stock: typewriter

fic:missing tibet/btvs, dark angel/gen

Title: Missing Tibet
Rating: FR13
Word Count:500
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Dark Angel
Challenge: August Fic-a-Day @ twistedshorts
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright Joss Whedon and ME. Dark Angel and all related characters are copyright James Cameron, Eglee Production and Twentieth Century Fox Network. No infringement intended.
Note: This short is part of a much larger stories/story that I’ve been working on for ages. The prologue can be found here, but the short stands on it's own.

The lack of sound was what first awoke Oz. It pulled him free of the warmth of his bed and directed him towards the window. He opened it to the cold predawn hours and a shiver chased its way down his spine, the skin of his exposed arms tightening into goosebumps. A frown tugged down his brows as he leaned out, searching for the sound of traffic and the familiar hum of the electrical wires that hung just a bit too close to his building.

His grip on the window frame tightened, knuckles paling as Oz caught sight of a few cars just stalled in the road. Their drivers stood beside the vehicles, looking skyward open-mouthed and eyes wide with fear. Oz eased his way onto the fire escape and turned, head falling back so that he too gazed upward. Green eyes widened as planes spun in the air, plummeting slowly, but not slowly enough, from the sky.

The metal grating was cold against his bare feet as he turned, pulled his gaze away from a sight he could do nothing about and looked to the dark street below him. He realized, belatedly, that not a light was lit anywhere and he turned to find this echoed on the other end of the street. He made his way upward, feet clanging against the fire escape steps, mindless of the fact that he was disturbing his neighbors, as he made his way to the roof of his apartment building.

He scrambled up the ladder leading to the roof and over the ledge, knees scraping against the concrete and the stinging pain was a familiar thing in a suddenly unfamiliar world as he gazed out at a dark city. The moon was bright, brighter than it had ever been, above him and casting eerie shadows across the streets. He swallowed against a suddenly dry throat as he realized there were no lights, no electrical lights, burning as far as he could see across all of Seattle.

In the distance he could make out the shadowed form of the Space Needle, usually a well-lit beacon, and a heavy feeling settled in his stomach as the first plane struck the ground. The building beneath his feet shuddered with the impact and he could hear his neighbors below him stirring as another plane struck the ground further off in the distance. He could see more tumbling down from higher altitudes as he made his way to the center of the roof too confused to head down yet.

People awoke, their shouts and screams filled the still dark city and the part of Oz that lived in that darkness, thrived there stirred.

His wolf snarled to life inside his head as fear filled this pocket of the world and he couldn’t help but mutter, “This can’t be good,” to absolutely no one.

He was alone on the roof—alone in this new world.

Tibet seemed very far away this night.

And for many nights to come.

The end.