AN: I started this with one main goal, that I wouldn't make Tom the bad guy, coz he was my favourite when I first saw the show in the 90s.

Um...

Written in 2017 for the 20 years of Daria, not posted earlier because of reasons.

It was a week before her thirty-fourth birthday when she came to the stunningly bitter realisation that she had become a world-class sell-out.

The renowned Daria Morgendorffer was sitting at the news desk beside her impossibly plastic co-anchor when it had hit her like a hammer from God during the light story at the end of the newsreel, the compulsory cutesy conclusion to pick you up after half an hour of death and destruction.

"And finally, Apples the racehorse escaped his trainers this morning, leading a chase through Central Park, being apprehended after stopping for a toffee apple from an obliging vendor." Percy of the perfect hair flashed his perfect veneers at the cameras.

Smile, tilt head, look engaging, look sweet.

"That's what I call a real sweet-hoof."

The hammer hit.

"Sweet-hoof." Daria muttered. Oh my God. "You've got to be kidding me." Perfect Percy stared at her with the morbid fascination of someone watching an eminent nuclear explosion.

The theme rolled across the speakers, and Perfect Percy glanced sideways at her. "Daria?" He whispered through the corner of a smiling mouth. "You okay?"

The producer elbowed his way to the edge of the stage. 'What the hell are you doing?' he mouthed furiously, hands clasped together like he was praying to a higher power.

Daria forced herself to speak through her frozen mask of a smile as she shuffled the papers in front of her. "And we've reached the end of our rope for tonight. I know I've definitely reached the end of mine. I'm Daria Morgendorffer."

The producer exhaled audibly as she forced the words through clenched teeth.

"And I'm Percy Longfellow."

"And you're watching the sell-out news at six. All hacks, all the time."

She smiled pleasantly at the camera.

Fade out.

"You really have a flair for the dramatic, don't you?"

"When I joined the station I was going to change the world. I was going to be Daria Morgendorffer, Girl Reporter. I was going to be hard-hitting, uncompromising, the David Frost of a new generation-"

"Because when the president does it, that means it's not illegal."

"-and now I'm just feeling like an organ grinder's monkey dancing for pennies."

"Aw, I don't think it's quite that bad. You probably don't dance for less than singles."

Daria glared.

"Why did you tell me if you didn't want me to say anything?"

"Sorry. I'm still mentally reeling from the overwhelming realisation that over the years my morals and ethics have slowly eroded to the point that I didn't even realise that I'd sold my soul. I was better behind the scenes, actually writing. I can't write. It's like my muse has got up and gone, well, if you don't make better use of me, fuck you."

"I always enjoy our talks. They're so uplifting and cheerful." Jane grinned. "As far as quitting jobs go, that was pretty epic. Prime time and everything."

Daria took off her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose.

"What's worse is that the network has given me two weeks to decide whether I really want to leave. Apparently I appeal to their target intellectual audience."

"Yeah?"

"And the ratings went through the roof."

"Well, we're in the reality TV car-crash generation. The bigger the disaster, the more people watch." Jane said. "I'm just surprised they didn't make you do another take so you could slit your co-anchor's throat with your security pass."

Thanks for the support. Daria sighed. "God, I'm just... eh. I'm sorry. What's going on with the gallery?"

"There. I was wondering when you'd get around to something other than your existential crisis."

"I'm not going to say sorry again."

Jane lent back in her seat, attracting glares from some of the other well-heeled customers in the cafe as she propped her boot on the edge of the fancy, glass-topped table. "Man, are you shallow."

"Ha."

"All the training Marco and I are putting into Bridgette seems to be taking hold. If she's not ready this millennium, then definitely the next."

Jane had met Marco Delgado during BFAC, and she had dragged him along for the ride when opening her own gallery. He was a bit of a snotty bitch with it, but Jane trusted his judgement absolutely in acquisitions and sales. Recently they'd taken on a new girl to cover the galley's expansion, and while bubbly and enthusiastic, she retained information the way a sieve retained water.

"And we've finally got clearance to tear down that wall."

"To knock through to the bank next door?"

"You know me so well. That's why you have to die."

"I can't really see Marco and his manicure with a sledgehammer."

Jane chuckled. "Believe me, that boy may look private school preppy, but he'll knock you flat if you're between him and the new season sales' rack."

"He knows he panders to the cliché, right?"

"Yep, and he has fun doing it." Jane grinned. "You know, I've got it."

"There's probably a pill for that."

"You're hilarious. You need a break, shake up your life, time to get your mojo back and get the creative juices flowing again."

"Would you mind not talking about my juices?"

"Trent and I are going back for the sale of the parental units' house. The auction prospects look pretty good."

"Back? Lawndale?" Daria frowned. "Why are you selling your parents' house? My god, don't tell me I somehow sleepwalked through-"

"Daria!" Jane laughed. "No! Mom and Dad are grey-nomad-ing it up somewhere in Nepal. The house is more or less empty and sucking dry our inheritance. And there's the advantage of stopping Wind's surprise visits and force him to actually cope with the real world."

"Selling the house seems a little extreme just to get rid of your sibling."

Jane just looked at her. "You're seriously telling me that."

"Wait, what am I saying?" Daria raised a hand to her face.

"Hey, you're forgiven. After all, you're still blinded by the arrogance of your own hubris."

"Why do I bother talking to you?"

"I keep asking myself the same thing."

"I really shouldn't-"

"Okay. Then go back to your basement and resume dating married men and serial killers over the internet."

"All right, you bitch, let's go."

It was easy enough for Daria to pack up her life once the decision was made. There was no man to pick up after and no pet to farm off to the kennels. She once had a goldfish, who puttered around his bowl until the day Daria came home to find him floating upside down. To this day she was all but positive that he had killed himself out of sheer boredom.

All her important possessions fit into one backpack, which seemed pretty pathetic even by Daria's standards. After shoving some spare shirts into the top of the bag, she stepped back to view her paltry offering.

Having an identity crisis sucks.

Three hours later, she was on a flight with Jane. A flight home. Lawndale. What the hell am I doing?

"Remind me again why I'm doing this."

"Because it was the best offer you had at the time?"

"The sad thing is you're probably right."

"Cheer up. Trent's already there, he'll pick us up."

"I hope you remembered to set all his clocks forward six hours."

Somewhere in the last ten years, the entrepreneurs and developers had found Lawndale. Strip malls were now boutique stores and the grungy penny arcade was a highbrow theatre housing a troop of Shakespearian actors. There was an independent gallery supporting local artists, and the little weather-beaten town library was now gleaming glass and chrome and had expanded to encompass half a city block.

Lawndale, culture hub.

I must have missed the memo about Hell freezing over.

"So you gonna see the parentals?"

"I'll have to." Daria heaved a sigh. "Dad always tapes every newscast, so they must already know. I'm surprised Mom hasn't been ringing nonstop."

"Daria, you turned your phone off for the flight and haven't turned it back on."

She fished the tiny electrical contraption out of her carryon. "Oh."

"How did you ever manage to function without me?"

"I hired a boy to do all that for me."

The number of messages were ridiculous. Her producer demanded an explanation for her behaviour. Her colleagues were alternately concerned and amused. Her mother's calls were shrill and furious, demanding to know when exactly it was she had gone insane (Daria ignored those, all two hundred or so), and a surprisingly encouraging text from Quinn.

"Apparently they're calling it Pungate." Jane said.

"Oh, please."

"There's been a push to get rid of puns and cutesy sayings in serious news broadcasts. Reporters find it demeaning and viewers find it embarrassing."

"At least some good has come of my alienation."

"You really are a cup's half full kind of person, aren't you?"

After three stopovers and a stupid amount of running to catch their connecting flights, the plane finally pulled into the new state-of-the-art Lawndale airport, a giant cement behemoth that perched like a hunched vulture over the corpse of Lawndale.

Daria grabbed her backpack from the carousel, before following Jane toward the taxi rank.

"There's Trent's car."

Daria blinked. "That's Trent's car?"

Long gone was the busted blue Plymouth with its rust spots and suspicious sagging, and in its place was a glossy black beast.

"Did you forget to mention the part where your brother joined the mob?"

"Hey. He's almost forty. It was time for a career change. Bada bing, bada boom."

Trent Lane was leaning against the side of the car, smoking. He was as tall and thin and lanky as Daria remembered. Spotting them, he flicked away the butt of his cigarette and jammed his hands in the pockets of his black jacket.

"Hello, sell-out." Jane grinned. "You know that's a disgusting habit."

Trent straightened away from the side of the car, face breaking into a slow smile. "Quit 27 times over the last ten years. I've finally come to terms with the fact that it was never meant to be." He gave his sister a one-armed hug.

"Hey, Daria." He nodded. "Epic showdown with The Man."

"Thanks." She indicated his all-black getup. "And how long have you been a member of Greenday?"

Trent just coughed a laugh, and Daria helped him load their bags into his car.

"You coming with us or staying with Helen and Jake?" Jane asked.

"Um, would you believe I haven't even thought about it? This was all kind of last minute." Daria looked between Trent and Jane. "Where are you staying anyway?"

Jane shrugged. "Trent has a place."

"You do?"

"It's nothing special. Just a place to hang, really." Trent said, in his typical understated way.

The car was as lushly appointed inside as it was fancy outside. The dark leather seat hugged her butt as Daria shifted around to get into a comfortable position. She briefly wondered who he had to whack to get it. "Should I prepare myself for the sight of half-naked Mystik Spiral band members wandering the darkened corridors in a drunken stupor?"

Trent chuckled.

"Nah. There's no room in this world of manufactured pop and pseudo-rock for the Spiral."

"You're not mainstream enough?"

"Something like that."

And like that, Daria's brain short-circuited when she saw Trent's place to hang.

Trent's apartment was in a converted warehouse and plenty cool in an industrial kind of way. It was sprawling and open plan, but still somewhat bland like something straight out of an IKEA catalogue. Jane confided in Daria that her brother had bought the apartment for a song before Lawndale became all artsy and property values skyrocketed. Daria recognised Jane's hand in decorations and the hand-painted murals on the walls.

Trent's guitars stood around the apartment, yet seemed strangely untouched and dust-covered.

"I'm starting to get a zombie apocalypse vibe." Daria said. "When exactly did the scientists perform the lobotomy and install the brain implants?"

"Be nice, Daria. You can always go and stay with Helen."

"Fine. I'll cease and desist for now, but I will find out where you put the real Trent and destroy the clone before the sickness takes hold."

"Hey, we've all got to have a hobby."

And that was that.

Jane had the guest room at one end of the apartment, and Trent was at the other. Daria had elected to take the couch, which was hardly as self-sacrificing as it sounded considering that it was dark leather and long and wide and beckoned to all passersby. It was comforting, in a way. Trent may have been more affluent than he had been years ago, but he was still a lazy bum.

Still, the 'no visible means of support' thing was slightly worrying. Did he rob a bank and not tell anyone? No, Trent wasn't the sort for secrets. Maybe he was a hitman. As teenagers Daria and Jane had a huge conversation about the possibilities of beheading someone with a guitar string, and-

Get a grip, Morgendorffer.

That night, the apartment was quiet and cast in shadow, and Daria's curiosity finally got the better of her as she padded barefoot through the Lane abode. The kitchen was shiny and new, and was probably never used as evidenced by the pizza boxes and Chinese takeout containers all over the counters.

A door beyond beckoned. She eased the door open and had to bite off an obscene exclamation.

The room Daria had found herself in was lined with an impressive amount of computer equipment.

Maybe the Mob's cybercrime division?

Daria's inner Quinn demanded she snoop to her heart's content, but her inner Helen advised caution in case she was caught. Closing the door, she crept back to the couch.

Without thinking what she was doing, Daria opened her laptop. Sitting cross-legged on the couch, she flexed her fingers and stared at the blank word document.

She couldn't remember the last time she had done this, and Daria couldn't think of why. Why had she stopped? Why had she just let her most beloved gift fade into the background? When had her inspiration dried up? She used to write professionally, so she had just stopped writing for herself. It felt too much like work.

What if I can't write anymore?

She sucked in a breath, looked at Trent's closed bedroom door.

And she began to write.

'After all these years, it wasn't hard for Melody Powers to spot when she was being tailed. It could have been a coincidence when she was shopping, but when Melody took her old asthmatic dog jogging and they hurried to catch up, there was no other possible explanations. In their suits and dark glasses they couldn't have stood out more.

Amateurs.

Her front door was open. Maximus growled softly beside her.

A young man in a blue suit was standing in the middle of her kitchen, holding the pearl-handled pistol Eduard had given her the week before he was killed.

"Ms Powers." He turned to her. "Codename Melody. My name is Frost."

"That's your real name?"

His smile was as cold as his call sign. "I work for Devereux."

Melody's lips thinned at the mention of her former captain's name. "Not my business."

Maximus inched toward Frost, waiting for the word to attack. The young agent looked completely at ease, and Melody knew that if he worked for Devereux, Frost was fully armed as well as being an expert in multiple hand to hand disciplines. To simply bulrush him would be suicide.

He had all the training she had.

"He was terminated. Because of Operation Chimera."

"No one's left alive from Chimera."

"Devereux was." Frost said flatly. "And so are you."

A barrage of bullets punched through the walls, and an instant later Frost reacted, tackling Melody to the floor as they were showered with shards of glass.

"They're early." The young agent grunted. He grabbed Melody's hand and hauled her to her feet, more strength in his wiry frame than she expected. "Time to get to work."

Melody whistled for Maximus.

Well, retirement was getting old anyway.'

When Daria stopped writing in the early hours of the morning, Melody Powers, pulled out of her cosy suburban life, had racked up a body count of nine.

The muse was back.

Trent and Jane were in a last minute meeting with the realtor, something Daria still had trouble believing herself. The notion of Trent and paperwork was something that just simply did not compute in her worldview.

Now she was technically unemployed, she could have hung around the apartment all day in her pyjamas eating last night's pizza, or finally run the gauntlet and brave the parents.

The walk from the newer part of town out to the older suburbs was longer than Daria remembered. Many of the old landmarks from her teenage years were assimilated into new developments or gone entirely, and now the house owned by Helen and Jake was nestled between two looming McMansions.

It was ten o'clock on a Saturday morning, so there was no reason why they shouldn't be home, but for whatever reason Daria hovered in the driveway, dithering like an idiot.

Grow some balls, Morgendorffer.

Steeling herself, Daria marched up the driveway and knocked on the door.

Why are you knocking on your own door, you dork?

There was a muffled shout from within, and something tumbled to the ground.

"Damn idiot coffee machine!"

"Jake, be careful! We don't need it to explode like the last one!"

The door opened, and Helen was standing there, phone pressed to her ear.

She looked her daughter up and down, and Daria guessed she wasn't impressed by her orange sweater and dark slacks.

"Oh, it's you."

"Always nice to see you as well, Mother." Daria deadpanned. "I thought you were retiring."

"Scaling back, not retiring." Helen said shortly. "What? No, Jasmine, it's just my daughter. No, the other one. Yes, the one from the TV."

Her mom ushered her into the house. Jake Morgendorffer looked up from his weekend edition from the paper.

"Hey, kiddo!" His enthusiasm was unbridled, like a puppy. A giant, manic-depressive puppy who didn't realise he was wrecking up the furniture and piddling on the floor.

"Hi, Dad."

"Want some coffee? I think I'm finally getting the hang of that dang devil machine your sister sent up for last Christmas."

Daria went hunting for a cup. "Quinn sent you a coffee machine?"

"Said the tinned stuff gives her hives." Jake grimaced.

"Poor delicate flower, however does she survive this harsh life of instant coffee and powdered milk?" She pulled out her familiar chair at the table. "She starts making a little bit of money and suddenly it's silk sheets and gourmet food all the way." Quinn was now the manager of a formalwear boutique she had started with her college roommate. She and her husband still lived in Lawndale, in one of the new developments. "Who's Jasmine?"

Her dad's nose wrinkled slightly. "Jasmine Schrecter, Eric's niece. Took over his spot at the firm."

"Before or after Eric was dragged off in one of those white jackets with the stylishly long sleeves?"

Jake chuckled to himself. "Saw your dramatic exit."

Daria grimaced.

"You mom's not taking it well."

Well, she knew that. "And... how are you taking it?" It surprised Daria that she actually cared about her father's answer.

Her dad very deliberately folded the paper and folded his hands on top. "I can't say it wasn't expected."

"Thanks." She said dryly.

Jake frowned. "That's not what I mean, Daria."

Her expression softened. "Yeah, I know."

He grinned at her. "Really, kid? Honestly, I'm surprised you hadn't thrown anything at your writers before now. The dog show one really got me. 'Everyone's a wiener'."

"And what you don't know is that I almost slit the writer's throat for that." She smiled wryly. "Me, too."

So that was that.

"So, how have you been?"

"Hangin' in there. You know?" Jake shrugged. "You staying with the Lanes?"

"Yeah. I need to get my head back into the game, and I didn't think it would do either of us any good to impose myself on Mother's lack-of-goodwill." Daria cocked her head to the side. "How did you know I was staying with the Lanes?"

"You are actually my daughter." Jake said. "But I see that Trent around sometimes, we talk. Really turned his life around, after..." He trailed off. "Well, when you're about to turn 40 and it just hits you that your life has gone nowhere, you tend to re-evaluate things."

"You're not thinking about another career change, are you?"

"Kiddo, I've already had two heart attacks."

Daria smiled at her father, and that was when her mother strode into the kitchen, phone tucked away for now. Helen stood there for a moment beside the counter, face tight and hands on her hips.

Oh, here it comes.

Jake stood, tucking his paper underneath his arm. "Well, I better get a move on and finish cleaning the..."

"Attic?" Daria offered.

"Right! The attic."

The corner of Daria's mouth lifted in a smile. "Coward."

Jake flashed a grin, before scooting out of the kitchen with all the subtlety of a moose on an airplane.

Helen just looked at her.

"You have some explaining to do, young lady."

Daria sighed. "I'm not 14, Mom."

"No, you're turning 34! How do you expect to find another job at your age in this economy? And don't think for a moment that you're going to move back in here with us."

"But I already changed my postal address." Daria's eyes narrowed. "I have standards, Mother. I wouldn't torture either one of us like that."

Slowly Helen sank down into her chair.

"Daria, you know I only say these things because I love you and want you to succeed."

"I know, Mom." She sighed. "I just couldn't swallow my standards anymore under the pretence that I was somehow doing good by reporting on manufactured stories masquerading as news."

"I know."

"What? Then why -"

"Daria, every parent worth their salt wants their child to be looked after."

"Mom, it's not like I blew 15 years' worth of savings on corndogs and bubblegum."

"I suppose I deluded myself into thinking that after everything you were finally happy."

"I was happy. Well, reasonably content. Until I started saying things that the fair-feathered friends of the poultry union had egg on their faces."

At that, her mother smiled. "It still surprises me that you never maimed anyone after that one."

"So people keep telling me. I have no idea why."

"Of course, dear."