Of Wolves and Devils: A Dark Angel Fanfiction Story
Side Notes: If you haven't seen or read about my fanfiction Fall of the Manticore, please do before reading this fanfiction. It'll make more sense this way, because it's a sequel to that fanfiction set as a second season to Dark Angel.
For understanding this fanfiction's continuity, there are a few quick things to note.
There are some moderate hints at my fanfiction VR-9. But, reading it is not required to read this fanfiction because it's revealed in brief when it gets there.
There are also no mainstream Dark Angel Season 2 episodes in any way in this. This is mostly all from scrap. But, if you want to watch or read about them anyway, you can.
Episode 1:
Early in the morning, in Seattle…
Surprisingly…Max is in front of Normal's white metal bars grid framed cubicle. Sounding more than a bit embarrassed, she says, "sorry 'bout earlier."
Normal uncomfortably adds, "don't mention it. Finally washed out all your intoxicated obnoxiousness from my shirt."
Max figures, "three seconds to not liking working here: A new record. Ohh. Yeah. And, I'm not anymore. You gotta find some more suckers to work for your pathetic rhythm-free ass. Later." She's already heading out, past the graffiti and the dark red lockers of yesteryear.
Normal calls back, "well, don't let the door hit you on the way…! Out. Wait. Is this a perverted joke your friends came up with just to mess with me? Because I have a business to…"
Max turns around. She bittersweetly remembers the times Original Cindy said she was out…and then came back after it fell through one way or another. Slightly amused, Max faintly chuckles, "no. For real."
Normal mutters, "well, then good riddance! Skell." Max heads out through the blocky concrete archway…never to look back.
Max thinks to herself, "yeah. I'm sure as hell not gonna be missing him anytime soon. Still…better to get that bitch over with before I let it kick me in the ass later."
Then, just as she leaves…Syl comes in from the corner. She introduces herself, "hey. You don't know me. But, I'm looking for a job."
A little too happy with himself for his own good, Normal figures, "well, what do you know? There's a spot that's just recently opened up. We're not officially open for another ten minutes. But, fill this out and you can get back to me tomorrow morning." He hands Syl a pale yellow fairly crumpled application.
Syl looks a little funny at it. But, she takes it anyway.
Normal wonders, "something wrong?" With a little unease, Syl says straight up, "say the inside perimeter of your work space could use a little work. Would that be too much to say?"
Surprised, Normal mostly assures her, "no: That's the first time anyone but me said anything like that. I would fix up the place more, if we had more money." Relieved in more ways than one, Syl slightly smiles, "fair enough." She heads out…swiftly disappearing from sight as bike messengers start checking in.
Normal slightly chuckles to himself. Then, he focuses back on work.
Later, twenty one miles out…
The sun is shining under the smog of the day. Max arrives on her motorcycle…screeching to a halt to the side of a wooden fashioned airstrip. She presses her Eyes Only International badge against a hidden hand pad…which only her cat like eyes can faintly spot without a special lens. It scans the badge and her hand simultaneously. And, a side door automatically opens like a elevator.
Max walks through, as it closes from behind. A pair of security cameras is on the other side, craftily facing directly through two way mirror glass windows from the high ceiling. And there to welcome her…is Logan: With a jet black jacket on over brown. He's leaning against the metal wall, like he often does these days. He says, "hey."
Playful like, Max slightly chuckles, "hey yourself."
Logan points out, "thought you weren't coming alone." Max slightly shrugs, "thought so too. We're all down for being part of your Eyes Only clubhouse for international kicking ass. But, give them some time."
Logan reflects, "still… Kind of a shame. I've been looking forward to being fully accepted in your circle of friends." He starts walking past a jet blue and red striped private plane. A crew of street tough like mechanics in blue and brown is going through last minute tests on the parts. Max walks with him, looking kind of perplexed by Logan than anything else.
Sounding more amused than perplexed, Max comments, "what the hell are you getting all embarrassed about? We were at Crash together, all sober and real like the Jetsons and crap."
Logan reasons, "sure. We all met at Crash. But, now that they know the face of Eyes Only…it's going to be different." He presses his hand and badge to a hidden hand pad on a workbench.
It scans the badge and his hand simultaneously. In mere seconds, the workbench and its sides flip down to become a switchboard of mostly jet black elevator controls and security controls. With the flip of two switches, Logan makes the blackish gray metal floor tiles under them lower into a basement level. Gears churn. Metal floor tiles slide in place to close the opening overhead like clockwork.
Casual like all the while, Max explains, "Original Cindy wanted me to come down and check if everything else is on the level here. Sketchy is sticking around at the "Hellhole of the West" to show Syl around things. And Herbal says it's "a opportunity given unto I by the Most High to rise above the wheels of Babylon". But, he's not much for the front lines."
Logan slightly chuckles, "I'm honored. You and Jetsons?" He flips a switch in the darkness...suddenly remembering that was how it works. The lights come on: Over a large concrete bunker Rec room, with marble colored flatscreen computers at every small wooden table, a ring of red and green couches, and a dark silvery refrigerator like Logan has.
Max remarks, "a girl's gotta have her childhood classics." She's already making herself at home, feet up over the edge of a red couch.
Leaning to the side of the refrigerator, Logan suggests offhandedly, "well…we got three quarters of a hour until the plane is ready. How's a early dinner sound?" Max slightly smiles back, "it's a date."
A few hours after, at Crash…
Sketchy, Original Cindy, and Herbal are at their special table from higher up, with carburetor like dark silver chairs. Original Cindy is in her jet black jacket over a sleek rhino like sleeveless undershirt. Herbal is in his dark red shirt. And, Sketchy has… Well, red, yellow, and blue streetlight sketches over sketch board white for a long sleeved shirt.
Sketchy turns to Syl, "so, what was all that about?" She's sitting next to him, looking a bit red in the face.
Trying to sound less awkward than she feels, Syl says, "I…heard word you and Normal don't get along well. I just wanted it to not turn into enemy territory."
Original Cindy remarks, "well…he's not "the enemy". He's just Normal: The Normal kind of trippin' cash bent boss that orders around guys like us."
Herbal adds, "think you mean instrument of the Most High, sista." Original Cindy smirks, "Original Cindy's got thinking all her own. But, it's all good."
A little rattled, Syl says, "sorry. But, why were you getting all half pissed about it then?"
Sketchy whispers something to her. It all suddenly hits Syl, "oh. Ohh. Now, that's just straight up gross: He's thirty three, and in his own army recruitment world!" Original Cindy nods, "hm-hmm. You lucky words is all there is. Trying to forget it myself." She drinks some from her glass of beer.
With a elbow up with a glass of beer, Syl comments, "same here."
Meanwhile, on a private plane going over the smog of Wyoming…
Gold leaf lining over dark blue makes up the layout. Several gray black armchairs are in center. Fiddling with her half drunk wine glass from her armchair, Max slightly chuckles, "kind of expensive for a half broke guy out at war with the world. Wouldn't you say?"
Sitting directly in front of her…is Sydney Bloom in a dark and neon blue plaid long sleeved open buttoned shirt over white: With a expensive looking briefcase making beep beep noises. Sydney hints, "maybe. Let's just say he's not the only one that can get rich in the world and leave it at that. For now, anyway."
Slightly amused, Max comments, "really? Must be some payout in it for you." A little impressed, Sydney adds, "maybe so."
Max thinks back to the here and now, "so, what's the dealio with this mission anyway?" Sydney reasons, "Logan said you'd ask me sooner or later. I can go over it with you now, if you'd like."
Max smirks, "and since when does Logan not let his "Dark Angel" in on Eyes Only missions first?" Sydney answers simply, "since I became field commander. He didn't tell you?"
Sarcastically, Max concludes, "ohh. I get it: This is getting back at me for turning him down all those months ago."
Reflectively, Sydney faintly chuckles, "Logan has his ways. But, he means well. You know?"
Max smiles back, "yep. Been there, scratched that itch." Sydney figures, "ouch." Max remarks, "I have feline DNA: I'll get over it. So, what's the mission this time? A warehouse full of guys that don't know how to roll over?" She puts her glass of wine in the cup tray to her left.
Sydney says in brief, "not exactly. See for yourself."
She opens her suitcase before handing it to Max. Max takes it…catching on that the suitcase itself is Sydney's computer.
It has a few manila folders of police reports in a left side slot. But, that's the only kind of physical files here. The bottom looks like a jet black VHS tape deck, with several VHS slots up instead of forward and full of micro-circuits. From the top half of the briefcase is two jet black phone like pads end to end, several antennas, a bundle of wires all over…and a flatscreen monitor with a sky blue wooden cabin screensaver.
A database similar to Logan's own pops up. On one of the digital files is a picture of a woman heavily in yellowish makeup with medium silver dyed hair over her right eye, with her face reconstructed through a mosaic like collection of pictures. Max figures offhandedly, "doesn't seem very accurate."
Not very surprised, Sydney slightly shrugs, "the best we could do on short notice. I put it together myself, from some shots from a testimony she made five months ago in North Lousiana. Her name is Daisy Brooks. A stripper down south in Slimelock. A close friend of hers was shot down by sector police a week prior, caught selling some cryogenics on the black market. And understandably…it hit pretty close to home for her."
Max comments, "and what? She just happened to find a good payphone? Even Slimelock has no payphones." Sydney explains, "no: All the crime bosses carry cellular phones at all times. And, a close personal friend of hers paid one off in hard cash to use it. The friend wouldn't give out a name: Just that they're convinced that Daisy is being blackmailed to take the blame for a Mister Foivann." Max figures, "so they paid off another crime boss, who was more than happy to let them call out to you to eliminate some of the competition."
Sydney puts it simply, "doesn't mean I have to like it. But…pretty much. For three months, sector police in North Louisiana have been brutally murdered. Five so far. A investigation was called for. But, with South Lousiana run by crime bosses…they can't bring anyone in for questioning. So, they've been bringing in travelers from South Lousiana to take it out on. Half of them came back, beaten up. Half of them didn't. And, if the murders continue… Moderate sigh. We're looking at a floodgate to all out war."
Max glances down at Sydney's computer, "and you got all this just from dial-up?" A little nervous sounding, Sydney says, "yeah. They have a lot of muscle. But, a lot of their computers are as cheap as a box of crayons: Dial-up modems all the way."
Max slightly smiles, "nice." Sydney adds, "yeah, thanks. Can I get my computer back now?" Max shrugs, "knock yourself out." She hands Sydney back her computer briefcase.
Sydney continues, "faint chuckle. I'll try not to take you literally. Unfortunately…their computer memory is just as faulty. All records are put in storage every two weeks. So, we don't have all the answers." All the while, Max is looking out the airplane window. She comments, "that's been my life story right there. So…same old same old really."
Sydney highlights, "well…here's hoping history doesn't repeat itself." Max turns back to her, "thanks." Sydney faintly smiles, "no sweat."
Five hours later, in South Louisiana…
Rain has overflowed the wetlands and swamps, reducing the entire state to island neighborhoods and buildings where hills once stood high. The sunset is fading out. The coming night air is cloudy with a heavy damp like feel.
Cryogenically slowed solid yellow and light green waterways, watermills, and cryogenic medical facilities run the cities for super cheap. North Lousiana further up north has turned to industrial oil and cryogenic medical facilities, long after the Pulse in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. With things more southern like in South Louisiana though, crime bosses spanning from the Caribbean to Canada got their foot in the door with double edged promises of respect and financial assurance. And, the neighborhood of Slimelock is one of the worst.
Slimelock is where most of the "slime" of crime go to take in the nightlife. Only trees have survived from the massively repulsive amounts of greenish brown filth that the crime bosses around could care less about. Jobs pay high. But, it's either being a stripper, a henchman, or a slave for hire: No fourth option. Most of the Cajun people and the like avoid Slimelock like the devil.
Max's cover is of a henchwoman named "Lawless" Kylie, who recently has flown overseas from Canada to start working for Mister Foivann "earlier than expected". He's never seen the real woman's face: Only a blurred out image of a face. And thanks to Sydney, she's recently been locked up. All Max had to do is put on a dark red catsuit…and a pair of "Lawless" Kylie's signature dark red rifles on a dark yellow belt that she made very clear she has no intention of using.
Her first stop: A strip club. But, not the one Daisy works at.
Spinning wooden wheels with half naked and humiliated slaves in wet white underwear and stockings tied to the pegs are the nightly sickly spectacle. Green tree like spray painted walls and fold out wooden branch patterned walls surround each wooden wheel, with tables between the branching out rooms. As Max walks in…the song Magic from the Pussycat Dolls plays a happy tune amidst the not so happy cards of crime.
Mister Foivann is sitting there, in all black and with spiked up jet black hair. A gold keychain with a cracked cd on it hangs from his neck. And, two nervous looking ladies in black gowns are cozied up to him: One with curly long red hair, one with curly long dyed jet black hair. Smooth sounding, Mister Foivann says, "so glad you could make it. Why don't you have a seat? Take in a few lovelies?"
Holding back her disgust, Max sits down across him. In a French accent, she insists, "I'm straight. I don't do that kind of work."
With a hand out, Mister Foivann figures, "too bad. Let's talk work." The lady with curly dyed jet black hair gives him a then open glassy yellow bottle of Yukon Jack. Max adds, "better."
Mister Foivann drinks straight from the bottle. Then he puts it down in front with half of it gone. He sighs to himself, feeling relaxed all over again. He exposits, "let's get one thing settled, "Lawless" Kylie. Just cause there's no police doesn't mean there's no rule to speak of. Whatever you do outside of work does not concern me. But, you don't show respect…and you'll be waking up with a bullet in your head."
Max scoffs, "like one of your guys can do better. You hired me to be your sharp shooter: I don't have to take this crap!" She turns to leave.
Mister Foivann slightly laughs, "only a little test, Kylie. And you've passed. And, sharp. I like that." Max turns back to him. She's read up on Kylie's recent arrest records before coming, with Sydney's computer files.
She slightly smiles, "one of the few things we actually share. Where do I start?"
Mister Foivann goes on, "with this Catholic protestor. Hate their guts. Hate the little God man in the sky trying to crash down on my business. Go up the stairs from behind: You can't miss him." He motions behind him, with his elbow just resting there. A spiral branch like set of stairs is indeed in that direction.
Max slightly laughs, "sounds pathetic. Now we're talking business." As she starts up, Mister Foivann says, "sure I can't persuade you to take in some guys and a show?"
Looking amused, Max figures, "unless you're offering henchmen asses for ass kicking… I doubt it." Mister Foivann considers carefree like, "could be next." Max faintly smiles back, "sounds like a party."
She closes the fold out wooden screens behind her…as she comes in to a room with a tied up, gagged, and heavily bruised Catholic priest on a spinning wooden wheel. His ripped away robes are to the side. His eyes are full of fear. Some guys in spray painted tree green are just leaving.
One of them says, "all yours." He hands Max a worn out brown sickly smelling sack. Max adds dryly, "yeah, yeah. Get out!" The last guy runs out. As soon as they're all gone, Max closes the wooden screens.
She takes a quick glance over the room. There's no bugs. But, she hears some men playing cards on the other side of one of the walls. Max takes out one of her comlinks and smashes it under her foot. The priest reactively screams under his gag. Max can hear some faint laughter beyond the walls. Max whispers, "sorry. Had to look like I'm doing my "job"."
She unties the gag before the very confused priest. He starts breathing hard, "a…angel?" Max urges, "no time for a confession. Just get in the sack and hold your breath. I'm getting you out. You understand? Nod if you understand." The priest nods.
Max slightly smiles, "good. This should help." She hands him what's left of his robes to wrap around his lower body. Then, she opens up the sack for him. Wasting no time, Max run charges up the stairs for the nearest backside wooden balcony. With the sack over her shoulder, Max high jumps off. She tumble lands onto her feet, in a pile of greenish brown filth. She sighs to herself, "great: Right into crap!"
Max opens up the bag, letting the priest go. The priest calls back, "bless you!" Max waves back, before breaking into a run.
She then thinks to herself, "sure. The world will be a little less broken now. I get that. Now, if I could just get the crap out of this catsuit's ass…this bitch is good all around."
Max steps into a light blue bricked apartment, after landing from a high jump on to part of a circling around ring of a wooden balcony. She closes the wooden windowed screens behind her. A few candles dimly light the fancy hotel suite setup: With a jet black old fashioned TV set in a wooden cupboard and turned off neon sign decor of red lined stars in front of a big casino styled bed. And in the bed are the figures of two men with dark medium hair and a woman with darker short hair: Daisy's "very close" friends, making out and stuff.
Hearing footsteps, they pause. One of the men turns in Max's direction, "what? Does that not jive with you?"
Max slightly chuckles, "you're good: Just a average crappy night in the life of me. Where's Daisy?" She's going into the closet to change into her very dark gray catsuit. Not far off is a identical bed. But, with one long lighter haired woman sleeping soundly on top.
The second guy figures, "next bed over. You're Max?" Max adds, "yep." He says, "about damn time too."
Early the next morning…
Daisy Brooks is hunched over the balcony, with a fogged out lighthouse upon a white sleeveless top and her silver hair over her right eye. The rain is starting to come down, thundering against the mudding cobblestone roads and dripping over waterways. Max points out, "you look cold. Maybe you could come back in." She's in a ripped and torn dark blue sleeveless top, with yellow motorcycle light like yellow strips painted on by her own two hands.
Daisy Brooks looks a little chilly. She slowly turns to Max, "no: It'll pass. Slight chuckle. And how about you? You're sure up early."
Max stands over the railing herself. She faintly chuckles, "I don't sleep. Besides…your friends are worried about you." Daisy Brooks says admittedly, "sometimes I can't sleep either. Their hearts are in the right place. But, they don't have to be so worried: I get over it like anyone else."
Max implies, "well, I'm not like your average girl. I don't worry "so easy"."
Sounding more serious toned, Daisy Brooks asks, "then what did you come out for? To ask about me and Mister Foivann?" A little surprised, Max says straight up, "actually…yes. So, why don't you just let me in on what's doing so this nosy bitch can head on back home?"
Daisy Brooks heavily sighs, "you promise you won't tell my friends?"
Max assures her, "yeah. I got your back. Go ahead and spill."
After taking a deep breath, Daisy Brooks discloses, "I was upset when Luke was shot. And yeah: We all kind of grew to hate sector police after. I never killed those guys up north. But, everything we have now…all the freedom we got… Heavy sigh. …makes putting up with Foivann's deal a small price to pay."
Kind of awkward sounding now, Max deduces, "so he didn't just put your name up in lights at some fancy night club: He gave you all a place to crash." Daisy Brooks figures, "yeah. Wandra and Galarin…they weren't as lucky as me. If he gets locked up…they might as well be left for dead in this town. I'm sorry I can't help. But, it's all we really got."
Optimistic like, Max suggests, "don't be so sure. I can get you that kind of money: Enough for all of you to fly out. Without the Mister." Daisy Brooks faintly smiles, "yeah: That would be damn nice. That would also take a miracle. You sure you can pull it off…I'll come out clean about the whole thing."
Max remarks, "well, then start packing: Because, the war's not yet over."
Into the coming night…
Blurs of darkness and headlights whiz by, through Max's cat like eyes. Her leg spin kicks into two guys in green sweaty tops and jet black gloves. They crash into some splintering apart crates.
One of them tries to shoot her from behind. But, she high jumps high over to punch him down by the arm length. The pistol goes flying. So does the other guy, straight into the swampy water.
Another blur goes by of Max hopping into his dark brown rimmed jeep…taking off back around for Mister Foivann's favorite club.
Not particularly long after…
Max drives the jeep for a pile of brownish green filth. She tumbles out the door with a brownish sack of cold hard cash. The jeep crashes into a wall on the other side. Trash goes flying in gasoline flames. And Max just walks away like it's nothing.
Over comlink, Max reports, "I'm almost to the site. Got anything?"
Over communications, Sydney reluctantly says, "I don't know what I got." Max exclaims lowly, "what?!"
Sydney is under a red graffiti covered gray concrete structured bridge, on her computer down in Seattle. Red and blue 16-bit dots are all over the screen, blinking on and off amidst stars over the Earth's surface. Sydney admits, "satellites aren't exactly my specialty. So, I hacked into the International Space Station. But… There's just so much junk out there: Just there in space interfering with the readout! Sigh! Deep breath. You know something? This was a lot easier when Logan was running things."
Sympathetically, Max adds, "I feel you. Let's just get this bitch over with."
Sydney starts to say, "ri…gh..t…" Then…static.
Max checks, "Sydney? Sydney?! Dammit!"
On the other side…
Sydney checks, "Max? Max?! Sigh! Nothing." She dials some numbers on the phone like pads. Sydney presses a ctrl button to the left. And, the computer rings. She pulls out one of the phone like pads, holding it up to her ear.
She makes her call, "Logan? It's me: Sydney Bloom. Yeah. And…I think I'm going to need your help on this. Thank you. Just hurry." She places the phone like pad back in to hang up.
Back with Max…
She looks around, fully alert. She's moving around the back of one of many apartments, with only a few feet of island between her and the swampy waters.
And standing there…is Daisy Brooks: Vibrating…and with ripped seams of rubber skin around her shoulders. Only with cat like eyes though is it very noticeable. Very much stunned, Max asks, "what kind of whack job are you?"
In a more mechanical creepy voice, Daisy Brooks says, "Daisy is in good hands: Not to worry. We just take much nǔlì to stay under radar. But, we wanted to draw you out from under radar: Know what side you are really on."
Max puts down the sack of money. She asks warily, "why me?"
The mystery figure says, "you go by Max Guevera. You are also known as X5-452. You are seeing a man who runs Eyes Only by name of Logan Cale. Need we go on?" Fairly shaken, Max urges, "will you just get to the damn point?!"
The mystery figure states mechanically, "let us just say we have been present for years. But, only in recent time have we found you out: What you can do. Who you are. We know you want the world to be free: Free of Manticore and sector police. As do we. Become one of us…and you can find freedom like you've never dreamt was possible." She offers a rubber skinned hand to her.
Max backs away...as the final piece comes together. She realizes, "so it's been you who's been killing cops! All this time…Mister Foivann was covering for your whack asses. And him with Daisy!" The mystery figure reveals openly, "that bì will pay out plenty: Help the good people up North buy up plenty on the black market for the coming war. We hope you won't be on the weaker side."
Max mutters coldly, "then we got a problem. Cause none of them were dirty. And, being on my bad side is not a good side to be standing on." Sounding hurt, the mystery figure mutters back, "your funeral…Max Guevera."
Max tries to punch her. But, she bends 120 degrees backwards: Impossible by human standards of anatomy. Mechanical whirls sound off. In seconds…she kicks Max with both legs without even pushing off the ground. She crashes into the wall…falling into a red bricked bathroom through shards of a sink.
The back of her head and back are covered in deep dark red cuts. Max shakes and groans violently…her vision starting to blur like never before. Max mutters, "that the…violent cough…best you got?" The mystery attacker just walks over the shards like they're just plastic, letting them break under her rubber feet.
She grabs Max by the wrist as she tries to punch at her. And…she swings Max straight through a white bathroom stall.
Max feels painful seizures running through her pulsing sobbing body: Unable to resist the powerful instinct to crouch against her shaking knees, and feeling the worst kind of helplessness creeping up on her. And, the mystery figure stands over her…ready to finish it.