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At Day's End

Multi-Fandom Slash Zine.

208 pages, 12 pt Print,  Two Column Format, 88,000+ Words 

Art work by Raven

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Old Acquaintances by Manuela (Homicide: Life on the Streets/TS)

It had been a long day for Detective Jim Ellison and his partner Blair Sandburg.

Just like every other day in the past couple of weeks. They'd been following the tiniest trails and questioning dozens of possible suspects in the stalker case that had been terrorizing the city of Cascade. Even Jim's heightened senses hadn't been of much help on this case.

Until the last victim.

The killer had made a mistake and left a fingerprint on the body. It hadn't been easily recognizable for Jim and could have been overlooked as just the dirty smudge it seemed to be. But there had been something unusual about the dirt; and with Blair's guidance, Jim had been able to push his sense of sight almost to the range of its limits.

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Truth & Consequences by Lori & Wolfling (The Sentinel)

It was a dark and stormy night.

Cliché but there it was; clichés were only clichés because they were overused. And they were only overused because there was some truth to them.

And the truth was it was stormy: the rain was coming down in sheets, and a plummeting temperature lent the bite of ice to the drops. And it *was* dark; the storm clouds in the sky obscuring any and all light that might have otherwise pierced the pitch blackness.

On a night like this, nobody would be out unless they had a damn good reason. But there were reasons and there were reasons. And some reasons were darker than the night itself.  This was one of those nights and one of those reasons.  He was out to create pain and draw it into himself.  He reveled in making *them* hurt.  So soft and pretty, they never noticed him.  Pain hardened them and took away their beauty.  Showed the world the ugliness he knew was in their souls.  The light from the window beckoned him, drew him toward the pretty girl inside, out of the darkness of the storm.

His lip curled upward in derision; the light, the beauty, all of it lies. A facade to hide the cancer within, the darkness that he knew they all carried. A darkness that only he could see. A darkness that he would show to the world. He waited patiently out in the night, waiting until the light he watched was extinguished. A lovely metaphor that. Extinguish the light, destroy the false brilliance of beauty and modesty. It was more than just a compulsion or a desire on his part, it was a holy calling.

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The Next Level by Varsha (Total Recall)

"More?"

He shook his head no.

"Do you want some food?"

"No. I think I might be past the worst of it, but I still don't want to risk it."

David just rested; his head had fallen back and he looked less restless. The blanket had fallen away and the sheet was damp and twisted around his legs and hips.

I was at a loss of what to do or say next. David was too weak to move or even hold a conversation. I didn't want him to leave.

The decision was taken out of my hands, David fell back to sleep, his head sliding to rest on my shoulder.

This time I wasn't sure he really needed me to hold him as his muscles cramped in pain, but I did anyway.

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Times of Torment by James WalksWithWind (The Phantom Menace)

Obi-Wan sat down before Qui-Gon could form an opinion on his pacing. He composed himself, folding his legs beneath him as he sat upon the ground. Then he looked up at Qui-Gon, face open and welcoming.

Qui-Gon let go of his first reaction, and waited for the question.

"Master...."

"Yes, Obi-Wan?" he prompted when the question remained unspoken.

"I don't understand." 

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Fit to be Tied by Graculus (Man From Uncle)

"You make it sound as if it was my idea..."

"And wasn't it?" Napoleon knew he was being unreasonable even as he interrupted, but he couldn't help it. "I said we should wait for back-up, but no, you had to go ahead regardless."

"You know full well that I'm not responsible for our current predicament." Illya paused, as if he was waiting for either agreement or argument and when neither occurred he continued. "After all, I too am tied up."

The tone of Illya's voice betrayed to Napoleon that he was pouting slightly, the mixture of helplessness and annoyance that he currently felt frustrating him beyond his ability to express in mere words. Being tied up back to back had some disadvantages when it came to non-verbal communication, but he knew his partner well enough to fill in the gaps.

Napoleon swallowed a little nervously, trying to drive the image of Illya's mouth and what it might be doing from his mind as swiftly as possible, or at least before it sent all the blood rushing to somewhere it could currently do little good. This wasn't the time and it certainly wasn't the place.

There was silence between them for a moment.

"I'm sorry," Napoleon said, managing to make his voice sound penitent.

He wasn't sorry at all, not really, but Illya didn't need to know that.  

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Moonlit Pools by Lilith Sedai (The Phantom Menace)

An anomaly with his pale reddish hair and light eyes, Obi-Wan was a subject of great interest and curiosity among the Q'tar.  His looks and good nature had won him many friends.  That was part of the problem that chafed at Qui-Gon.  The parents of the youths who opened their hearts unreservedly to Obi-Wan remained sullenly closed to Qui-Gon, wary of the reputation he wore like a mantle: Jedi Master.

It did not precisely trouble Qui-Gon that Obi-Wan made friends so readily.  What disturbed him was his own solitude, Obi-Wan's frequent absence from his side.  What irritated him was Obi-Wan's natural preference for his new friends over his old master.

The Jedi padawan's sudden, joyful chatter interrupted Qui-Gon's morose thoughts as the young man bent to enter the hut and came to his side.  "Master, I've been asked to come to the pools.  Sarin and Irialdi would like to learn to swim, but there's no one who knows how who's free to teach them."  Obi-Wan looked sweaty but enthusiastic.  He wore his full Jedi regalia, minus only the cloak, probably out of deference to Qui-Gon's own formality and poise.

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Goin' Commando by Surreal (The Lone Gunmen)

I've got him this time.

I've suspected that he did this for over a year now, but haven't had the opportunity to prove my theory.

It's almost two in the morning, and I'm still awake.

How do I know he'll do it tonight, you ask?

Because I've been monitoring him closely.  Well, at least, his side of the underwear drawer.  He wore his last clean pair today, and after his shower he came straight to bed, tossing those into the laundry basket.

I've got him, I know it.  And I'm right.

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Holding Together by Mice (Dark Angel/The Lone Gunmen)

DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA DECEMBER 4th, 2003 7:13 P.M.

Byers waited nervously at the gate, watching the flood of people leaving  the plane. The traffic he'd seen today had been mostly military, area  residents, or business travelers who could not avoid the area. Food riots  had been sweeping the DC area for several weeks, and civilian travel was  being discouraged. He ran a hand through his chestnut brown hair,  mussing its usual perfection slightly. With a flick of the wrist, he brushed a  speck of lint off his somewhat threadbare suit, worn under a black  wool-lined trench coat that had also seen better days.

He knew that Logan would be offloaded last, treated more or less as  luggage because of the wheelchair. To remove him earlier might  "inconvenience" the passengers who could walk. He'd been there half an  hour early, even though he knew that the flight would probably be late. All  flights were these days, after all. They flew more on "suggestion" than  "schedule." It reminded him of some of the places he'd traveled in South  America a few years ago, while he and his friends had been tracking  down information on yet another drug-financed American political coup in  a small Latin American nation. They'd nearly been killed when the weekly  plane didn't show up on the right day, and had been forced to escape the  country on foot through a mountain pass.

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Flame by RavenD (The Phantom Menace)

For years it was the same. Years, nights blending into bright mornings, speed by, repetition breeding contentment.

In my sleep, in the depths of my meditations, I would find myself walking down a grey corridor slick and steel, flanked with huge windows.  I could see you, standing statuesque at the end, waiting.  Curtains, gauzy, insubstantial cloths, were lifted by the wind, catching me, holding me back.

"Reach for me, Padawan."  Your voice floated through the wind.

I would push through the cloth, hearing the snarl as it tore behind me.  It wrapped around my arms, my legs, my throat, clinging like a web.  My breath came faster as the thin, strong curtains twisted into ropes, tightening, beginning to bite.

I would struggle,  call out to you, hoarse cries fading with the wind.  As I became cocooned, wrapped into an immobile, blind mockery of myself, I would always hear your voice.

"Relax, my padawan.  You must not fight your master."

Screaming through my mind, "Master, I cannot reach you.  Help me? Please?"

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