Arcanum:
Something Else That Didn't Fit
by
Kel
Disclaimer: I don't presume to own Dark Angel or any of it's characters. I gain no profit from this fiction, other than pride and joy and hopefully reviews.
Author's Note: I'd like to extend a welcome back to my muse, even if it turns out to be a temporary return. Believe it or not, this effort was supposed to be a spin-off from a Ben fic I started way back when, but it turned into this; the second fic in the Arcanum series. It follows Interloper, so if you want to understand what's going on, I suggest you read Interloper first.
The place smelled of greasy food and strong coffee, which only made him more hungry. He cast an envious glance at a couple in a booth next to a window; not because of their happy grins and laughter, but because of the mountainous plate of food they shared. French fries to their chins, sausages rolling off the table, bacon almost needing its own seat.
Well, maybe his stomach was influencing his perception. But only a little. A small bit. Barely.
When he realized that his legs had begun to lead him off course, he tore his eyes away from them and up to the counter. A fair-haired young man stood behind it, wearing an apron and wiping down the counter - well, he likely had been doing so, but now his hand was frozen mid-swipe and he was staring at the new arrival intently. At any minute the waiter would likely open up and say, Darn, where's that microscope when you need it?
His dark eyes lighting up, X5-213 flashed him a grin. I'm not crazy, really. Stop your investigation and feeeeeed meee. . . . His grin widened when the waiter shook his head like a wet dog, removing himself from his own reverie. "What'll it be?"
213 glanced down at the five dollar bill in his left hand, grimaced, quickly scanned the menu on the wall behind the counter and replied before it seemed he had even thought about it. "Two hamburgers and as many fries as my change will buy me." He slapped the bill on the counter as if to close the deal.
"Anything to drink?"
213's dubious expression was enough to answer the question. How would he manage to buy a drink? Barter three of his fries and half of a hamburger bun? "I think . . . not," he added to the expression, as if he were explaining a complex algebraic equation to a slow five-year-old.
Then again, where he came from, even the slow five-year-olds had a good enough handle on algebra.
"Right," the waiter said, and hurried to pass the order along to the chef. 213 stifled his laughter when the waiter studied the five in his hand and tried to calculate how many fries to order.
As 213 was busy savouring every bite and offering his thanks to the goddess of grease peddling joints, three bike messengers pulled up to the restaurant, chained up their bikes, and walked in. Not really having a lot of choice due to superhuman hearing in a quiet restaurant, 213 listened to their meaningless chatter.
"I just don't think it happens to be fair!" a scruffy male with stringy hair complained.
One of his companions, a beautiful African-American woman with puffy curls sighed, and asked, "What ain't fair, Sketchy?"
The three of them walked up to the counter and contemplated their orders. "It's just that I spent all last night losing money to Alec in pool, and now I have to buy lunch!"
His other beautiful companion, a trim brunette, turned toward him, leaning back onto the counter. "We're just teaching you to get your priorities straight, Sketch! Why would you bother wasting your money on pool, again, when you can waste your money on us?"
"Hey sugah, servin' Original Cindy ain't no waste," the other woman protested.
"Sorry OC, my bad. It's a privilege - one that stupid betting should not get in the way of!" The brunette laughed and clapped Sketchy on the shoulder.
"No, no, no, it's a luxury," Sketchy corrected. "One that I can't afford to buy." His eyes pleaded with them for mercy.
The women gave long suffering sighs that communicated one word strongly: Men.
The waiter appeared to be wondering if any of his customers would ever bother to order, when their stomachs finally got the better of them. The brunette wound up paying for the meal, with Original Cindy pitching in a little. And the six legged soap opera went on as they sat down with their food.
X5-213 went back to his own business, which was eating burger number two, mainly, with fries on the side. He ate like he hadn't eaten in days, and wasn't sure when he would next, which wasn't far from the truth. Call it bad luck, but he was currently picking the pockets of the poorer side of Seattle. Apparently.
He finished with a sigh, mourning another meal gone, and would have left, if not for one sentence from Sketchy that caught his attention.
"So just out of curiosity, Max, why were you late this time?"
Eleven everyday words, sure - but one important one. A memory triggered in X5-213's mind. Dark, cold halls. Deep silence broken by another question. You okay, Max?
213 rose from his table, and moved to theirs. Smoothly inserting himself into the booth next to the brunette, he smoothly disrupted the messengers' conversation. "I'd offer you a drink, but I'm fresh out of funds," he said.
Max shot him a disdainful once-over. "Good thing I'm already covered then, isn't it?"
213 raised an eyebrow, eyes twinkling. She wasn't quite as timid as he had seen her before.
"So, since your 'funds' won't be needed, you can just- " Her dismissal was abruptly cut off when her eyes locked with his. "Hey . . . you're- "
"That's right," 213 grinned wider. "I am."
"You're who now?" Original Cindy asked.
"No one in particular," 213 replied. That was true enough. Until today, that was all he would have been to Max. A shadow in the darkness, an enigma; too unknown to be anyone.
"Guys, can we have a minute?" Max asked her friends.
Original Cindy raised her eyebrow. "Sure thing, Boo . . ." She shoved the confused Sketchy out of the booth. "We'll just be right outside. Keepin' an eye on ya." She gestured to the big windows that looked out to the street.
"Thanks," Max muttered.
213 moved to the vacated side of the table. He studied the woman across from him. She had changed since their last meeting. Her hair was longer now, and straight as a whip. She was thinner as well, and her eyes showed none of the vulnerable, frightened side of her he had seen before. The return trip to hell had toughened her.
"Gimme a minute," she muttered distractedly, and rose on steady legs to walk over to the waiter again. "Two beers," she told him. "Considering past encounters," she said upon returning with them, "I guess I can spring for the drinks."
213 shrugged and took the offered bottle.
"I just have one question," Max began, sitting down again.
"Curiosity," 213 answered, knowing what her question would be. He had always been good at reading people, but he didn't need to be in this case.
Max nodded, satisfied.
"Same question."
"Tired of running. Why speak to us?"
"Why not?"
"Has anyone told you that you're very cryptic?"
"Not yet."
They lapsed into silence, each taking measure of the other.
It was weird, seeing him like this. For so long he had remained nothing but a vague memory. He had always been a pair of grinning eyes in a darkened cell, which she had thought of only on the scattered occasion; when she opened a closet in the dark of night, or when she turned to head back into the Space Needle on those pitch black nights she spent up there alone. Every now and then, she expected to look into the shadows and see him - but only his eyes; never more than his eyes. It was his voice she heard during the scattered moment when it seemed that she would never be a part of the normal world, no matter how hard she tried. It was his voice that marked her as the interloper into a normal reality, where kids went to school and their parents strived for cash at regular jobs, and teenage girls wanted to look good for their boyfriends or potential boyfriends. She didn't belong, and it often felt like he was the only being on the planet who truly understood that. He saw her as the intruder she was.
But now . . . Now, he was more than that. His grin was shown with more than a twinkle in his eyes; she saw it in his mouth, in his cheeks; his whole face. He had black hair, which was no more than she would have expected. Everything around him had always been black. But the thing was, she had never really expected anything. It was as if his eyes were the only part of him that could possibly be real.
But even his eyes were unexpected. They were remarkable. A creamy smooth mocha brown that faded to liquid gold around the pupil, but the amazing colour was so dark that it would only be discernable to someone who was lost in them.
After several minutes, Max spoke up softly. "You look much different. In the light, that is." It was the closest she could come to articulating her thoughts.
X5-213 raised his eyebrow. "Believe me, I pretty much looked the same then. . . . It was just dark."
"No."
"No? I've had a make-over that I don't know about?"
"You're just so . . ."
"Well, you don't exactly look the same yourself, you know." He flicked his eyes along her form. He shrugged. "Curls suited you better."
"What's your name?"
"Nothing."
It was Max's turn to raise her eyebrow. "Gee, nice name. Might wanna work on that."
"What for? So I can sign it on my graffiti?"
"So I can call you something other than . . . nothing."
"You're the one who thinks I should have a name. You pick one."
Max studied him some more, and sighed. "It's really too bad that 'Eyes Only' is taken."
"I can work with that," 213 said.
"Huh?" Max was thoroughly confused.
213 flapped his hand, silencing her.
Max had heard the cliched description of watching the wheels turn in someone's mind, but she'd never experienced it to this extent. His expressive eyes rolled up, staring at his eyebrows but not seeming to see them, almost as if he were trying to turn them around and pick out images from his own brain. His lips moved almost as if he were talking to himself, and he wagged his left hand back and forth with each new thought.
After several moments of this, he returned to their conversation. "Hi Max, I'm Rizzo."
"Rizzo?"
"Rizzo."
"Why 'Rizzo'?"
"Why 'Max'?"
"Has anyone told you that you're a little weird?"
"Not lately."
They fell into silence once more.
So that was it, then. The next event had unfolded, and here they were. But it wasn't just about being on the outside, he saw that now. It was about them being here, in the least healthy restaurant he had ever seen, drinking beer not because he had kept quiet once upon a time . . . but because they could.
He hadn't spoken up for one reason, and one reason only; curiosity. That's exactly what it had been, there was no other word to do it justice. He had wanted to know why someone would even bother returning to Manticore, and now he did.
She was tired of running. Now that he was free because of her, he knew what she meant.
Here was the best place he knew. To hell with missions to foreign strip clubs and sky diving to your target. That was just fun. This was . . . this was freedom. And he was assuming that freedom was a hell of a lot nicer when it was almost free, instead of always in danger.
Freedom was well worth a vacation in hell. As much as it had changed her, that much was still evident. Yes, she looked sad and roughed up, but she was still in this grease pit, drinking a beer.
Rizzo had the answers he desired, and now he had a name for it too. That name was his. His name, and that of freedom. It was whatever he wanted it to be.
If that loose description made any sense beyond his own head.
A sudden beeping noise caused Max to jump. She took her eyes off of his, and looked down at the pager on her belt. "Logan," she murmured. When she looked up, Rizzo was gone.
But that was okay, Max realized. She had all the answers she needed.
End