Blackout

When Maggie went down… fuck.

Maggie was one of the first people Buffy hired after we said “sure, we want a viable Fiction section.” She’s never been anything but awesome. She took us in when we had nowhere else to go; she took care of us when we would have been frankly fucked without her. She’s been our rock. If Mahir is the soul of this news team—and I’m not an idiot, I know that when George died, the mantle went to him, and that’s cool, because I never wanted it in the first place—then Maggie is the heart. And when she went down today, the only thing I could think was “Thank God it was her. Thank God it wasn’t George. I don’t think I could survive that happening again.”

George being back is a miracle, and it’s also what’s going to mean this all ends bad, because I’m not thinking straight anymore. I lived without her once. I can’t do it again.

Fuck.

—From Adaptive Immunities, the blog of Shaun Mason, August 4, 2041. Unpublished.

Madre de Dios… Mother Mary, hold me closely; Mother Mary, love me best. Mother Mary, treat me sweetly. Mother Mary, let me rest.

I have never hurt this much in my life. Morphine is supposed to make the hurting stop, but instead, it shunts the pain to the side, like a houseguest you never intended to keep. It isn’t in your face, but it’s there, using the last of the milk, leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor…

This hurts. I am alive. The two balance each other, I suppose.

This was supposed to be Buffy’s revolution. It was never supposed to be mine.

—From Dandelion Mine, the blog of Magdalene Grace Garcia, August 4, 2041. Unpublished.