Mostly she only saw the others, the ones less lucky than her. Although lucky is the last word she'd apply to herself.

L.A., City of the Angels. But she'd left her Angel behind. There were two types in this section of the city. Those who'd lost, like her, and were here to exist, not live. The others had run to the city, looking for their dreams, looking for freedom. She remembered a tape her mom used to play, "freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose."
Looking around her at the ones no one sees, she kinda agreed.

She crossed the street to avoid the blue van that the do-gooders with their blankets and cups of hot chocolate used. She didn't need them. She hoped she never would, as each blanket came with a sermonette. She's seen evil. She's touched it, fought it, kissed it. Words don't help. Despite the layer of dust, she can read their slogan painted on the van's side: Help for Runaways.

Runaways; she doesn't use that word. If anything, she's a castaway. Cast out from her home. Cast out from her school. She cast herself from her friends; punishing herself for letting them get hurt. They weren't supposed to be in harm's way; that was her role, her destiny. Not theirs. There was a term from the news during the Gulf war; collateral damage. Her friends shouldn't have been collateral damage. It was her job to keep them safe.

She had failed.

The Chosen One. She hated it and loved it. Knowing she was special, the one girl in all the world, was a rush. The fact that she died when she was sixteen? The fact that she'd sent her love to hell? She hated that part of the job, the sacrifices. She'd tried to unchoose before, but she knew her duty, and knew there was no one else.

But this time she was done. The world had already used its 'get out of apocalypse free' card. Someone else could stop the end of the world next time. She'd still thin the vamp herd, if she stumbled across them. She knew prime feeding grounds when she saw them. It was one of the reasons she stayed in this downward mobile section of the city.

She entered her building, not bothering to check the mailbox. She didn't have a phone or cable, so the only mail was either addressed dear occupant or nameless. She didn't need those letters. Someone had knocked a pile of flyers for a new pizza place off the top of the mailboxes and the results were strewn across the floor of the entranceway. She took care not to slip, but didn't bother to move them. At one time home had meant safety and tidiness and warm food. This place wasn't home. She just lived here.

She retreated to her little room and began to boil the kettle. She jiggled the Nescafe jar, hoping to eke out a couple more cups before having to buy a new one. After drinking the stuff they called coffee at work, even diluted instant tasted good. She couldn't drink tea. Too many memories of someone who'd cared, of someone else she'd let get hurt, of someone else she'd disappointed. Another name added to the list of those she'd failed.

The Vampire Slayer might have saved the world but, in doing so, Buffy had lost everything that made being in it worth while.

All that was left was Anne.

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All that was Left

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