by intodust
Disclaimer: Dark Angel is the property of 20th Century Fox and Cameron/Eglee Productions; that is, it's not mine. The summary's a line from, well, "It's The End Of The World As We Know It," by R.E.M.
- - -
On the first day, the sun was an ember glowing high, its rays spreading out like hands to encompass the world, the universe.
On the second day, the sky was a brilliant blue dome, so bright that it hurt her eyes and set the air vibrating before her.
On the third day, the rain fell like shards of glass from a broken window, jagged and dangerous and sharps as needles.
On the fourth day, silence fell.
- - -
The world ended on a Monday, which Logan said was incredibly apt. That was later, of course, after the shock had ended and black humor became necessary for survival, for sanity. They were laughing in the face of death, thankful to be alive and desperate for a reason to continue.
Ironically, it is only now that she's found one.
There were armies moving through the city, through all of the cities. As far as he could tell, Logan said, they were taking over the entire country. He wasn't sure about the rest of the world; his transmissions stopped at U.S. borders as if a giant force field had been placed there for just that purpose. And maybe it had. They still didn't know what the leaders, the generals and commanders and the nameless, faceless man, wanted.
She does know that she was supposed to be a part of it, one of the troops. This is the reason for her existence, her creation. Perhaps this is the patriotism Lydecker wanted, though as she hasn't seen him on any of the announcements, she wonders if he is dead, too. Maybe he tried to stop them, disagreed when they commandeered his kids, his beloved special-ops children.
She has watched silently as her brothers and sisters, a new generation, gunned down the civilians who didn't cooperate, didn't do as they asked. The smell of blood on the fifth day was heavy and choking, like fire in the air, but years of practice kept her in her place, nothing more than an unwilling observer.
And when she'd returned, finally gone home with the gunshots ringing in her ears, she saw that they'd already been there. They'd gotten there first and he was gone. She wondered which one of the armored trucks she'd passed had held him and if she had known, if she could have done anything to stop them. It's not likely, she tells herself, but she says that she would have tried anyway.
Sometimes, she says, she has dreams. She imagines that she arrived in time to save him or in time to witness his death. She imagines an end. It is because she doesn't have one that she is still alive, she thinks. Because he wouldn't give up on her and she feels it is necessary to do the same.
She says this to herself because there are very few others left to talk with, and even fewer that she can trust. She has not seen anyone she knows for a very long time, for what seems like forever, though it has only been four months since this began. Four months, two days and eleven hours since the televisions went black and the radios played only static. Like the Pulse all over again, they'd said, and then the troops had moved in.
There are some things that remain true, however. She recites them to herself so that she doesn't forget, so that when she finds him, he will know that it's really her. Her name is still Max and she still hates guns, though she holds the Beretta with ease. She still dresses in aerodynamic black and a long time ago, she broke through a window and felt him watching her as she faded into the night.
The sky overhead boils with flame and ash and visible screams. She looks away and continues down the street, past the burnt shells of homes and the concrete structures that have sprung up in between, industrial flowers. They should have been covered in graffiti by now. They aren't. It is a crime punishable by death.
Her footsteps are loud on the cracked sidewalk, though only to her own ears. She is going to meet a contact, someone who says that he is still alive and who is willing to help her save him. The price is high, but she is more than willing to pay. She does not think of the future.
The phone booth is a remnant from another age. The walls are cracked and dirty and the logo of a company long since destroyed is obscured. She is aware that she is a target, but these days, there are few who are not. She listens for the noise that will alert her and watches for movement, for the telltale shift of cloth or weaponry that will alert her to danger. The windows of the nearby buildings provide a good vantage point but will not hide a sniper.
She answers the phone before its ring can sound. The ancient black plastic is warm as she presses it to her skin. She does not speak.
"I've prepared an offer," the calm voice says. It is devoid of any accent, any identifiable features. She hears nothing in the background.
"I'm waiting," she says.
The voice laughs, a smooth sound. Villains in old movies laugh like this, she thinks. It is a show. "You know what we want," it says. They have kept him alive for this purpose, so that she will deal.
"I have money," she says.
"I don't need money." The contact is teasing her. It is only a game, and one that she knows how to play.
"I'll pay," she says. Her words are cool and betray nothing of her emotions, her humanity.
"Tomorrow morning," the voice says. "The docks."
"I'll be there," she says and ends the call before the contact can say more. She will be there. The price is high, but she will pay in blood.
- - -
Away from the city, the air smells of salt and sea. She does not lower her guard. The body is a dark weight at her feet and she waits. The water is a cold gray table, as if even the tides have been harnessed. When the van finally arrives, she does not move. It pulls up next to her, comes to a stop. The engine is silent.
The driver unrolls his window and she gestures with one hand to the body. "Your price."
"Yes," the driver says. His eyes are bottomless. The back doors of the van open and four men step out. They are supersoldiers, like her. She does not need to see their barcodes to know this. They come towards her, marching in formation, and she wants to laugh at their blind obedience. She smiles mercilessly as one of them bends down, swings the body over his shoulder and nods to the others. They return to the van and for one desperate moment she thinks that they are leaving.
As the driver closes his window, the van doors open again and they toss him out, a limp body on the cold cement. She does not go to him until they have gone, until she can no longer detect their presence.
His hands are bound with coarse rope, she sees. His eyes remain closed but she can hear his heartbeat overshadowing her own. She lifts him with now-unfamiliar gentleness and as she retreats, she feels the scorching ocean at her back.
- - -
Midnight is no longer black. The sky is always alive. There is no distinction between night and day; the sun is always covered by flame and smoke and the earth is bathed in shades of red and gray. She stands at the window and watches for stragglers and for soldiers. The room behind her is as cold as she dares allow; the sheets on the metal-framed bed are ice. She stole them from a hospital after they invaded. The others had already been there, but no one had thought to take the linens or the other mundane items that have made her life comparably luxurious.
When they stole him, they left the wheelchair. She took it with her. It is a dark shape in the corner of the room, harsh geometry.
She waits for him to wake. When he does, she does not look at him. She hears him shift on the blankets and waits for acknowledgment and accusation.
"Which one are you?" he asks. His voice is worn and bitter. She wonders how many he has met and how well, if at all, they were able to fool him.
"The original," she says. She has practiced. Her voice no longer catches on the last word.
"Max," he says and when she turns she sees him in shadow. She does not ask how he knows. She does not ask if he needs proof.
"I traded for you," she says. She has no time for illusions and does not want him to find out later. "I had to kill."
Once, the words would have shocked him. Now, he nods in acceptance. His eyes are hard, though no more so than her own. "I know." He does not judge her.
She wants to ask him how he's been. The words die on her lips and he says them, instead. "Good," she says. "Fighting the good fight."
His smile is a knife-blade. It comforts her and scares her at the same time. "Got a long way to go," he says.
"One step at a time," she says.
"One step at a time," he agrees. His gaze is dark and deep. She is not the only one who has scars.
Gunfire splits the night and fades into white noise. She sits next to him on the cheap mattress and contemplates eternity. The war has hardened them both and the end is nowhere in sight.