*****

I've had it with Sunnydale.

I mean it. I'm gone. Graduation came, we fought the big bad Mayoral demon, we survived, and now I'm out of here. Faster than a demon turning to dust.

And you know what? I'm not gonna be the same person. It's a whole new start for me - a whole new life. I'm not the same person - no one'll see me as the same person. Who in L.A. is gonna know me as the princess? The prom queen? The girl with all the privileges and the money? No one.

I'm making a clean break. A sharp clean break in a beat-up used car that only has a loud radio going for it.

And that radio is cranked up right now, blaring out both speakers, me singing along, barrelling down the freeway to Hunnington Beach, to my new life.

"I'm the drama queen if that's your thing, baby...I can even do reality..."

Yeah. I can do that. Cordelia Chase can do reality.

***
Part 2:

Reality stinks. I've been scrubbing this fucking stove for an hour now, trying to get out the months, years, decades of filth.

My new apartment is a dump. There are cracks in the walls from the last few earthquakes, and I think it'll only take a 4.0 to make the entire building uninhabitable. The tile's broken in the kitchen and the bathroom, the stove and fridge are from the 50s, and let's not *even* get into the ant problem.

But it's mine. All mine. And that has to count for something.

It didn't take long for me to unpack. I sold most of my posh clothes to one of those designer resellers in order to pay for the car, along with most of my jewelry, my knick-knacks, my former princess identity. All I had were a few boxes of clothes, some dishes, and the odds and ends any 18 year old girl picks up when she decides to move out. After picking up a mattress and boxspring at the Goodwill, I was settled in.

And taking on the task of cleaning this place. I don't know who was living here before me, but they *definitely* need to pick up on cleaning skills.

I also started job hunting. I know I can't do much, and there isn't much work out there for "professional shoppers" or "prom queens", but I ought to find something. Even if it is waitressing in one of those hideous beach diners. I'll probably break out the second I get near the deep fryer.

But it's my choice. It's my life now. I'm not living it for Mom, or Dad, or Sunnydale High or anything like that. No one's making the decisions for me, or pressuring me into making "the right decision". If I make it, it's because *I* did it. Me. Cordelia Chase, who's going to take on the world with a smile.

But if I screw up, no one's going to save me.

***
Part 3:

I have a job now. Okay, it's not a great job. In fact, it's a shit job. But it pays the bills and that's what counts.

I'm a hostess at a fancy Beverly Hills restrurant. My boss was looking for someone who knew what rich people liked. I knew what they wanted. I watched them get out of their limos and eat their steaks and their lobsters and drink their champagne and mineral water and I went home in my beatup car and had pasta from a bag with store brand soda.

The girls my age look through me like I don't exist. I used to do that. I ignored people who worked, people who served me. They were below me. I had money and that made me important, that made me a force to be reckoned with.

But now I'm poor and the only reason these people notice me is when I tell them they have to have a reservation before they can get in.

But it's a job. And I need it more than I need respect.

I was getting home from work, on my way home, driving to my tiny apartment after spending 7 hours surrounded by luxury, and I remembered that I didn't have milk. I stopped at the nearest liquor store, carefully avoiding the ice cream section (Oh, the wonderful days when I could afford Haagen Dazs and Ben and Jerry's at my slightest whim!), picking up the milk, then walking back to my car.

"Hey, you got any change?" a voice said from behind me. I'd normally just keep walking, because you never know how these things could turn out. Yeah, one might be a person just down on their luck and needing a bite to eat, but another might slit your throat. Sometimes I think it was safer back in Sunnydale 'cause you *knew* what was stalking you at night, even when you had to spend hours researching it.

But this voice was familiar. Eerily familiar. I turned around slowly, and I just stood there in shock.

After a few minutes, I finally spoke. My voice was cracked, harsh, stunned. But I had to know it was her. I had to know. I had to ask. "Faith?"

*****
Part 4:

We went to a Denny's. I told her I'd buy her dinner and she bought one of those giant breakfasts, wolfing down bacon and eggs and pancakes and toast like she hadn't eaten in days. Which was probably true. I sipped coffee and stared at her, trying to figure out what had happened.

"The last I saw you, you were in a coma."

She looked up at me with dark sunken eyes and cracked a smile - a death's head smile, the kind I saw in Mexico around Dia De Los Muertos. The smile of the damned. "Yeah..." She shrugged. "I woke up, and no one was there except doctors and nurses who told me I didn't have anybody to look after me. I'm going back to Child Services, so I just left."

I blinked. "Faith, you had head injuries. You couldn't *just* leave."

Faith closed her eyes for a second, putting her fingers to the bridge of her nose. "Sometimes I have headaches...and sometimes I can't remember who I am..." She removed her fingers and looked back at me. "But it's better than the fucking foster homes again. Anything's better than that."

"Even the nearest cardboard box?"

Faith snarled, glaring at me. "What the hell do you care?"

That made me flinch. Why do I care? What the hell am I doing? She's not anything important to me. Hell, she fucked us all over.

I looked up at her. "I...I know that things are hard. And I just thought..." I didn't know what I was saying, but here I was, saying it. "I just thought you could use a friend."

Faith looked at me oddly. "A friend?" She snorted. "Why?"

"I don't know." God, that's the understatement of the century. I don't have a fucking clue why I'm doing this. There's absolutely no reason why I should offer anything to Faith.

But I am. God help me, I'm trying to be a friend to Faith.

***
Part 5:

We didn't know what to do. We sat there in that Denny's, drinking cup after cup of their awful coffee, not saying a word, not saying anything. Until she opened her mouth.

"You know I fucked Xander, right?"

I paused for a second, struggling with my shock, but recovered quickly. "No, I didn't," I said smoothly. "Was it good?"

She looked down at her mug, down at her ragged nails and dirty hands. "I...I don't know," she said softly. She looked up, her hollow eyes matching mine. "I don't remember." She laughed bitterly. "Isn't that a trip? I slept with him, fucked up his life forever, and I don't even remember it." She looked back down. "I only know because Buffy told me."

I blinked. "She *told* you?" Buffy didn't even tell me, but she goes and visits the girl who almost killed us all?

Faith nodded. "She visited me when I woke up. It was like...I don't know...like once she found out I didn't remember anything, she had to tell me. Had to tell me every little detail about what I did, every little fuckup, how I screwed everyone over, and how I hurt her." She looked up at me, her eyes tear-rimmed. "I didn't fucking remember!" she said harshly.

"She wanted you to pay," I said bleakly. "She couldn't face what she had done." Jesus, Buffy, what the fuck did you do to this girl? Does being the Slayer make you God?

Faith looked at me, her eyes wide. "What did she do?" she asked.

I stared at her in disbelief. "You don't know?"

She shook her head. "I...I only remember a few things from the past few months...flashes, mainly..." Her eyes were wide, questioning, needing. "What happened, Cordelia?"

I closed my eyes. "Oh God..." I said quietly. "Oh Buffy...you stupid, stupid blind bitch..." I shook my head, then opened my eyes and looked at Faith. "You better come home with me," I finally said. "There's a lot you need to know..."

~end~