This is just a little something that would be "after the credits" so to speak. Enjoy!

Yeah, and AVP belongs to Fox and all this stuff and things...

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MANHATTAN ISLAND, APRIL 16, 2005

1:21 AM

Coat was exhausted.

He had the right to be... he had died.

But his instincts as an Author burned in the back of his skull like some whacked-out spider-sense, keeping his brain afloat in the ocean of thousands of sleeping people.

But he lived in Manhattan.

Not quite the city that never sleeps, but so what. It was the state that never sleeps. So what?

He trudged through his apartment door, his trenchcoat dragging a little lower to the ground than normal. He flicked on the lights, glad to see a familiar sight after what had only been a weekend but what had felt like months (cough ... oh, sorry, was that me? Well, carry on, then...).

In the kitchen, Coat found that Chet was once more sleeping on top of the coffee machine. He gently scooped her up like a puppy and placed her on the floor; her mouth fell open, her tongue lolling on the checker-tiled floor.

Coat withdrew a new back of dark roast from the cabinet, opened it, and inhaled the aroma; he was instantly rejuvenated, but only slightly.

He pulled out a filter, loaded it into the machine, and started spooning the grounds into the cup.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Screw it.

Coat turned the bag upside-down and emptied the entire contents into the filter. The fine particles overflowed onto the counter, but Coat really didn't take heed.

The coffee percolated into the pitcher, thick and black.

Looks a bit like blood, Coat thought morbidly. Black, caffeinated blood.

He poured himself a cup, and began to sip the molasses-like liquid.

His muscles instantly relaxed, and his senses immediately grew sharper.

He took the mug out into the main room, popped "Resident Evil" into his DVD player, and turned the massive TV on.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye –

Movement, three o' clock, His brain told him. Take immediate action.

Before he even registered the thought, his 12-gauge was in his hand, cocked, and aimed into the darkness.

"Who's there?" He said.

"Please," a voice said. It was small, belonging to a small girl; maybe eleven, twelve. "Don't hurt me."

Coat slowly turned up the lights; in the corner was indeed a small girl. She had pale skin, unnaturally blonde hair, and a black stripe painted across her eyes. He attire hailed to a not-so-distant future.

"My name's Pris," the girl said, still cringing from the rifle still aimed at her head.

"What?" Coat said, confused.

"Where am I?" Pris asked.

"What?"

"Can you help me find my friends?"

Coat paused.

"...What?!?"

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End Miniseries.