Disclaimer: Sadly enough, I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer or any of the other series mentioned.

Warnings: Spoilers, Language

Harry Potter

Dumbledore's gone now, but Harry lingers. He doesn't know what to do. To go forward is death. To go back is madness.

What does he have left?

His friends. Ron and Hermione. Ginny. Neville. Luna. The DA. He doesn't even know where they are. What happened to any of them. If they're still alive.

If it even matters anymore.

Death or life. Peace or grief. Madness or rest.

Are these really his only choices?

The train station is just so quiet around him as Harry agonizes. He doesn't know how long he's lingered here. Minutes. Hours. Longer. Before taking a step forward. Not back. Not the way he came.

But then, Harry hears a sound. It's soft. Barely noticeable. A gentle breath followed by a sigh, and he turns away from the tracks to glance at the benches behind him.

And there she is. Sitting down with her knees tucked beneath her. Holding the remnant of Voldemort's horcrux to her chest with an awkwardness that eases even as he watches. Acting like she hasn't even noticed the empty station at all. Smiling and looking up as she feels Harry's stare.

Her eyes are green, he notices. As green as his own. And she lets the horcrux tug on her blonde hair without once losing that smile.

Harry doesn't even realize when he goes to sit down beside her.


Avatar the Last Airbender

Sokka looks left. At Aang.

Aang gives a little grin and lifts a shoulder.

He's scorched here and there. His boots have mysteriously disappeared. One eye has already started swelling shut and will be a sight to see come morning. Other bruises are visible on his arms and back. His left hand looks to be broken in several places, judging by the way he's cradling it.

Then, Sokka glances to the right. To Fire Lord Ozai.

He's lying on the ground. His eyes have rolled up into his head, and the gold irises aren't even visible. He has no shirt. There are strange marks on his stomach, and an enormous bruise is forming in the middle of his forehead. He's drooling.

Sokka looks at Aang again.

He's still smiling. But it's far too sheepish.

Back to Ozai.

He's still drooling. And possibly snoring, too.

Sokka finally looks to the man standing directly in front of him. The very same guy who's just managed to do the impossible. Totally stomp up and down on the baddest firebender on the entire planet while not even being a bender himself.

Sokka opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks at Aang. Looks at Ozai. Looks at the man.

The guy with the eye patch merely shrugs.


Final Fantasy VII

He stares out with bright eyes unseeing.

It hurts. So much hurts. His head and his heart and his soul. The feeling in his legs and thighs is a distant agony as he kneels on the basement floor for what must be hours.

He's just an… It was all a… What is he?

A monster. A demon. A fucking experiment!

He closes his eyes and squeezes them shut tightly. As if he can suppress all he's learned by that alone. As if he can block out a faint whisper that turns to a seductive purr in the back of his brain.

Her son. Mother.

This planet belongs to them. To her. To him…

A hand brushes hair from his face then. Softer and gentler than he's ever known. Tender even. A show of affection that he's never felt before. Not from anyone

The voice in his head recedes. Vanishes into to wisps of smoke on the wind.

And suddenly, he's very aware of the ache in his knees. The twinges in his back. The person leaning over him.

Sephiroth's eyes snap open, but all he glimpses as he tilts his head up is long brown hair. But then, he sees it. Sees her.

Her pale face is young, too young, but all too old at the same time. Ancient with her girlish looks.

She's tall for a woman. More so for someone on the cusp of it.

Her eyes are blue. They see him and nothing else.



Natasha is perturbed. She'd fought aliens, taken a ride on a hovering chariot, and made it to the roof.

Only to encounter… this.

He's short. Shorter than Clint. Much closer to her own height. Almost but not quite petite.

His ears are full of studs, and his dress shirt is untucked from his khaki pants. His hair is green and blue. Spiked to stand up but not quite a Mohawk.

He looks like a computer nerd who'd decided to take up punk rock. Which is to be expected for a Stark employee, if his name badge is anything to go by.

It's the rest of this picture that's the problem.

Loki is slung over one shoulder. The scepter is in the other hand. Dr. Selvig trails behind like a very confused puppy.

The man walks like this is perfectly normal. He doesn't seem to be bothered by any of this at all. Not the trans-dimensional portal he must've closed. Not the nuke that had strangely gone through on its own. Not the averted apocalypse practically on top of him.

None of it.

Natasha tightens her hand on her gun.

The man isn't bothered by that either. He just offers a nod and a wolfish smile.



Fear curls down his spine, through his belly, across his chest, and into his heart. Byakuya shudders before he can stop himself. Betrayed by his own body.

By his own heart.

Rukia clings to him, and Byakuya sinks into her warm as his heart beats like a wounded animal. Scrabbling against his ribs even as he fights to stay upright.

This is it. This is the end. He feels more than sees Aizen approach. Hears Ichimaru shift forward.

His death. Her death… All their deaths dash ever closer. They're poised on the edge of the knife.

There's nothing left now. Their only hope rests in a human boy who struggles in his own blood. Rests in the shadow that enters his vision just before everything turns black. In dark eyes that look at him and see to his very soul.

It isn't Kurosaki Ichigo though.

No, it's a woman. One that will never be mistaken for a girl, despite her apparent age.

She's lean. Dark.

Her gaze belongs to a predator. Like a tiger peering back from behind a human face. But this tiger is vaguely amused. Bored even. Looking at the three traitors like she's seen this before and finds them only mildly interesting. Perhaps not even that.

Her walk is that of a jungle cat. Sinuous and stealthy. Leather boots and jacket not even making a sound as she unsheathes her claws and draws her own sword.

Her smile is a smirk. All teeth. Sharp. White. Deadly.

She roars.

AN: 'Cause the apocalypse is coming. Or something.

Ever Hopeful,