James Cameron and Charles Eglee own Dark Angel. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned (or any other) copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons (either real or fictional) is unintended.

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Author's Note: This is a stand-alone story that depicts some of the things Alec might be doing while the transgenics are under siege in Terminal City. While anyone could read this story and understand what's going on, the piece is actually intended to complement my story Seasons Change. For those that are reading that story, the events herein occur simultaneously with the events in Chapters 8 and 9. The intent in making this its own stand-alone story rather than another chapter of Seasons Change is in developing more of a Season 3 atmosphere by expanding the storyline somewhat. I hope everyone likes this…

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Three Hail Mary's

by

Nevermore

I'm still completely jacked up on adrenaline by the time I bring my bike to a screeching halt three blocks away from the Sector Five checkpoint. Of course, it's hard to stop the one obvious question that's been bouncing around inside my head for the past twenty minutes – Why in the world did you leave Max on her own, Alec? I guess the reason the question won't go away is because I have no idea how to answer it. It seems pretty lame to say I left her behind just because she told me to. After all, it's not like I've been one to listen to anybody, and especially not Max. So, of course, what do I do? I wait until a failed assassination attempt to start listening, and as my first obeyed order I select her command to leave her on her own. Do you want Max to get killed? I ask myself. A shake of the head chases that silly thought away. Of course I don't want her dead. All I want right now is a scotch on the rocks. Later, Alec, I tell myself. There's a job to do, first.

The X5's all have a serious flaw in their design – the inability to produce tryptophan. Our cache back at Terminal City is running low, so here I am, sent hither and yon to dig up some more. I wonder if I should be offended that when it comes time to find large stores of drugs (or chemical supplements, depending on your definition), Max chooses me for the job. This is probably because of that little incident dealing steroids way back when… I can't believe she still holds that against me.

So whether or not she was trying to tell me something by sending me on this 'mission,' I'm here all the same, outside one of Seattle's many Axis Chemical warehouses. This particular one caters to the pharmaceutical companies that relocated just after the Pulse. It almost seems fitting that I would liberate chemicals meant for these particular companies. After all, we transgenics happen to have taken over these same companies' abandoned installations in Terminal City. What's one more seized asset, anyway?

The warehouse is so generic in its design it amazes me. It's too bad I was raised in Manticore, really. I mean, think about it – once upon a time, some architect somewhere was probably hired to design 'the ultimate warehouse.' What he came up with was a cookie-cutter design that amounted to four steel walls surrounding a massive storage area. And just for good measure, this guy added in a few loading docks, grimy windows (I would swear the windows on Seattle's warehouses are all delivered in that same, oil and dirt-smudged condition), and a skylight that provides easy access for any cut-rate thief. I could have designed that. Seriously. Instead I get trained to become a professional soldier. Of course, if there was really any justice in the world I would have been a rock star. Yep, that would have been the life for me… but instead I'm stuck singing in the shower. That's not to say my cover of 'Big Girls Don't Cry' isn't absolutely killer, all the same, but I don't see it getting me the chance to headline a big-name international tour anytime soon.

So knowing my job, I proceed to the aforementioned easy-access skylight and see a dark room below. Getting in is an absolute piece of cake. The hard part is walking through the damned warehouse, trying to find what I'm looking for. This is the part I really hate about being a thief. You watch a movie about something like this, and they only show you the cool parts. Thief gets in, gets the loot, and gets out. They never show thief wandering aimlessly around a huge warehouse, trying to find an obscure drug needed to keep said thief's brain from misfiring and sending him into seizures. You know why they never show crap like that in the movies? It's boring. In fact, it's so boring that I'm almost relieved when I hear the soft, padded footsteps of a dog. Of course, running into a Rottweiler or German Shepherd isn't exactly gonna be fun, but I'm certain it'll be more diverting than what I'm already doing. Then again, I've never been one for making things too easy for the guards, whether they be human or canine, so I jump up onto a large pallet of compressed nitrous oxide canisters.

The dog definitely has my scent, but I'd love to see him track me down as I leap from one pallet to the next, making it all the way across the warehouse without making even enough noise for that damned mutt to hear me.

"What is it, boy?" a voice calls out from the darkness. Just what I need – a guard. Hasn't he looked at the clock? It's ten-thirty at night, likely just before a shift change… any night watchman worth his salt should be doing the night's paperwork in front of a small black and white TV blaring highlights on ESPN. But no, I get the one damn overachiever in all Seattle. I'm seriously contemplating just giving up on this place and swinging by at MediQuik Pharmaceuticals' warehouse when the guard walks cautiously into view. He looks strangely familiar to me. He's about six feet tall, sorta athletic-looking but not really muscular. He's in his late thirties, maybe early forties, and… "Damn!" I scream out as the guard dog tackles me from behind, knocking me right off the pallet I had been hiding on and riding my body all the way down to the concrete floor eight feet below. I don't know what's worse, the pain in my chest, or the strange, shit-eating grin I can swear that dog is directing at me as he trots slowly over to the guard, looking none the worse for wear. And speaking of that guard, he's now gazing at me down the barrel of a .357 Magnum. Serious hardware for a man that should be growing fat on some kind of police pension as he lives out his later years as a night watchman. I notice a slight lack of balance in his stance – he's favoring his right leg. If I can just get my feet under me enough…

"Don't even think about it," he snarls as he locks onto my gaze. It's then that I notice the huge scar on the right side of his face. Looks like he was burned pretty bad.

"I'm not thinking about anything," I lie, still trying to poise my left foot underneath my body just enough to lunge at the guy.

"You move that foot another inch and I'm putting you down for good," he threatens. I can hardly believe that this guy is so competent. Seriously, am I cursed, or what? This is like going down to the bar and betting a hundred bucks on a game of pool, just to find out my opponent is some kind of world champion. What are the odds of running into a guard like this working a shift in Seattle?

"You here looking for drugs?" he asks, still watching me like a hawk. I look at the dog, and I can still swear he's amused as a pig in shit. In fact, I can almost swear he's laughing at me. "Are… you… here… for… drugs," the guard repeats slowly. He probably figures I'm some kind of strung-out junkie looking for my next score.

"I'm not here for drugs," I tell him calmly, hoping he'll sense some of the sincerity in my voice. Then again, I realize, I guess I really am here for drugs. Just not the way he thinks.

"So why you here?" he asks menacingly. "This warehouse a stop on some kind of tour?"

"Not exactly," I answer glibly. If I can just keep him talking, keep him distracted, maybe I can --

"What did I tell you about that foot?" he asks me, obviously having seen me resume my attempt at gaining some kind of mobility. "So tell me – why you here?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I mutter.

"Oh really?" he asks. "Why don't you try me."

I briefly consider telling him this is all part of some kind of fraternity initiation thing, but I really don't think he'd believe me. Of course, like I already told him, he's not gonna believe the truth, either. Then again, I guess there's no harm in telling him. "I'm one of those transgenics," I say, figuring that's either gonna surprise him enough to give me some kind of opening, or incite him enough to shoot me on the spot. Either way, I'll probably get the chance to move a little. And I really have to move, too. My right foot is starting to fall asleep, and I really hate the thought of getting pins and needles once circulation returns.

"Really?" the guy asks, not even batting an eyelash at that little tidbit. I can't believe he didn't even seem to break his concentration. "I've seen you guys on the TV."

"I bet."

"Get up," he orders as he takes a few cautious steps back. I think I could probably reach him before he could get a well-aimed shot off at me, but then again, I don't know that I want to risk it. Getting shot by a .357 would suck, and from what I've seen so far, I'm willing to bet this guy's one shot would be a good one.

"Fine," I grumble, standing hesitantly to my feet, my hands spread out at my sides as I try to appear as non-threatening as possible.

"Don't try anything stupid and everything should be just fine," he says reassuringly. He looks me over while I stand there. "Turn around," he instructs. I do as I'm told, turning my back on him. As soon as I do so, I close my eyes and concentrate on my sense of hearing. One of the earliest things I learned is that sight is overrated. I don't need to see most targets to be able to defend myself properly, especially in an enclosed area like this.

"You wouldn't shoot a guy in the back, would ya?" I ask, though I have to wonder why I say anything. It's not like I'm a fan of joking around in the face of death, but it seems I always do so just the same.

"Just wanted to see the barcode," the guy mutters. "Wanted to make sure you're on the level."

"You think I'd lie about something like that?" The very thought is absurd to me. "Seems everyone in the city is gunning for us… I'm not exactly big on letting people know what I actually am."

"So why did you tell me?"

"I was hoping to catch you off-guard," I admit. Doesn't seem much point in lying at all here. The guy has obviously been in the military – I can smell it on him. He's been in worse situations like this, and I can't believe I'd throw him too much he can't handle, especially from fifteen feet away with my back turned toward him.

"Sorry to disappoint you," he says sarcastically. You know, if he wasn't the guard at a warehouse I was robbing, I think I could actually like this guy. "I presume you're here to steal some medical supplies for your people."

"Not exactly," I tell him. "I'm here for tryptophan."

"Never heard of it," the guy says. "Is that something we have?"

"I was hoping. If you just let me go, I'll be out of your hair in seconds. I'll get what I need somewhere else." Seems like a reasonable enough suggestion. "After all, if you actually try to hold me here, it'll mean more paperwork. I'd have to guess your night's probably almost over."

"In about half an hour," he admits. "No, I'm not gonna try to turn you over to the cops, kid. You were raised to be a soldier, huh?"

"Yeah."

"I served, too," he says, confirming my suspicions, "and I believe in helping out other grunts when they need it, regardless of whether they enlisted or were genetically engineered to serve. I was a SEAL, you know… Served eight years, came out and joined the Secret Service for a bit, and then went into private security."

"Oh," I mutter, surprised that someone with his credentials ended up doing private security at a second-rate pharmaceutical warehouse. I don't question it, though. I'm still too shocked at the fact that this guy thought everything through enough to conclude that me and mine are fellow soldiers. Most people, soldiers or not, don't seem to get past the 'genetic freak' label the powers that be have stuck on us.

"Follow me," he says. "We have at least twenty minutes before Joey shows up to take over for me. We'll see if we can find some of that cheerafan for ya."

"Tryptophan," I correct as the dog – it looks like a German Shepherd-Siberian Husky mix – falls into stride behind me.

"Whatever," he responds with a grunt. He turns and leads me back to the office, and I'm torn as to whether I should just take the opportunity to run, or whether I should try to overpower him while his back is turned. It would serve him right for being so carelessly trusting. Then again, he's been pretty cool so far. No reason to screw a guy over just because his dog is an asshead.

We go into the office and he pulls up the warehouse inventory on the computer. "Look it up," he says, gesturing for me to sit down at the keyboard.

"You serious?" I ask. I can't believe he's actually gonna let me search the inventory on my own.

"I don't even know how to pronounce whatever it is you're looking for," he tells me, "to say nothing of spelling it. Just be fast."

"No problem," I assure him. I set to work right away, and I notice that he's hovering over my right shoulder, making sure I restrict my search at least a little bit. It's actually comforting to know the guy isn't stupid enough to trust me too much. "So what's your name?" I ask casually, wondering why I even care what the guy's name is. It's almost like a part of my mind – the part that always has me say sarcastic stuff to Max, by the way – craves some kind of normality in this situation. So I ignore the .357 I know is pointed at my back as I type, and I make chitchat.

"My name's Ryan," the guard says. "And you?"

"Alec."

"So I guess you're one of the ones that looks human," he comments absently. "So what does the barcode mean, anyway? All they ever say on the news is that all you guys have them. They never said why."

"The number is who I am," I tell him. "I call myself Alec because one of the others gave me that name. Before that, the number on the back of my neck was my designation. I was just that – a number."

"That sucks," the guy replies.

"Not really," I counter. "So what if I was known by a number? It's just part of the culture I was raised in. You served – you should understand. Different cultures have different names, like the difference between Michael, Mikhail, Miguel, and Michele. Instead of a random set of numbers grouped together to create a given sound, I was designated by a decidedly non-random sequence of numbers."

"Oh," he says, his tone making it quite obvious that he's not too interested in the conversation.

"So why you working here, anyway?" I ask as I find tryptophan in the directory.

"It helps pay the bills," he retorts. "The few I have, anyway."

"But you're a veteran with experience in the Secret Service," I point out. "You seriously can't find a better job than this?" If he can't do better than this, then Max and I should probably have a serious discussion about the transgenics' future. My fellow freaks are nice enough in their own way, but I don't really want to keep running into them every month when it comes time to sign for my unemployment check.

"I also have a screwed up leg," Ryan points out. "Figured you woulda noticed that much."

"Doesn't seem too bad."

"Hurts like a son of a bitch," he tells me. "I can't move quickly anymore, and if I'm on my feet for more than twenty, maybe thirty minutes, my entire right side starts to stiffen up and burn."

"And there's nothing doctors can do?"

"Sure, if I have an extra fifty grand lying around," he replies. "I have shrapnel all through the leg and a couple of pieces near the base of my spine. Surgery is the only option."

"What about the VA Hospital? I thought they were supposed to take care of things like this."

"Maybe back in the old days, but not anymore," he says. He looks me up and down when I turn to face him, and something in his expression seems pitifully condescending, as if he knows so much about the world and is kind of sad to see someone so innocent of the myriad ways in which he'll end up getting screwed. "The VA told me that since I was injured while in private employment, my boss should pay for the surgery."

"And what does your boss say?"

"Nothing," Ryan growled. "Poor bastard's dead."

"Really?"

"Yeah, and his family doesn't feel too keen about the idea of fixing me up since they think it's my fault they guy got whacked."

"How exactly is it your fault?" I'm actually quite good at filling in the blanks, but the computer was taking irritatingly long in calling up the product numbers of the tryptophan in the warehouse, so it seemed like I had a few more minutes to kill with some small talk.

"I was the bodyguard," Ryan says, confirming my suspicions. "His dad actually went out of his way to hire me, said stuff like, 'Nothing's too good for the Flemming family. Spare no expense,' and all that crap. Of course, once Robert Jr. was dead, it seemed like any payment at all was too good for the Flemming family. Cheap assholes…"

"Robert Flemming, Jr.?" I ask. I totally can't believe it when I hear the name. The universe sure has a sense of humor, and right now the joke is at my expense.

"You heard of him?" Ryan asks.

"Yeah, I heard of him." I wonder if I should also say I'm the one that blew the guy up, but I decide against that. I don't see how that would help matters. Yep, good old Manticore had me take out Robert Jr. because he had a taste for women, and the crazy idea that the more top-secret information he spread around the more exotic and in-the-know women would find him. Jackass should have seen me coming from a mile away. So yet again I'm faced with the consequences of my actions in service of my former masters. From a professional standpoint I can't say that catching a bodyguard in a blast is quite as bad as incinerating the love of my life, but it isn't exactly easy to simply chalk up Ryan's injuries as collateral damage.

I guess you can say that Max has become my own personal Jimminy Cricket, because I can imagine her standing here right now, shaking her head in disappointment at yet another bad thing I've done. And what'll you do to try to make up for this? I can imagine her asking me. I can also imagine myself standing there like an idiot, trying to figure some way to undo the damage I've done.

"So that's it, eh?" Ryan asks, looking at the computer screen. I only nod in response. "So why don't you follow me on out there?" he suggests. "I'll show you where it is and you make a quick getaway. Things disappear every now and then, and I can't imagine anyone'll be too broken up about some of that stuff missing. Can't say I ever heard of it having any kind of street value."

"Only to us," I muttered, though I don't even know if he heard me.

"Just make sure Joey don't see ya," he tells me. "And stay low, Alec. You seem like a nice enough guy."

If only you knew the truth, I think miserably. He shows me where the tryptophan is, and I load up and sneak back out through the skylight. I sit around on the roof for a few moments, wondering whether there's such a thing as coincidence. I remember Lydecker telling us that there's no such thing as luck, that there are no coincidences. If that's true, then there must be some kind of purpose to me meeting Ryan. And the purpose is obvious – I have to make amends for what I did to him. I have to perform some kind of penance.

To be continued…………………………