Authors Note and Prologue
A/N I think most fic writers have their 'epic fic'. The immense story they want to tell more than all others. I have been plotting this one out for the past year. I probably would have waited another year to begin posting it, meticulously ironing out each and every last detail, but then we got the news of the VM movie. It's either post now, while canon still ends at 3x20, or possibly never post it.
Several people have posted 'Season 4' fics, picking up after V's summer with the FBI and writing through the next school year. I wanted to do something different. I wanted to do a 'Series Reboot' fic. As if Netflix or some other entity had purchased the rights, hired the same actors, and started creating a new season immediately.
22 'episodes' but I'll state right now, One episode does not equal one chapter - probably more like three chapters.
1 over-arching mystery 3 mini-arcs, Dozens of cameos. Plus the usual focus on love, friendship, and family.
Disclaimer. There's an old saying: 'people never change'. I think that is a complete crock of bull. People can't help but change. We're shaped by the events in our lives. Some for the better, some for the worse. Adversity can open our eyes and make us better people, or it can make us shut down and regress. But this isn't a philosophy lesson. Just a reminder that if you feel that I'm writing somebody out of character, remember they've had 6 years of life experience since the series finale. If they're very out of character, you can be sure that I'll eventually get around to explaining what made them change so much. I like to draw out the reveals though, as you will know if you're reading 'Sometimes'
As for 'Sometimes', it will not be abandoned. I promise.
Prologue - San Diego, California
He watches through binoculars from his fifth floor hotel room as the aged wood screen door bursts open, snapping its chain and slamming against the wall. It bounces off, only to be slammed back again by the enraged woman tearing out of the small bungalow.
He often watches her. Sometimes, like this, from afar. Sometimes, from nearby, where her shoulders tense and tighten, as if she can physically feel his eyes upon her. Sometimes close enough where he can see the hairs lifting on the back of her neck - his cue to melt back into the crowd. But never, in all of his watching, has he seen her in a rage like this.
Nearly tripping down the three cement steps, the small blonde homicide detective rights herself and stalks to the front gate. She fumbles with the latch, but the mechanism eludes her, causing her to lose her battle for professionalism. She pulls back her heeled foot and kicks the wooden structure. She freezes for a moment, her face reflecting her shock at the loss of her tightly held control. But control once lost, no longer feels as necessary, so she kicks again. And again, and again and again. Wood splinters and he thinks she may have broken toes from the way she yelps and grabs at her foot. She shakes the gate furiously, trying to rip it off its hinges.
Her face contorts in despair. Failure. He reaches a hand between his legs, stroking himself, drunk on the knowledge that he put that look on her face. He orchestrated her failure. Like he's done twice before.
He can tell from her expression she's finally made the connection. He's been careful to ensure each victim, each cause of death, was as dissimilar from the others as possible, but he knew she would figure it out eventually. Counted on her intuition.
Uniformed SDPD officers come running from the other side of the crime scene tape. One of them manages to get the gate open. Hands reach for her. Try to hold her still. She shakes them off, limping out to the road, aiming for the refuge of her car.
The door opens on a parked Town Car, and her Lieutenant emerges, calling after her. She doesn't stop walking, so he runs to catch up, grabbing her by the arm. She spins around, fists flying, and blood spurts from her superior's nose. She yells something, and resumes her trek to her vehicle, pulling away with a trail of black tire marks.
He lowers the binoculars and finishes himself off to a fantasy he's imagined hundreds of times, perfected by repetition. Detective Veronica Mars, on her back, golden hair spread around her like a halo. His hands on her throat as he chokes the life out of her. Eyes bulging, face purple. He lets out an ugly grunt as he feels his release.