Author's note (which is too long, so don't read it!)
Each chapter will have an AN, mostly to explain changes made, my view on some things. So get used to self-indulgent ramblings!
Or, you know, you can just skip them ;)
This is my second fanfic I'm publishing. The first one ended badly – I lost interest in it, despite having it all planned out. Then I started making another, only for it to grow so much I decided to make it a completely original work. Another one is in pre-production, and currently "on ice".
Meaning this is my only project, and my only project into which I didn't pour hundreds of hours just to plan things out. Of course I do have a plan, but it's much more flexible, and I think that'll help me, make writing the actual story more fun for me. In case I don't finish this, write me and I will provide this loose outline.
So read on – besides, I think I'm good enough of a writer so that each chapter is worthwhile even if it wouldn't be finished (which it will, I hope).
I'm also not an English native speaker. This isn't that much of a problem normally, but many characters in Dark Angel speak in slang or other forms of English I was never exposed to and thus I can't write them as they should be written. If anyone would like to help me with that, I would appreciate such co-authorship greatly (as would the readers, I suppose).
Dark Angel is also a show I don't know that much about – not as much as about other shows I did (or contemplated) a fanfic before. I watched it once (this week), so I'm not as much of an expert as I would have liked.
(I also sometimes mix up British and American spellings, so I welcome corrections of those as well – in general, all POV characters should use American, and only one (non-canonical) British)
These facts mean that I will welcome any corrections and criticism which I can use and fix things, so please don't be shy ;)
Since Dark Angel had a very Star Wars-like setting building (events and concepts alien to our world being given in a nonchalant way, without explanation), which is a great thing, I created some in-depth explanations for many of these. Sometimes, a part of that will be mentioned in the text, and those occasions will be marked with * (upper index would be great, but that doesn't work here :( ) and explained briefly at the end of the chapter. Eventually, I'll publish entire chapters (like intermezzos) dedicated to fleshing out these events (I can go really in-depth, after all, I consider myself a great world-builder ;) ).
The vagueness of the short explanations hopefully builds some hype for these encyclopedic chapters.
This is also the second version of the first chapter. It is almost identical in what happens, but it was completely rewritten from scratch. The problem with the first version (which only like, 5 people, read, so that was fortunate :) ) was that I wrote it and published it in a matter of 2 hours, and I tried a strange blended storytelling style which didn't work at all.
Now, I think I could learn to write in the style I started with, but I want this to be fun for me, and thus I chose to use a style I'm more familiar with and used to.
I hope you, who read the first version, come back and enjoy this one much more. I certainly do! :)
The city never changed, stuck in purgatory. Faint lights of those skyscrapers left standing, mixed with the pulsing fires of vast slums – and sky of black and gray, where the light of the moon almost pierced the thick clouds.
Nights like these were far too common now. What difference one man makes? None – regardless of his role. No matter how many crooks were destroyed, yet more replaced them – after all, the house always wins, and this house was rotten.
Thinking back, I was just as much a product of the Pulse as anyone else – had the world stayed the same, I'd be just another vacant millionaire, aloof in his tower of ivory and gold. Maybe then I should thank the Front*.
Except – if I wasn't a self-righteous fool, I wouldn't meet her, I wouldn't lose her – in all likelihood, she wouldn't even be dead.
It's strange how victories always come with defeats. While I was only able to stop thinking about her for… a couple hours, if my watch was set right (which it probably wasn't, as its maintenance wasn't high of my list of priorities) – while I could only forget for mere hours, perhaps that admission of her death meant the doubt was gone.
The doubt. Could she survive? She had to, I thought at first. Who else could, right?
No one, of course. A bullet to the heart – that's not something even her could walk off. Lydecker said so, and who was to know better, right? But did he say the truth? Could he be trusted?
No, there wasn't a complete acceptance, not yet.
Yet! Three months should be enough time. And I can't afford to focus solely on the past – there was the present, there was Eyes Only – after all, I did it virtually alone for so long, why should it be any different now?
Because the watch said it was the 16th of November, three months since I saw Max last.
"Logan?" entered a woman's voice (which meant Asha's voice).
"Huh?" was the best I could come up with, torn from reminiscence. I turned away from the window to face her – after all, the city will still be there. Object permanence – out of sight, but not out of mind, no matter how long…
"We have something for Eyes Only," Asha provided a welcome interruption. She probably wanted something, of course, that's how their relationship started and that was the most I could do, and so it stayed that way. "You heard about the VA expansion?"
Who wouldn't, but conversation often stalled, really thanks to me. "President Washburn's flagship policy? Sure I have," I tried to infuse some sarcasm to mask my disinterest. Well, disinterest was the wrong word, she wouldn't have come to discuss a trivial matter, of course, but it was rare to get interested about anything without the word 'Manticore' flying around.
"As always, law is fiction. We plan on taking over an office, give people what they need. And we could also bring some hard evidence, if we knew what to look for – who to look for," she said with a few pauses, hoping for an interjection, perhaps.
On a good day, I'd oblige, but this wasn't a good day, this was Monday, 92 days since… I returned. "Which one will you target?" the words came out struggling against suddenly parched throat.
"Sector 5," which was a bad choice, too close to a police station - "Sector 3 could seem a better choice, but the roads in 5 are so clogged it doesn't matter how close the cops are," she anticipated my objection. After all, I was still in an ivory tower, even if the gold paint has been stripped away, as witnessed by the bare walls of the apartment.
"It's your choice," I cut off a potential moment of closeness while moving to the computer. It was rude, but merciful. I'd have to lie to say there wasn't any attraction here, and it wasn't one-sided. To let that progress would be bad for her.
Fortunately, VA system was easy to crack. Fortunately, cybersecurity experts were the first to get out (of a country who's digital infrastructure – their livelihood – just collapsed). All neatly tied into a single database – they might have even thrown a bow on top for me. Now the usual search parameters – repeated small transactions of some regularity, duplicate ration cards, new cards released without connection to other systems – really, most of this corruption could be uncovered quite easily, if someone in the government cared about more than their own pockets.
And then the automatic queries. Lydecker, Renfro, Gillette, WY. Manticore.
"Well, you won't have much time, right?" Asha nodded in response, crouched over my shoulder, "then go after… Francis Howe. He seems to be the dirtiest. Look for veteran card applications first…"
An eternity must have passed. "What is it?" Asha again had to bring me back.
"I have… a favor," why do I have to remind myself it's mercy not to let her know?
I think she moved closer, "you only need to ask," and the words brought anger, a bit of excitement – and a mountain of guilt.
"Anything… anything you can find on a location in Gillette," a couple of fake cards transferred, which I wouldn't even consider a trail in any other situation, "offline register of Wyoming VA network would be best."
"An address book?" and again, that guilt and shame came.
"Exactly," produced with the best smile I could muster.
And so, she was off to steal from the rich and give to the poor – a mission somewhat perverted by my selfishness.
Manticore wasn't really the evil i sought to fight; they were only a tiny portion of the DOD budget, and defense was one of the few areas of government which weren't perverted after the Pulse.
They were bad, sure, they were terrible, but they weren't part of Eyes Only agenda – they were personal, and that was new to me. My goal wasn't to make things right as much as it was revenge, and the only benefactor was therefore me.
I was selfish, I had to be selfish. If only I could believe that it would give me any peace – but it won't.
Doorbell rang. An almost foreign noise, as people who'd come looking for Logan Cale – Asha, Bling – had keys (did I ever give Max a set?).
Doorbell rang again. I rummaged through the mess of papers on my desk, finding a gun. Getting into the wheelchair – people can't help but underestimate a cripple – I rode to the door, one hand under the leg blanket, firmly holding the weapon.
He wasn't short nor high, his attire – an ultramarine shirt, pastel blue jacket, beige trousers – somehow worked, even if it shouldn't be, his face was ordinary, save eyes, piercing through subtle glasses. He had a meticulously groomed light brown hair and short, darker beard, with seemingly not a hair misplaced.
The best word to calculate this man's appearance was 'calculated' – sentiment reflected in his eyes.
"I didn't think Eyes Only would answer the door so readily!" the stranger exclaimed jovially, with a smile on his lips and focus in his eyes.
Does he know? How? I had to compose myself – fast: "What?" my fingers squeezed around the pistol.
"I am not a… threat" he almost – recited? – with his gaze wandering through the apartment. "We are allies, in fact, different reasons, different means," he lamented, "same goal – and that's the important bit," now he finally looked at me. His manner was unsettling.
"I'm sorry mister…" getting the information as inconspicuously as possible.
"Frost," he readily obliged.
„…but I'm afraid you have me confused with someone," name being out, there was no reason he shouldn't be as well.
"Perhaps," he started with incredulity, "but you were a member of Pacific Free Press, you still operate their email server – which Eyes Only uses – you didn't associate with your peers often, in fact it seems you almost avoided them as much as you could. You have the expertise of a journalist, you have the motivation shared by every upper class revolutionary, you have the equipment and knowledge needed to hack almost everything, and most importantly, you had the cash to back you up," he fired quickly and proudly, smile spreading to the rest of his face. "Well, you had cash until recently," he added.
There was a moment of silence, whose tension wasn't shared by 'Frost'.
"But of course, it doesn't mean you yourself are Eyes Only. However, the fact his high level informants contact you as an intermediary, meaning, for my purposes, you're just as good as Eyes Only," he concluded.
Trying to appear unshaken and confident, I followed: "And what would these purposes be?"
"A message, nothing more," he reminded me of a child with his toy.
"Assuming I can pass one along, what would it be?" this man was dangerous, that much was obvious. And how many contacts were compromised by him? Just how much did he knew?
The name mightn't be enough.
"May I?" he asked and moved to the kitchen table without waiting for the answer – I followed, fortunate to remember I closed the door to the computer room.
Moving an ordinary suitcase (why hadn't I noticed it before?) onto the table with difficulty, he finally explained: "As a journalist, you are of course familiar with the phrase 'medium is the message' – well, my medium are Benjamins," he opened the suitcase, revealing it to be full of cash. This felt rehearsed, as if he planned every move.
For Frost, this was… theater.
"A pay-off?" is this what he expected? And how to get off the script he assumed I'd go with? He had to be somehow shaken, at least a little bit. Frost had to loose the advantage.
"Excuse me? That sure isn't a way to speak to a prospective benefactor," feigned ignorance, feigned outrage.
"Benefactor, huh. Let me guess: you'd like a report for your… private collection?" of course he didn't. Sure, many of the gangsters and politicians (so… gangsters) did manage to delude themselves into believing they're making the world a better place, but even if Frost was one of them, this method of dealing with Eyes Only seemed – it seemed underneath him.
Besides, if Eyes Only was threatening Frost, I'd knew who he was.
"I'm not a groupie, Mr. Cale, and I am not a sentimentalist. As I said, our goals are the same, but based on the distinct lack of artwork on your walls, I assume you're running out of money – out of time. As you can see," he gestured towards the briefcase, "I can help with that."
The conversation had to keep going for there to be any chance of learning more about Frost, but how, when the obvious option was to throw him out?
Finding a solution, I asked: "and what do you want in return?"
"Nothing!" he burst loudly, "Nothing… besides you – or your 'friend' continuing the good fight."
This was unexpected – but then again, this whole conversation was unexpected. This could be good, maybe, but more likely, this was very bad. The money, however, could pay for redundancies in case the apartment gets compromised.
I wasn't sure what game Frost was playing, but it was obvious he approached the situation as a gambler would. What was unsettling was the feeling that this particular gambler could predict where the ball will fall in the wheel.
Cutting through yet another silent moment, Frost added to his offer: "I understand your caution and hesitation, and so I have another message, a tip, a lead. To show good faith on my part," he smiled again, "you should be able to find Manticore in the VA records."
Manticore? How did he, why did he… wait, how did he have the same clue I had hours prior? Could he have hacked… no, no, the security was tight, and anyways, the system always generated a smokescreen of thousands of random database queries and file operations – the chance he'd pick the right one was infinitely small, and he wouldn't go on such a limb.
"Alright," money was money, and it was needed now, with the apartment blown.
"Brilliant! Oh, here is my number" he handed out a business card after struggling to find it for a moment. "Don't worry, I have yours already," he, bizarrely, winked.
"How fortunate," now the sarcasm returned, of course. I grabbed the card, which said: 'Peter Frost, CEO, Frost Estates'.
'Peter' was almost across the threshold, when he turned, for the first time looking concerned, unsure, as he swallowed and breathed before deciding to speak: "Do not trust anyone who comes from Manticore. Anyone," and the he left.
The warning was superfluous. He knew about Manticore, and he knew Eyes Only had some connection to it, some knowledge of it – so of course I wouldn't trust them.
It seemed out of character, and that was perhaps the scariest part of this meeting.
* 'Front' refers to the Green-Red Front, an Islamic-communist terror group which came to prominence during the Afghanistan War, where they supported pro-communist forces.
Their further accomplishments include the anthrax attack on Lubyanka building (KGB headquarters) in 1994, followed by the assassination of the leader of the USSR, Yuri Andropov, and of course a series of attacks known as 'The Pulse'.
The organization largely disbanded after 2011, and is believed to be inactive.