A/N: Well, I hadn't originally planned to do this, but two things changed my mind. First off, reader DJremiz requested that I expand "Tell Me Straight" into a series; this story will basically fulfill that function (i.e., it'll explain how the world got to where it is in "Tell Me Straight", as well as what happens afterward). And second, I learned that (as I'm sure you're all well aware by this point) Victorious is going off the air after this season. That being the case, this may well be the last Victorious fanfic I ever write; so I decided it would be best to go out with a bang…literally.

Please note that if you're easily depressed, or squeamish, this story may not be your cup of tea.

Disclaimer: As ever, don't own.

Monday, May 27, 2013

As the clock ticked toward noon, Detective David Vega eyed with distaste the sloppy, mayonnaise-dripping roast beef sandwich that sat on a paper plate on his desk. Oh, my cardiologist is just going to love this. I swear, I keep eating like this and I'll never live to see retirement.

The station was unusually busy for a Monday, a blur of sights and sounds. A seemingly endless stream of purse-snatchers, hookers and junkies was paraded through on their way to Central Booking. Two men with battered, bleeding faces gave their profanity-laced, diametrically opposed versions of a road rage incident to the weary desk sergeant.

High up on the wall, unheeded, a TV flickered. The words of the anchorwoman were barely audible: "…The State Department at this hour is calling on Acting Premier Kirov to step down and return power to the legally elected Russian government. The General Secretary of the Chinese Communist Party, meanwhile, has expressed his strong support for Kirov, whom he calls, quote, 'a valuable ally in the ongoing struggle against Western imperialism'. In other news, riots continue in Pyongyang, where food shortages are threatening to topple-"

His boss, Captain Carter, approached with a manila folder in hand. David hurriedly shoved aside his sandwich and took his feet off his desk.

"Take it easy, Dave. I've just got some papers for you to look over."

"Got it. I'm going out on patrol in a few minutes, but I'll get to them by this evening-"

"Don't worry about patrol. Mayer can fill in for you. These take priority. Chief's orders."

"The chief? What's he doing worrying about little old me?" David grinned and waited for Carter to chuckle in reply, but the captain's face was grim.

Nervous now, David opened the folder. A sheaf of yellowing, typewritten papers slid out. He glanced at the title page.

His face went white as chalk. "…What? You've got to be kidding me. This can't…this can't be serious…"

"Calm down, Dave. As likely as not this'll all blow over, and we can shove this stuff back into the filing cabinet and let it gather dust. But the chief doesn't want us taking any chances – not with the mayor getting antsy and all."

"But – this has got to be thirty years old! Hasn't anybody updated it? Aren't there any contingency plans that are more recent?"

"Not for something on this scale. We thought we could mothball everything once the Wall came down, but the way things are in Russia now, with the coup – and North Korea being a powder keg – well…we have to plan for the worst. You understand."

David nodded slowly, his thoughts a confused swirl.

"Oh, and Dave? I know I don't have to tell you this, but…try not to spread this around, okay? Panic is the last thing we need this early in the game."

"Yeah," he said absently. "Yeah, you can count on me."

"Good man." Carter clapped him affectionately on the shoulder. "I'll leave you to it, then."

David's eyes refused to focus properly. He shuffled and reshuffled the papers, getting vague glimpses of maps, figures, charts. Page after page of headings, subheadings, numbered lists and bullet points – all of it neatly categorized, as if that would somehow serve to disguise the horror that lay beneath it.

He looked up at the television, and now, for the first time, he strained to listen:

"…the aircraft carrier Harry S. Truman, leading a task force currently stationed at Yokohama. The commander of the Pacific Fleet stressed that the task force is strictly for observational purposes, and in no way reflects an escalation of the American military presence in the Far East. China and Russia have termed the move a 'deliberate act of provocation'…"

The bald facts and figures in his hands began to take on forms in his mind: the suffering, the burned, the starving, the screaming, stretching out in rows as far as the eye could see…

Though the station was a balmy eighty-eight degrees, David Vega began to shiver.

/

"Chicago, Chicago…it's a city that's exciting, it's a city that's inviting, it's a city for a woman just like me…"

Tori Vega banged on the bathroom door. "For crying out loud, aren't you done with your shower yet?"

"There's a place they call Lake Michigan…oh, knock it off! My skin has to be hydrated to keep its silky sheen! I'll be done in fifteen minutes."

"Ugh! Well, could you at least try to sing in tune, then?"

"I am in tune!"

"I give up," Tori muttered.

The sound of the front door opening sent her racing down the stairs. "Dad! Would you please tell Trina that she's taking too long in the…Dad?"

Her father looked as though he had aged ten years since he left for work that morning. His eyes were distant, haunted, and the gray that had begun to sprinkle his hair over the past few months was suddenly more pronounced. He was slightly hunched over – the look, Tori thought, of a man bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"…Daddy?" she said, suddenly fearful. "What happened?"

"It's…it's nothing, sweetheart. Just a hard day at the station." It was painfully obvious that he was concealing something, but Tori didn't dare push any harder.

"So…um…Mom called. She said Grandpa's doing better, but he's still in the ICU. She probably won't be able to come back to LA for at least a week."

"Oh, thank God," he whispered.

Tori raised an eyebrow. "Are you really that happy not to have Mom around?"

"No, it's just…it's better for her not to be here."

"Dad, you're not making sense."

He forced a smile. "Don't mind me, sweetheart. I'm just rambling. Where's your sister?"

A painfully flat high C echoed through the house: "…My perfect cup of tea…."

"…Shower, huh?"

Tori nodded ruefully.

He went to the foot of the stairs and called up: "Trina, come down here, please."

Tori's heart skipped a beat. Most men betrayed their strong emotion by yelling or swearing, but not her father. Instead, when he was at his most disturbed, he would mask his feelings by adopting an artificially calm, level tone of voice, capped with deliberate politeness. The tone he had used just now.

Trina, too, knew what that tone of voice meant. She came down the stairs only moments later, barefoot and dressed in a T-shirt and shorts. Her hair was still sopping wet, and her expression was anxious. "What's wrong?"

David Vega looked from one to the other of his daughters. "I…I think it would be best if you girls went to stay with your mother in Vancouver."

They stared at him for a moment, dumbfounded. Trina was the first to find her voice: "Are you kidding? We've got graduation in a week! We can't just drop everything and jet off to Canada!"

"I know, baby, and normally I wouldn't ask you to do this, but…" He looked at the floor.

"But what?" asked Tori slowly. "Dad, just what happened today?"

"I just found out about some…some extra work I've got to handle. I'm probably not going to be around the house much – overtime and stuff – and it would take a load off my mind if I knew that you were safe with your mother."

" 'Safe'? " said the elder Vega sister incredulously. "Dad, we can take care of ourselves. We're not going to burn the house down or anything-"

"Trina, please!" he suddenly cried. "For once in your life, will you just do as I say? This is for your own good!"

To his daughters' amazement, he began to tremble. His words were half-choked in his throat. "I just want you two to be safe…you're my little girls…"

Without a word, Tori and Trina went to him and hugged him tightly. "It's okay, Dad. It's no problem. We'll go," said Tori soothingly.

"Thank you." Some of the old steadiness returned to his voice. "It means a lot to me, your being willing to do this. And I'll make it up to you. Somehow."

"Can we fly first class?"

"Trina!" Tori smacked her sister on the back of the head. "You know money's tight right now-"

"No, it's fine," her father said. "First class for both of you."

"Dad, you're officially the greatest!" Trina kissed his cheek and hurried off to get dressed.

After a moment, Tori headed for the stairs. Halfway up, she stopped and looked back at her father. His eyes were again on the floor. He seemed oblivious to everything around him, lost in his own world.

With a certainty that reason couldn't explain, Tori suddenly knew that this trip would only be one way.

/

Once his daughters were in bed – Trina sleeping soundly, Tori tossing and turning restlessly – David Vega went into the kitchen, where a sink full of dirty dishes awaited him. He flicked on the radio and turned it down low.

"…American ambassadors to Moscow and Beijing have been recalled. Unconfirmed reports are trickling in of artillery fire across the DMZ between the Koreas. Acting Premier Kirov and Secretary Hu have said that their countries will not hesitate to use 'all available means' to protect North Korean sovereignty…"

He began to scrub a tomato sauce-encrusted pan mechanically, lifelessly, as the disembodied voice droned on with its litany of bleak news. All the time his mind was on the manila folder tucked inside his briefcase, and the document it contained, with its blunt, dreadful title:

Civil Defense Plan for the City of Los Angeles in the Event of Thermonuclear War