Disclaimer: I don't own Daughters of the Moon.

And now after all my searching
After all my questions
I'm gonna call it home
I've got a brand new mindset
I can finally see the sunset
I'm gonna call it home.

—This Is Home, Switchfoot

Uh, this happy ending shit just screamed typical Disney animated film. How could it have defeated the sunrise and epic finale of the Lion King? Well, it did, and now I'm forced to tell the tale. Because you know what, no one else will, and despite this lingering loyalty to the Atrox—and 'cause I'd never display any allegiance to that blonde-haired douchebag—, I'm quite overwhelmed by the outcome of its destruction; no, I'm not grieving nor infuriated to the point of rebellion.

I'm just… eh. You know, I'm just stunned and not too disturbed by change. Of course, all those Cincti members and Regulators escaped from Nefandus before the portals sealed, so we've got some sort of Follower-infestation in Los Angeles, but who gives a damn? I've got to tell this story, because it's been years—and, as it turns out, the portals can reopen under the Dark Goddess's command, and we Followers have heard interesting stories from those who've told tales of what has occurred in Nefandus under the Romeo and Juliet's reign of predominantly "happy" vibes and laws and restrictions for those who dwell in that treacherous dominion.

And, of course, I've been keeping tags on Vanessa and Jimena; literally stalking them sometimes, trying to get a glimpse at their lives. I mean, come on, all they did was save the universe from an eternal supremacy of evil and all things unholy (and what could get more unholy and more frightening than Sarah Palin, right?). Jimena caught me once, shoved her foot into my ass, and sent me crying home with an aching behind and a broken ego (She kicked my ass, man!).

I'm rambling, aren't I? This isn't my life, right? I'm no teenage girl whose abilities of seduction managed to lure one lonely shadow to its demise. Honestly, how could the Atrox have pulled such a moronic move? I'm pretty sure even Selene was laughing her ass off at its stupidity, along with the other oh-so-powerful Gods and Goddesses.

Well, after Stanton took up the mantle as "king"—what else am I going to call him?—of Nefandus, he'd spent every waking moment making sure Serena wasn't assassinated in time to reach her seventh birthday (which arrived rather quickly seeing as the time there was super fast, defying logic). After she'd transformed into the Dark Goddess—apparently, through that expanse of time, she'd developed into quite a hottie, which I've seen just months ago, when she'd visited here. She's slender, her heart-shaped face framed by shimmering burgundy curls; full lips, a sweet laugh, and heavily-lidded eyes in a way that Angelina Jolie couldn't hope to mimic. And in only several months, can a teenage girl elapse from a B-cup to a D-cup, because… yeah…

It seems she demanded a wedding, and the whipped King automatically obliged, despite how trivial it was to him; a meaningless ceremony that only meek mortals indulged themselves in. The remaining Followers begrudgingly responded to their invitations, arriving to the little wedding extravaganza adorning flowing gowns and silky tuxedos; of course, the bride-to-be draped in a pearly golden gown laced with a constricting corset and ruffled skirt.

"She's not a virgin! She's not wearing white!" a meager guest who'd been born in the 1500's had exclaimed, as told, and it seems the Goddess had blushed a flaming crimson. It was embarrassment not from the fact of the mention of sex, but, as it turns out later, she was rumored to be a serious nymphomaniac (I just call it sluttiness)—loved sex to the point that it fatigued Stanton several years later; but, of course, he couldn't deny her. Gag.

However, during the wedding, some marvelous news touched their hearts—or was it marvelous humiliation; or a startling revelation to Stanton? Or perhaps all bundled into one! During the fake minister's reading—an eccentric Follower who'd slowly morphed into a warm-hearted man; he had happily accepted the title as faux religious figure—, Serena's face had drained of color, and she'd pressed her palm against her stomach—it's the corset-top, it's too tight, was rumored at have been the first suggestion—before bolting from the wedding room area and into the bathroom, where she vomited into the porcelain toilet. At first bewildered, several thought she had left him at the altar.

Ha, that would have been hilarious!

I suppose we all know how that stories ends, especially with the clothes that had to be a few sizes larger at the stomach area, for Serena's comfort. How disgusting, breeding more little Goddesses and Tragic little boys into the world. I mean, honestly? She was about eighteen, the freakin' slut.

Anyway, the beautiful Vanessa, she was an enigma; enduringly tender-hearted until challenged into demonstrating ephemeral moments of passionate and determined valiance. Her lustrous blonde locks smelt of strawberries—yes, I'd gotten that close; but that was the past—and her communicative aquatic blue orbs were always touched by a solid note of purity and genuine benevolence for those in her life; a life encompassed with sorrows, joys, and human perils.

She'd chosen to lose her memories as a Goddess; her mind developing the belief that Catty had run away, fleeing the country, even. After years of wondering and depression, she'd finally settled on the idea that Catty was leading a simple and self-fulfilling life, perhaps somewhere in scorching Australia or cool-weathered London. And not soon after this acceptance, Michael Saratoga—honestly, what did she see in that dimwitted softy fruitcake?—unwittingly caused their separation, during their engagement, due to infidelity; he wasn't exactly sober, and Morgan's bewitching, bare naked body may have pushed his desires—for I'm sure Vanessa retained her virtue (a.k.a. virginity)—to a blistering passion.

I witnessed their fight, having been spying once more; the slapping on her part, the imploring and weeping on his part, of course (cough—fruitcake!—cough). In the absence of Michael, some sense of independence had somehow ironed itself into Vanessa's heart, and she went through her Miss Independent stage: fashioning her blonde tresses into a shorter, edgier style, like Victoria Beckham; toning out her petite body and… Well, shedding the teenage-like impression and becoming a woman (without the sex, of course, I could tell).

Honestly, she may have helped destroy the Atrox, but after years of observing her from the shadows, admiring her confidence and wit (yes, she did begin obtaining a witty and clever personality, like the young Elizabeth Bennet; yes, I know my Jane Austin, jeez…), I'd come to respect every aspect of her soul and mind. She'd basically lost every close friend, her memories of saving the world, and ended up becoming engaged to a whorish man.

And instead of converting to alcohol or drugs, she'd painted a beaming smile on her face and entered life with a brighter outlook; Michael came flouncing back several times, searching for a chance starting over, but she rejected him. She'd said, in her clear and harmonious voice, "If you can't respect my ideals and goals"—purity till marriage? That's just ridiculous; I'd say about negative one percent of the earth's population followed that notion—"then why should we even try to be a husband and wife, where you have to respect each other equally? Whoring yourself to a whore—which is absurd—isn't respect or equality."

His face never reappeared in her life again. Instead, through the perils of early adulthood, do you know who she landed on? As if through some divine, sickening, ethereal twist of fate, she'd spotted him amongst a mob of dancers in that bar, celebrating the recent engagement of a coworker. His brow was smooth and not at all creased; his eyebrows were thick and arched, his lips drawn into a slighted smile lacking sincere commitment to the joy of the situation (that could have been because he wasn't involved, still…). He'd observed the spectacle of the celebration, drinking a glass of crystalline water—oh, lightweight!—, and was clad in eloquently fashionable and artsy attire. Straight from a repulsive romance movie, they'd locked eyes.

"Who are you?" she had inquired pleasantly, perching down beside him and ordering some girly drink, and the flirting commenced after he'd supplied her with a name; his tone interlocked with a French accent, and his bronze-skin seemingly trembling with goose bumps from her tender touch as she briefly touched his hand—on "accident", although I'd been stalking her long enough to know her methods of flirting.

"I'm Zahi."

Oh, what the hell kind of world is this?!

Their relationship was merry and beautiful and jolly, and come Christmas time, their jovial engagement evolved, and not soon later, the wedding (which I crashed, thank you very much; I was a distant, distant cousin). It was a gathering of friends and family (and a drunken wedding crasher, guess who) in an elaborately designed little outside ceremony. Though after downing my share of champagne, Zahi, slinking away from his mind-blowing wife—for, on that day, she was the most beautiful I'd ever seen her—came ambling toward me. My first words:

"You hurt her and I break your penis."

He'd only shook my hand, offered the position as family friend—so that I could better know Vanessa in a normal manner that didn't involve stalking—and I'd merely shook my head and fled the scene, never once stepping into her life again. She needed her own privacy, her own world of marriage and love and family… with no observer in the background.

Oh, man, Jimena—Jimena Killingsworth, mind you.

These new Daughters she trained were rowdy and beautiful to watch and simply a bond no friendship could touch. It was revealed that Jimena was infertile, something that completely shoved her into years of grief, before the Daughters came into play; her own pretend daughters. Collin supported her, married her, and despite their faults, they remained together; and I know the sole reason was Serena (her memory and blessing).

They didn't want to fail Serena.

Jimena loved these Daughters, always embracing them—the first time meeting them she'd shed tears that confounded them. There was the buxom and genial Texan whose tan greatly contradicted her platinum blonde tendrils, and an accent that charmed all: Rosemary Hewitt, or Daisy Duke, as they liked to call her. The Chinese-born Christina, slender and ivory-skinned, stunned all with her elfish features and lithe strut, not to mention her supermodel height that Rosemary—an aspiring model—envied. Of course, there was the serious, plain-featured—but beautiful for her observational and curious nature—Mary, who loved instruments and languages and cultures, and constantly asked about Christina's homeland (which she couldn't remember, as she'd fled with her family at the age of three). And lastly, the stunning African princess, Adele, who possessed a tough exterior, a heart-shaped face, and come hither lips; she was enticing and wise and self-disciplined, always quoting the lines of past royalty—from Tsars to Queens to Emperors. Mary loved that.

And Jimena treated them equally, training their gifts, expanding their knowledge. A Follower—a virgin Follower who was gangly but menacing all the same—eventually pulled a Stanton (as I'd liked to call it) and fell madly in love with Mary, calling her gorgeous and perfect, and she'd consented to his feelings, and this time, the relationship didn't need to be hidden, and her sisters didn't frown on it.

"That's one less Follower to worry about," Adele had commented whilst I eavesdropped (they were in a diner, so it was easier). And they continued on merrily, fighting and conquering the Followers, evening converting some to the side of goodness and all things sparkly in the joys of happiness.

And that's the story, okay? You see, I'm not such a bad guy; at least not like I used to be. Quite frankly, I adore Vanessa and actually now regret not taking up that offer as family friend, but still… I also respect Jimena to the fullest, and I love the fact that after years of being infertile, she's battled her own body and the doctor's statements, and though a miracle, is now pregnant. The Daughters gush about it all the time. I blame Selene, actually. But yes, I'm not so bad, and I've been making a living; I quit the Follower life and have tried living normally. I've dated and created a circle of friends. I play Halo 3 daily, and I work to live in my comfortable apartment in Los Angeles, and I visit my mom now, who I hadn't seen in years.

So, as the reader, am I, Karyl Adam Dunlap, such a disgusting character to the world? Sure, I nearly destroyed the girls I just raved about, but hey, people can change. Just look at Stanton. Cassandra isn't a freak anymore, but studying at Harvard Law School. Man, she actually has some brains (which she apparently didn't use in the beginning). Tymmie, once a major follower, is now a leader. I don't agree with his plans—sneak into Nefandus, strip Stanton of power, and make Serena a sex slave, just to spite the blonde King—, but hey, at least he grew a set. I guess.

Well, that's the epilogue. I stopped watching, I left them alone, and now, through another freaking twist of cruel fate, I bumped into some girl the other day, and now, after some short and simple conversations… Man, I think I'm in love! I think I'm in love with a girl—Maddie, what a sweet name—who claims she's Maggie's daughter and is going to find Pandia and help spread purity to those needing it.

What kind of world is this?!