Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters that were not created by me. They belong to their respective owners of the Veronica Mars IP. The characters are borrowed for entertainment purposes.

From the author: This story is a work of fiction. It's a fantasy spin-off, if you will, and has minimal spoilers. It revolves around the Lamb/Veronica relationship. It was originally meant to be a MUCH shorter story, but seems to have blown up into a short book. I am still working on it, and I deeply apologize for any editing issues - I am constantly fixing it and editing mistakes as I go. If you are enjoying the story - this makes me so happy, I hope you stick with me on this one. I do apologize for delays in posting - I would like to deliver the best I can for you guys and girls. But this story will be finished - promise!

So, enjoy, please leave comments, and keep on reading and writing!

It happened just days before Christmas. The wails of the firetrucks and ambulances broke the air above the idyllic town, decorated in the twinkling holiday nights. It was early enough in the evening, that the police station was packed with officers and civilians. Not much later that night, a survivor would tell her story, visibly shaken yet still trying to look alluring for the cameras (some things never change in California), her face still covered in soot. And of course, the media would swoop down and all around the smoldering building, hoping to get a glimpse of the atrocities that took place there just over an hour ago.

The few survivors that did make it out of the building that night, describe a regular-looking man (would you believe, the crazies are always nondescript), in his 30s, maybe early 40s, walking into the station and without saying a word - emptied a gun clip into three officers and three civilians. Methodically, one by one. As the people scrambled - some dropping to the floor, screaming, others - reaching for their weapons, the man reached to his belt and a split second later sound, light and heat engulfed the rooms.

Hours later, Neptune was still lit up, even though the fire been contained. The explosion destroyed half of the building, but luckily many survived. The lights of the firetrucks and first responders lit up the night sky for a long time. The line of stretchers seemed to never end, and each one was followed by the callous flashes of the nosy newspaper photographers.

The Sheriff, as luck would have it, was not on duty that evening. Being the sheriff of Neptune came with many perks, and having time off during the prime hours was one of them. Christmas, much like most holidays, brought out it's own brand of crazy. The kind of crazy that seemed to deliberately and directly oppose the "good will towards men". In Neptune, it usually meant some vandalism, occasional drug-related shooting, and of course a few good-old domestic disputes. None of which Lamb intended to bother with, not around Christmas. It was the lousiest time, even without the cliche loneliness and his binge drinking. It was a time of lousy music, lousy TV, and even lousy criminals. Well, his "prayers" have been answered - there was one crazy that decided to go all out on this one.

Not that he did not enjoy the attention of the press, but it's one thing when you are grinning in front of the hot little number with a microphone because you caught whatever schmuck was making waves that month. It's a totally new flavor of unsettling, when you are asked questions like "Where were you when over a dozen of your officers were killed and maimed?" "What could you tell us about what happened?" "What will you do to make sure something like this does not happen again?"

To that, Lamb so much wanted to tell that "hot little number" "I will pull a magic-fuckin' wand out of my ass, and turn back time, or make it so that all people are good and normal, how is that?" But, instead, he felt his face tense up, his heart clench, and uttered the same damn nonsense that he prepared ahead of time. The words were stale, they felt fake, like himself. He was a fraud, and he knew it from the day he slapped that badge on his chest. He knew it. Keith Marse knew it. His daughter knew it. Hell, the whole town probably knew it. And now it was all catching up to him.

Among the dead were Inga and Sacks. The only two people in Neptune that resembled anything friend-like for him. Inga, luckily, died from a gunshot wound. Instant death. Sacks was caught in the back, when the fire rolled in. He survived for six agonizing days before finally letting go. When Lamb visited him at the burn center in San Diego - that was no longer Sacks. He nearly drank himself dead that night in a shitty motel - he did not even make it back to Neptune. But with the morning came realization that he had to crawl into his uniform, and face up to inquiries, questions, reports, and memorial services. And there seemed to be no end of those.