Somewhere Else in Time & Space
Who: Chloe Sullivan
Where: Negril, Jamaica
When: March, 2026
Invited: ALL PLAY!
Status: Complete
Chloe jolted awake to the sound of footfalls outside, a pounding on the door, whoops and shrieks, and a huge splash. Another hotel somewhere in Negril. (Christ.) Chloe lay with her eyes closed, not wanting to face the reality of her situation just yet. She already knew she wasn't alone in bed. She vaguely recalled falling into bed in an alcoholic haze the night before, but not much more than that. She didn't remember who with, or how many, or even their genders.
That had been happening a lot lately the last few months. The sad thing was that she didn't even enjoy it. Oh, she had orgasms, but she could accomplish that all by herself with a lot less work. Masturbation didn't leave her feeling dirty--and not in a good way, as George would have said. It wasn't like the days back on the island, or in the years immediately afterward. Back then she'd been joyously exploring her new sexuality, unashamed and unabashed by her desires. If she'd gotten carried away, well--it was an adventure. The desperate hunger for new sensations had finally abated somewhat. She'd remained a sensualist, enjoying all the sensations the world had to offer with a clarity--and an enthusiasm--she'd never experienced before her Kryptonite-powered recovery from the Wraith's attack, but she was capable of focusing on other things again.
This...this was new. And not very pleasant. If she thought about it, she could probably puzzle out why. Instead, Chloe opened her eyes and sat up. Another anonymous hotel room, another anonymous college student with dark hair and a muscular physique. Green eyes, more likely than not (and who does that remind you of, Ms. Sullivan?), though he was sleeping now. He was also half her age, if that. (But that's what you wanted,) Chloe reminded herself. Ever since most US cities on the gulf coast had put the kibosh on spring break revelry, the college crowd did their partying in the Caribbean. Chloe had known what she was doing booking a trip to to Jamaica in March, even if she hadn't admitted it to herself.
Chloe slipped out of bed, kicking over several empty bottles. She cringed, but Sleeping Beauty didn't stir. It didn't seem kosher that she didn't even have a hangover after last night's binge, but that was nothing new. Chloe collected her clothing from the floor, dressed and slipped out into the humid warmth of of the day. Quite a few people were already up and about, though most of the revelers were still sleeping off last night's excesses. Chloe walked past them, happy to be anonymous. Her own hotel was only a few minutes' walk from here.
* * *
A long, hot shower in her own room followed by a room service breakfast had Chloe feeling normal again. Or at least as normal as she ever felt these days. It had been especially tough these last few months with all the hoopla in the media regarding the 20th anniversary of the rescue of the Oceanic 815 survivors. 2005 had become The Year Everything Changed, in large part due to the events both on the island and the efforts required to rescue them all. Part of the reason for the hoopla was the series of books she'd written over the last two decades--an irony that wasn't lost on her. Chloe had ducked all requests for personal interviews, though she'd done a few by phone or correspondence; she wanted to keep her face out of the public eye these days. She had a lot more sympathy nowadays for Ami and Scott's immoveable insistence on staying in the closet when it seemed like everyone else had gone public.
Not that everyone had, of course. The stargate's existence was public knowledge now, along with Torchwood and the existence of both aliens and supernatural creatures. Chloe had written books on the subjects, helping (she hoped) to smooth the transitions. But Adam Pierson had disappeared shortly after they'd been rescued. Ditto Sue Cullen. Others hadn't disappeared, but they'd steadfastly maintained their covers. George had gone back to calling herself Mildred Hagen though she'd eventually turned up in Los Angeles, working alongside Faith at Wolfram & Hart.
Chloe sighed. Faith had been dead for more than a decade now, killed before she turned thirty, exactly as she'd always predicted--in combat with some supernatural threat. Chloe remembered the voicemail she'd found on her phone the day it happened. "Hey, gorgeous, it's me. I just...wanted to say hello, but I guess you're out somewhere. So, I'm gearing up to go kick some ass. I got my knives, I got my stakes--I've got my Post-it note." And there the message had paused, just long enough for Chloe to realize what Faith was telling her. Then, "But hey, we always knew it would happen eventually, right? So no worries. It's not the end. We know that for sure now. You take care of yourself, Chloe."
Faith's funeral was the first time she'd seen a lot of her fellow castaways in years. It was also the last time in many cases. Faith's wasn't the only funeral. Sam and Dean had also died fighting the good fight, or so Chloe had been told. Rose Elder had passed away quietly a few years ago. Rose Tyler died at Canary Wharf officially, though the castaway grapevine had it that she was still alive but in another universe somewhere. Chloe liked to think so, anyhow. But most of the castaways simply avoided the limelight after the initial media attention died down. Chloe wasn't the only one who'd become something of recluse.
Ash hadn't, of course. He'd become a media darling and made a small fortune from... being famous for being famous, really. He had cameos in countless television shows and B-grade monster movies. He'd written several books about zombies, both novels and non-fiction. He was constantly in the tabloids, squiring one starlet or another around Hollywood until his mouth (and, let's be honest, his jerky personality) led to the explosive end of another relationship. But there were always more would-be starlets ready to trade on his fame to get noticed.
Sawyer, too, had found a home in Hollywood, as the driving force behind the Stranded! tv series, a thinly disguised retelling of a lot of things that had happened on the island. Sometimes Chloe didn't know whether to laugh or cry over the way that show had portrayed everyone. It lasted for years and still had a cult following, though Sawyer had moved on to creating and producing many other shows. Apparently being a Hollywood mogul wasn't much different from being a con man, or so he'd said the last time Chloe spoke to him.
Scott and Ami were busy having it all, juggling their careers and raising a couple of teenagers. Martha Jones was working with UNIT (another black operation which had come to light in the intervening years). Chloe asked her once if she missed traveling with the Doctor. Martha had just smiled and said that she'd finished her "apprenticeship" with the Doctor, and that Journeymen...journey. On their own.
Chloe reached into a drawer of the bedside table and pulled out the ring box. The velvet finish had long since been worn away. Chloe opened the box and stared at the dull green stone for a moment. It had saved her life, but it had also changed her life in ways she'd never counted on. She'd never touch Clark again, or hold him. Just her presence made him ill now.
Chloe closed her eyes and thought about that. The fierce heat of love and jealousy and grief had long since burned out. Not even coals now, just ash. He was happy with Lois and Chloe was happy for him, happy for her cousin--now. But, oh how she'd cried at first when she'd realized what the Kryptonite had cost her. How she'd raved at Lois's treachery when she'd learned. She'd said some awful, awful things--things it had taken years to get over.
She snapped the jewelry box shut. Lois had three children now. Chloe's hand tightened around the box. Two nieces and a nephew who grew ill if they spent more than half an hour around their aunt....
Chloe tossed the box back into the drawer and slammed it shut. Then she stood up, threw off her robe and dressed. She had to get out of the room for a while. She grabbed her Tablet and stuffed it into a pocket before heading out the door.
Where: Negril, Jamaica
When: March, 2026
Invited: ALL PLAY!
Status: Complete
Chloe jolted awake to the sound of footfalls outside, a pounding on the door, whoops and shrieks, and a huge splash. Another hotel somewhere in Negril. (Christ.) Chloe lay with her eyes closed, not wanting to face the reality of her situation just yet. She already knew she wasn't alone in bed. She vaguely recalled falling into bed in an alcoholic haze the night before, but not much more than that. She didn't remember who with, or how many, or even their genders.
That had been happening a lot lately the last few months. The sad thing was that she didn't even enjoy it. Oh, she had orgasms, but she could accomplish that all by herself with a lot less work. Masturbation didn't leave her feeling dirty--and not in a good way, as George would have said. It wasn't like the days back on the island, or in the years immediately afterward. Back then she'd been joyously exploring her new sexuality, unashamed and unabashed by her desires. If she'd gotten carried away, well--it was an adventure. The desperate hunger for new sensations had finally abated somewhat. She'd remained a sensualist, enjoying all the sensations the world had to offer with a clarity--and an enthusiasm--she'd never experienced before her Kryptonite-powered recovery from the Wraith's attack, but she was capable of focusing on other things again.
This...this was new. And not very pleasant. If she thought about it, she could probably puzzle out why. Instead, Chloe opened her eyes and sat up. Another anonymous hotel room, another anonymous college student with dark hair and a muscular physique. Green eyes, more likely than not (and who does that remind you of, Ms. Sullivan?), though he was sleeping now. He was also half her age, if that. (But that's what you wanted,) Chloe reminded herself. Ever since most US cities on the gulf coast had put the kibosh on spring break revelry, the college crowd did their partying in the Caribbean. Chloe had known what she was doing booking a trip to to Jamaica in March, even if she hadn't admitted it to herself.
Chloe slipped out of bed, kicking over several empty bottles. She cringed, but Sleeping Beauty didn't stir. It didn't seem kosher that she didn't even have a hangover after last night's binge, but that was nothing new. Chloe collected her clothing from the floor, dressed and slipped out into the humid warmth of of the day. Quite a few people were already up and about, though most of the revelers were still sleeping off last night's excesses. Chloe walked past them, happy to be anonymous. Her own hotel was only a few minutes' walk from here.
* * *
A long, hot shower in her own room followed by a room service breakfast had Chloe feeling normal again. Or at least as normal as she ever felt these days. It had been especially tough these last few months with all the hoopla in the media regarding the 20th anniversary of the rescue of the Oceanic 815 survivors. 2005 had become The Year Everything Changed, in large part due to the events both on the island and the efforts required to rescue them all. Part of the reason for the hoopla was the series of books she'd written over the last two decades--an irony that wasn't lost on her. Chloe had ducked all requests for personal interviews, though she'd done a few by phone or correspondence; she wanted to keep her face out of the public eye these days. She had a lot more sympathy nowadays for Ami and Scott's immoveable insistence on staying in the closet when it seemed like everyone else had gone public.
Not that everyone had, of course. The stargate's existence was public knowledge now, along with Torchwood and the existence of both aliens and supernatural creatures. Chloe had written books on the subjects, helping (she hoped) to smooth the transitions. But Adam Pierson had disappeared shortly after they'd been rescued. Ditto Sue Cullen. Others hadn't disappeared, but they'd steadfastly maintained their covers. George had gone back to calling herself Mildred Hagen though she'd eventually turned up in Los Angeles, working alongside Faith at Wolfram & Hart.
Chloe sighed. Faith had been dead for more than a decade now, killed before she turned thirty, exactly as she'd always predicted--in combat with some supernatural threat. Chloe remembered the voicemail she'd found on her phone the day it happened. "Hey, gorgeous, it's me. I just...wanted to say hello, but I guess you're out somewhere. So, I'm gearing up to go kick some ass. I got my knives, I got my stakes--I've got my Post-it note." And there the message had paused, just long enough for Chloe to realize what Faith was telling her. Then, "But hey, we always knew it would happen eventually, right? So no worries. It's not the end. We know that for sure now. You take care of yourself, Chloe."
Faith's funeral was the first time she'd seen a lot of her fellow castaways in years. It was also the last time in many cases. Faith's wasn't the only funeral. Sam and Dean had also died fighting the good fight, or so Chloe had been told. Rose Elder had passed away quietly a few years ago. Rose Tyler died at Canary Wharf officially, though the castaway grapevine had it that she was still alive but in another universe somewhere. Chloe liked to think so, anyhow. But most of the castaways simply avoided the limelight after the initial media attention died down. Chloe wasn't the only one who'd become something of recluse.
Ash hadn't, of course. He'd become a media darling and made a small fortune from... being famous for being famous, really. He had cameos in countless television shows and B-grade monster movies. He'd written several books about zombies, both novels and non-fiction. He was constantly in the tabloids, squiring one starlet or another around Hollywood until his mouth (and, let's be honest, his jerky personality) led to the explosive end of another relationship. But there were always more would-be starlets ready to trade on his fame to get noticed.
Sawyer, too, had found a home in Hollywood, as the driving force behind the Stranded! tv series, a thinly disguised retelling of a lot of things that had happened on the island. Sometimes Chloe didn't know whether to laugh or cry over the way that show had portrayed everyone. It lasted for years and still had a cult following, though Sawyer had moved on to creating and producing many other shows. Apparently being a Hollywood mogul wasn't much different from being a con man, or so he'd said the last time Chloe spoke to him.
Scott and Ami were busy having it all, juggling their careers and raising a couple of teenagers. Martha Jones was working with UNIT (another black operation which had come to light in the intervening years). Chloe asked her once if she missed traveling with the Doctor. Martha had just smiled and said that she'd finished her "apprenticeship" with the Doctor, and that Journeymen...journey. On their own.
Chloe reached into a drawer of the bedside table and pulled out the ring box. The velvet finish had long since been worn away. Chloe opened the box and stared at the dull green stone for a moment. It had saved her life, but it had also changed her life in ways she'd never counted on. She'd never touch Clark again, or hold him. Just her presence made him ill now.
Chloe closed her eyes and thought about that. The fierce heat of love and jealousy and grief had long since burned out. Not even coals now, just ash. He was happy with Lois and Chloe was happy for him, happy for her cousin--now. But, oh how she'd cried at first when she'd realized what the Kryptonite had cost her. How she'd raved at Lois's treachery when she'd learned. She'd said some awful, awful things--things it had taken years to get over.
She snapped the jewelry box shut. Lois had three children now. Chloe's hand tightened around the box. Two nieces and a nephew who grew ill if they spent more than half an hour around their aunt....
Chloe tossed the box back into the drawer and slammed it shut. Then she stood up, threw off her robe and dressed. She had to get out of the room for a while. She grabbed her Tablet and stuffed it into a pocket before heading out the door.