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.

The Code of Honor

by

Nevermore

Author's Note: This is a sequel to my earlier stories, The Becoming and Way of the Warrior, and the final part of what I have come to refer to as the Justice Trilogy. If you haven't read the previous two installments in my little trilogy, I would suggest you do so before reading this (as I've gone off on a bit of a tangent with Max's character, it would help you understand far better if you saw where this incarnation of the character came from.) Additionally, you might be interested in reading Time in a Bottle and The Apprentice Becomes the Master, which are two short ficlets that are interludes between Way of the Warrior and this story. Oh, and please take a few seconds to review. It'll be greatly appreciated, especially if you only have very good things to say. :)

Prologue

Max stepped lightly out of the warm tub, slipped into a heavy white robe, wrapped a towel around her wet hair, and walked from the bathroom into the kitchen. She had worked hard and felt that she deserved a treat, and with the night she had just had, only a chocolate shake would do. With a quick movement she clicked on the television to listen to what passed for news in Seattle. In reality, the 'news' was little more than a bunch of stories that had been censored by all interested parties to remove any bits of information that might have any type of relevance. What was left was reports that told of kittens stuck in trees and information on travel pass restrictions.

Mostly ignoring the television, Max started to scoop chocolate Haagen Dazs ice cream into her blender, and then added some heavy cream, malt, a shot of Kahlua, and several shots of rum. The drinking was a relatively new activity for her, but she found it helped her relax after a night on the streets. She needed that.

"Do not attempt to adjust your set," Max heard from her living room, recognizing Logan's voice immediately. Perhaps we'll get some real news after all. "This is a Streaming Freedom Video bulletin. The cable hack will last exactly 60 seconds. It cannot be traced, it cannot be stopped, and it is the only free voice left in the city." Well, besides mine, that is, Max thought with amusement.

"Last night, the vigilante known as Justice killed fourteen street chemists and armed guards at a drug production facility just outside the city," Logan began. "The police continue to lack the ability to oppose this ruthless vigilante, as some wish to support Justice's activities, others wish to hire Justice to do their own dirty work, and only a sadly small fraction are interested in arresting this person and administering a dose of true justice. As long as their indecision continues, this vigilante will continue to tear our streets apart and make Seattle little more than a city akin to an old frontier town, where might makes right and the average citizen will not be able to live in peace." Without another word, Logan's hack ceased and Max was returned to the news just in time to hear about how a dog named Rufus saved his owners from dying in a house fire.

Seems Logan is getting a little more into editorializing, Max decided. And his voice seemed to sound a little... irritated. If I didn't know any better, I would think he was taking my activities a little personally. She sat on her comfortable couch and took a large gulp of her shake. The ice cream was cold in her throat, while the alcohol held the faintest hint of a burn. The mixed feedback from her nerve endings always felt strangely pleasant.

Maybe I should drop by and make sure my old friend is still doing okay, Max mused. It had been over a year since she had spoken to Logan, when she had walked out of his life rather than give up her role as Justice. Sometimes, though admittedly not often, she wondered if she had done the right thing. It was impossible to tell how much drugs she had kept off the streets, and how many violent criminals she had sent to their graves. She had also intervened to prevent three assassinations. It was those jobs that satisfied her most, as she could always just drop by the homes of the intended victims and see the tangible results of her labors. People were alive who would otherwise be dead, and it was because of her. It made all of the pain worth it.

But there's been so much pain, she reflected. She put down her shake and walked into the bedroom, slipping out of her robe and examining her bare body in a large, full-length mirror. Examining the results of her nightly excursions had become a tradition. Fresh bruises mottled her arms and legs, mingling gruesomely with the scars that covered her once-smooth skin. Seven gunshot wounds, thirteen stab wounds, three long slash wounds from swords, a puncture wound on her forearm from a compound fracture of her ulna, scars from road-burn on her legs – the result of two wipeouts on her bike – and burn scars running from her left shoulder all the way down to the tips of her fingers. Had she been merely human, she would likely have been dead at least half a dozen times over, and she knew it. Max raised the slender fingers of her right hand, the one in which she still had full feeling, and lightly caressed her face, amazed that such a large area of her body had remained unscathed. In a year of constant urban warfare, part of her had somehow remained untouched. She was grateful. Without any visible scarring on her face, she could still walk out amongst the 'normal' people.

Would Logan still care for this face? Max wondered silently, surprising herself with the fact that she still cared. She chased the thought from her head, and then began to wonder why it still hurt her to think of the friend she had left behind. And was he really only a friend? she asked herself, knowing as she asked that she lacked the courage to answer her own question. She unwrapped the towel from around her head, allowing her wet hair to fall down over her face.

Well, I could always let it air dry, she thought. Of course, the best way to do that is on the back of my bike. She looked out the window, noting that it was probably about an hour before rush hour really got going. She still had time to get her bike up to speed. Maybe I'll even check up on Logan. I haven't peeked in on him to make sure he's okay in at least three months. It would be nice to see his face again, even if he doesn't see mine.

------------------------

Logan stirred in his sleep and then suddenly opened his eyes, immediately aware that he was not alone. He half-opened an eye and scanned the room, but saw nothing other than the half-opened window that was allowing a cool, light breeze to waft into his bedroom. The sun had already gone down, and Logan could hardly believe he had slept all day. It had been so long...

"Max?" Logan asked into the darkness, unable to imagine that anyone else could have gotten around his formidable security system so easily. "Is that you?"

"No," a male voice answered. Logan immediately reached under his pillow for the 9mm he slept with, and brought it to bear even as he searched the darkness for a target. Unfortunately, he was unable to find the intruder before his wrist was grabbed and the gun was wrenched out of his grasp with as much ease as a lollipop could have been taken from a child. "You won't need that," the voice added.

"Who are you?" Logan asked, suddenly able to see the shadowy silhouette of his uninvited guest, pitch black against a midnight blue background. The man stood about average height, but his features were completely concealed beneath a dark, hooded cloak that seemed to billow slightly in the zephyr drifting into the room.

"A very interesting question, actually," the man responded. "To be quite honest, I'm not entirely sure who I am. However, my name is Rory, if that helps you at all."

"Rory?" Logan asked, searching for anyone he knew who went by the name. "I don't think I know you," he finally muttered.

"No, I don't believe you do," Rory agreed. "We do have a common acquaintance, though. I believe you know Max."

"Yeah," Logan replied, knowing it would be impossible to deny since he had called out his long lost friend's name moments earlier. Oh no, a voice called out from in his head. This guy evaded my security as easily as Max ever did, and now he says he knows her. He's gotta be Manticore.

"Our friend is in a great deal of danger, Logan," Rory added. "I was hoping you could help me help her."

"I don't even know where she is. I haven't seen her in over a year," Logan said, pressing his hands into the mattress to force his body into an upright position. "Could you turn the light on, please? I'd be more comfortable seeing what's going on."

"I prefer it dark," Rory answered.

"Well I don't," Logan shot back, searching for some element of control in the situation. It was bad enough that Rory had entered his apartment uninvited and started making requests. Logan would be damned before he would carry on such a conversation in the dark.

After a moment Rory sighed, walked over to the doorway, and switched on the light. Even as he did so, he pulled his hood over his head more thoroughly, not even allowing a view of the shadows that fell around his face. "Are you happy now, Mr. Cale?"

"Yes," Logan replied. "Now what kind of danger is Max in?"

"The worst kind," Rory said cryptically. "She's lost her way, and now searches for meaning in a life that was not meant for her."

"What are you talking about?" Logan asked, beginning to wonder just where Max had met this man. While Logan's first guess had been that Rory was Manticore, he was increasingly becoming convinced that Rory was something else entirely. He spoke differently, somehow – while Max and Zack had always been somewhat forthright, Rory spoke evasively, almost in riddles. He carried himself differently, also; that much was clear even with the cloak obscuring a full view. Rory seemed almost completely at ease, despite the circumstances. Like Max and Zack, he possessed a bit of a feline grace, but his was more reminiscent of a male lion examining his own pride while Max and Zack had always seemed more like a leopard gathering itself to pounce upon prey. If he's not Manticore, though, then what is he? Who is he?

"Well, Max has embraced the life of a vigilante," Rory explained. Those words immediately caught Logan's attention. "I was under the impression that you are Eyes Only. From your reports, I'm willing to guess you know more about what she's been up to than I do."

"Yeah, that's the reason she and I haven't spoken in so long," Logan said evenly, not replying to the tidbit about his identity as Eyes only. He wanted to see where the conversation was going first.

"I thought she was your friend," Rory muttered. "You seriously haven't spoken to her at all? Not once? Not even to find out if she's okay?"

"That's right," Logan admitted sadly. It had felt like Max had stabbed him when she had admitted to being the violent vigilante known as Justice. It had hurt even worse when she had said that she no longer needed him. The days, weeks, and months that had followed, though, had been a different kind of torture. For almost every minute of the past year Logan had found himself thinking about the friend he had lost, even as he worried about what would ultimately become of her. Every morning part of him expected to hear that Justice had been killed. Sometimes, as much as it disgusted him to think it, he almost wished Max would just get it over with, rather than hold the inevitable over him like the sword of Damocles.

"I'm sad to admit that I am at least partially at fault for Max's decisions in this matter," Rory stated. "I had tried to help Max, to guide her toward a role in life that she felt was her best destiny. I never guessed there was such darkness in a soul that could also produce her smile." He sat in a chair in the corner and pulled back his hood, allowing Logan to see his red hair and deep green eyes.

"You're the one that's responsible?" Logan asked, feeling anger rise up within him.

"I spoke with her a while back," Rory explained, "and I told her that her abilities gave her a responsibility. I didn't think it was right that she should live as an ordinary citizen, delivering packages while people needed someone to help them. The government is struggling to restore order, and is not yet in any position to do what it should. Crime is everywhere, and poverty takes even hope away from the average American. Citizens are little more than victims, in one way or another. Max could change that. I encouraged her to take a more active role, just as you had."

"I see," Logan replied, fully aware of the fact that, when put in those words, Rory's discussions with Max almost seemed noble. The fact remained, however, that Max had gone farther than either of them had seemed to expect.

"Max no longer simply tries to help the innocent," Rory said. "Her quest had become only to punish the guilty. She has embraced the means, and forgotten the end, placing the cart before the horse, so to speak. She must be reminded of the true goal, and more importantly, she needs to be shown what she has become."

"And what's that?" Logan asked.

"She is now almost everything that Lydecker wanted us to be in the first place," Rory replied. "Word even has it that Max showed old Deck just how much she had developed her abilities. I heard he's promised to stay out of her city in the future."

"So you are Manticore," Logan stated, hiding his shock that Max had apparently had a run-in with Lydecker at some point in the past year.

"Of course I'm Manticore," Rory said. "Ever since I was old enough to seriously consider philosophy, I've been wondering what it means to be me. Everything I read was written by men and women who never had to face the questions that I face. Max and I aren't really human, you must know that. We're smarter, faster, stronger, and more durable. On a scale of one to ten, we're both at least a thirteen. How do you explain to people like us how to get by in the world? Who would even know, in order to instruct us?" His eyes narrowed, and Logan wondered if Rory was waiting for him to say something. Before he could even find any words, though, his guest continued. "Think back to how you were as a teenager, Logan. You must have had some doubts, some confusion. At least you had people you could go to for advice. Max doesn't have that. The only adult who ever understood what we are was Lydecker, and he's not the type to inspire one to send a Father's Day card, if you catch my meaning."

"Completely," Logan confirmed.

"As I told Max, I believe everyone has a role in the universe," Rory said. "I'm searching for mine, and I got her started searching for hers. I fear that she's gone astray, though. This is the person she would have been had she stayed with Manticore. The universe allowed us to escape, so it must have been to allow us to grow in a different direction. I have to convince her of that."

"And you said you need my help?" Logan asked, already feeling that his best chance for rehabilitating Max might lie with a man he had only known for a matter of minutes. He wondered why he would even want to go to the trouble of dealing with Max, but there was an ache in his chest that he had not felt in over a year, not since he had last been in a room with her. He needed to help her if he could.

"Yes, your help more than any other's."

"Why?"

"Because Max loves you," Rory said simply. The words sent a chill down Logan's spine while his stomach simultaneously felt as if it did a somersault. The experience was strange, though he could not honestly say that it was altogether unpleasant. "I'm unsure, though, if even she is aware of her feelings, especially after so long. You and I will have to show her a new path, before the one she's on gets her killed. Can I count on your support?"

"Of course."

To be continued.............................