Disclaimer: Sony owns the Facts of Life characters, not I. I'm borrowing them for the moment, but will not profit from the exercise.

Archiving: Only with the author's permission.

Author's Note: This is my first attempt at fan fiction, so please be gentle. That said, I do welcome any and all input, especially regarding canon.

I've tried to stay true to the original series up to the tail end of season 9, just before the producers married the girls off.

The story was inspired in part by Lisa Whelchel describing her experience on Survivor in an interview and saying (quite accurately, I think) that it was something Blair Warner would never do. I wanted to explore under what circumstances she might.

Some chapters mention songs by name. If you don't know them, I invite you to look them up. They've been selected because I think they add to the scenes.

And, finally, my research into ratings would indicate that the story I have in mind is shamelessly MA. In compliance with the rules, I will tone it down to a T. My eventual plan, however, will be to fill in the blanks elsewhere once I've completed the saga here. I'll let you know when I do.

"Oh my God, Jo! Did you see it?"

Jo winced, holding the iPhone away from her head and leaning back in the driver's seat of the parked, unmarked squad car. Tootie could be loud when passionate. Glancing at the Tweet from BlairWarner, she feigned ignorance. "What's up, Tootie?"

"Blair's trying out for Survivor! That's Blair 'It's-my-duty-to-always-look-my-best', 'You-change-the-channel-because-I-might-break-a-nail' Warner! Has she gone mad? Is she dying?"

Tootie always had a flair for drama. Although, Jo had to admit that the idea of struggling to survive on a remote island was quite a stretch for the debutante. Merely the thought of camping tended to give her a rash. "I doubt she's dyin', Tootie. Maybe she just needs a break or somethin'."

"A break? Do you hear yourself? Blair takes a break with a marathon shopping spree at Bloomingdale's, or by checking into the spa at the Plaza for the weekend. She does NOT sign up to play Robinson Crusoe on Reality TV! You need to do something!"

"I'm sure she'll back out when they tell her there's a luggage limit," Jo chuckled, remembering the multiple occasions that had found her playing Happy Porter hauling a dozen suitcases at the blonde's request. "Seriously, it'll never happen. Don't sweat it."

"I don't know... it seems really crazy. What if she's in trouble? You were always the one who could get through to her."

"She's fine... and even if she's goin' through some kinda mid-life crisis, it ain't any of my business. You know I haven't talked to her in, like, forever." 26 years to be exact, thought Jo bitterly.

"Speaking of which, are you ever going to tell me what that's about?"

"No."

"Come on Jo, you can't both keep holding out on us. When are you going to 'fess up?"

"Er... the 35th of Octebruaruy," she said, patience diminishing.

"So... never," Tootie frowned at the sarcasm.

"You're catchin' on, kid! Listen, we've got a call comin' in. I've gotta roll"

Grabbing the radio, Jo responded to the call while watching Marty, the burly young man ordering a hotdog from the street vendor, abandon his conversation and sprint back to the car.

"No rest for the weary, eh?" he said, sliding into the passenger seat. He was a good cop, Jo thought as they peeled out of the parking lot, lights flashing. He was still wet behind the ears, but he was earnest and respected her authority. She felt no small sense of satisfaction at the opportunity to mold him into someone she could work with.

"Sure looks that way," she replied. She didn't much care for Domestics, especially since moving into Homicide, and wasn't looking forward to this.

Arriving back at the station after dark, Jo's tension showed in her demeanour and stride. She ran a hand through her hair in frustration, tossing the keys to the car on the front desk as she passed, not bothering to glance at the woman behind it. The Desk Officer opened her mouth to crack wise, but stopped short seeing Marty adamantly shake his head "no."

"Bad one?" she asked the rookie with concern.

"Kid," he nodded grimly, signing the keys in.

Jo hated the feeling of being wound so tight. Every muscle in her body ached with tension, and her mind kept racing back to the darkest moments of the day. The quandary was clear: It was her desire -no, her need- to right the world's wrongs that made her love her job, what made her good at it, and yet it was facing wrongs beyond her control that tore her apart at the end of the day. What was she supposed to do on nights like tonight, when her body and mind were poised to spring into action, but there was no viable action to take? How did one dispense of this maddeningly fierce energy when there was no bad guy to take down, no way of making things right?

She slammed the door shut behind her as she entered the large studio apartment over her uncle's auto shop. Her blazer was the first thing to come off, tossed on a hook by the door without breaking stride, and then her shoes were kicked to the mat beneath it. She continued in stockinged feet along the unfinished hardwood floor toward the bed in the far corner of the loft. The lights of the city visible through broad, uncovered windows illuminated bare brick walls. Unbuckling her belt, she stepped out of her stockings and slacks, tossing them carelessly into the bedside hamper, followed in short order by her top.

Pulling her hair into a loose pony-tail, she made her way along the wall to her workout corner wearing black boxer briefs and a black sports bra. With an exasperated sigh, dragging her fingers through her bangs, she selected a playlist on her phone before placing it in its cradle. As the opening bass of "Monster" by Skillet pounded through the wall-mounted speakers, she cranked it up loud... and then beyond loud. Noise complaints aren't an issue when the downstairs tenants are cars. Pulling on a pair of black boxing gloves, she began by tapping out a steady rhythm on the speed bag hanging at head height.

As she felt her shoulders loosen and her muscles heat up, she doubled her pace, moving smoothly around the bag, attacking it from all sides. In time, the woman was glistening with sweat, increasing her tempo until she was beating the bag back on every rebound. Her steely gaze fixed on her target and fists a blur of motion, six-pack abs flexed as she forced out timed breaths and her bare feet beat a rhythm of their own on the hardwood. Finally, with a strong right-hook she sent the bag spinning before releasing a primal cry and exploding into a roundhouse kick aimed perfectly behind her.

She was still in the air when her right foot made clean contact with the worn and duct-taped heavy bag. Still keeping time with thumping music, her new target was the recipient of a brutal, full-body attack. Fists and legs hit hard and fast, with grunts and guttural cries occasionally punctuating the blows. Her breath came heavily now, her fists vibrating with adrenaline between hits. Several songs passed before, hair and clothes drenched, she drew a forearm across her brow to the closing beats of Papa Roach's "Wanna Be Loved". Ripping off the gloves, she tossed them on the shelf in the corner before turning off the music. Releasing the pony-tail with a sigh, she made it halfway to the bathroom before suddenly spinning in her tracks and launching into another furious onslaught on the heavy bag.

Bare-fisted now, with no audible beat to follow, this attack was unconstrained. Gone were the practised perfection of timing and focus, replaced with rapid-fire, powerful hits. Ultimately, physically spent with wild hair and bruised knuckles, her final blow swung wide leaving an exhausted Jo hugging the bag for support and gasping for breath. She gathered herself warily, embarrassed even without an audience at her lapse in control, and made her way again toward the shower.

Rolling her shoulders under the steamy, high pressure spray, she felt the knotted tension with distaste. She knew she would sleep... her body was certainly tired enough... but as the sights of the day flashed again through her mind she couldn't possibly relax. "Fuck!" she growled into the empty room, as though her memories could be chased away with words.

Roughly towelling her hair, she made her way to the low, queen-sized bed. As she crawled between crisp white sheets, she hoped inanely for pleasant dreams.