Chronicle of a Sunrise
Chronicle of a Sunrise
Word Count: 975
Setting/Authors Notes: YAHF featuring everyone’s favorite anthropomorphic ball of green energy. Dresden Files Crossover.
Disclaimer: Buffy belongs to… well, not Joss Whedon these days since I hear it’s getting a reboot, but someone owns it. Ivy belongs to Jim Butcher, the incredible author of The Dresden Files.
Summary: ‘It figures,’ I thought bitterly, ‘that this would happen. Even if I just share a book with him, everything still goes wrong.’
“What are you supposed to be again?” Buffy, asked, staring at me quizzically.
I huffed, “I told you already! I’m the Archive!”
We’d had this conversation before, twice, but I think the bleach seeped into her brain since we were having it again.
“Uhuh,” Buffy nodded half-heartedly, “Still means nothing.”
“The archive! Open a book or something,” I stuck my tongue out and turned back to the mirror.
“Since when does a corduroy dress and a puffy jacket count as a costume?”
“It’s what she wears!” I protested angrily.
“God I hate you.”
Buffy smiled patronizingly and walked out of the room, “Whatever munchkin. We leave in 10!”
It’s rare circumstance when The Archive, the sum total of all written information throughout human history is surprised by circumstances. People, certainly, but in Ivy’s limited personal and extended memorial experience, nothing like this had happened.
For one thing, she’d never felt quite this much magic, let alone unfocused, swirling over so large an area. It bore resemblance, she decided, to some of the greater rituals that various forces had employed in the distant past, but nothing that had been used lately. Ignoring that for now, she still had no idea where she was… or why her hair was brown, and her body different.
Hm. That was… distressing. Coupled with the fact that this was clearly not where she had been earlier, a location that was also distressingly blank. There was no sign of Kincaid either, which was, all things considered, perhaps not entirely surprising. Yes, this was shaping up to be the sort of thing that happened to Harry Dresden, or to her when he was around. Not, however, something she’d had the misfortune of experiencing on her own.
The street around her was also rapidly filling with screaming monsters, the vast majority of which belonged to the public domain. “Interesting…” she muttered, causally raising a shield before backhanding away one that strayed too close. The Archive was, traditionally, neutral. It was why she was less than helpful to Harry when he turned to her, but also why she was rarely the target of an attack. To transport her here, wherever here was, without her knowledge or memory the event was impressive, and spoke of a rather distressing level of organization. After all, anything that was written down she should know, so this had to have been organized entirely verbally.
Ivy paused and started at the darkening sky for a moment. That was odd. It was almost… Her eyes widened as she felt somewhere deep within her a tremendous amount of pressure building up. The shield she’d raised earlier flared silver as she struggled to reinforce it, before tipping sidewise with an agonized scream. The last she recalled was the broken concrete of the sidewalk rushing to greet her as her vision darkened, and an agonizing pain beyond anything the Denarians had managed somewhere deep inside.
The sound of the Federal Express Truck 217 doing the first round of deliveries woke me. At least, I think that’s what it was. Also, my bed had decided it wanted to be hard apparently. Decided it wanted to be hard? Since when can beds do that? And even if they could, why would a bed want to be concrete? I pondered the thought as I tried to get back to sleep.
… Wait, what? Concrete? I opened my eyes with a gasp. This was not my bed. This was the sidewalk on Isteria Drive. Which… made no sense because 1) I should be in bed, and 2) how did I know what street I was on? For that matter, how had I known what company the truck belonged to, if I’d had my eyes closed? Or what it was doing? Or, hell, what the number was, or that it was being driven today by a man named Manny Ortega, a father of two who had filed for divorce last week from his wife of six years, whose lawyer was in the process of drawing up a particularly harsh alimony agreement. Those were not thing Dawn Summers was supposed to know!
I closed my eyes and counted to 10. There was no point in panicking, some part of me thought. I’d always been able to do that. It was what the Archive did. But that was silly, because I went as The Archive for Halloween; I wasn’t actually The Archive. The Archive was from a book series; she wasn’t even the main character. Great. I was delusional. Except that same part of my brain that continued to give me more than I needed to know about, well, everything told me I wasn’t meeting any of the DSM-IV classifications.
Fantastic. Logically, something had to have happened last night to leave me face down on a sidewalk, fortunately ignored by everyone. God, where was my sister? She was supposed to have been watching me. Hah. What kind of Sister lets their little sister spend the night on a sidewalk while everyone in town turned into their costumes?
I sighed. It was happening again; my brain was giving me things I didn’t know. Though it was coming slower this time, almost like someone was still… writing… it. Nonono. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t possible. People did not turn into costumes. And they certainly did not stay turned into them. It wasn’t allowed. It was morning. The spell should have been broken.
… Except that it clearly wasn’t, because I was still here, and I still knew everything. I glared at the sky. Maybe this was a dream; brought on by ODing on candy and dressing up. That… who was I kidding. If it was a dream I wouldn’t be questioning it. Dream logic doesn’t work like that. Which mean…
I’m not elegant when I wake up. So sue me.