Disclaimer: "Dark Angel " and all its characters belong to James Cameron and probably the stupid people at FOX who cancelled the show.

Author's Note: I was struck with inspiration after watching "Freak Nation." I might continue this story if I get good feedback from readers. I have a lot of great ideas I want to incorporate. This is the revised version, because spellcheck is stupid and started correcting things that weren't wrong in the first place. Pairings will come later in the story, but I'll probably stick to the most logical pairings. Thanks in advance for any and all reviews.

Dedication: For Konstantine.

The Gift of Daylight

Chapter 1: Good Mourning

"Before the dawn, you are the destruction."

Location: Terminal City. Inside Warehouse 2: "the recreational room."
Time: 4:23 PM PST

In Seattle, somewhere on the outskirts of town lay Terminal City; dirty, dusty, worn down, and closed off. It surely wasn't a tourist attraction, and in fact, it resembled a ghost town more than a city. People were forbidden to enter it, and as anyone walked or drove by, it rarely merited even a glance. At the moment, however, Terminal City was attracting the most attention than any other location in America. Past the police cars, FBI vans, and other miscellaneous vehicles, past the news crews, protestors, and the rusted metal fence, beside the lobby area, and after the first warehouse was ... warehouse 2; extremely dim-litted, full of chatter, and serving as a makeshift casino.
"I'll take your bags of hydrogenated pork product and raise you ..." he paused briefly to reach for an orange box, "a box of processed cheese crackers." The said box was placed in the middle of the table, amongst the bags of other junk food for all the poker players to see. Each stared eagerly at the jackpot, tensing their muscles and glancing from their cards to each other's faces.
"So, let's see 'em, boys," announced the ever cocky Alec aka X9-494 with a grin.
"Damn, I fold," said one transgenic in the corner, throwing down his cards dejectedly and walking off. The others quit as well, but didn't leave in such an angry fashion. Joshua, who was still holding onto his cards, eventually folded after Alec told him it wasn't possible to have eight cards at once in Poker. Everyone else turned their attention to the two remaining players, Alec and Mole, and watched silently as the two of them prepared to reveal their cards. There was some whispering in the crowd, most of them inquiring what exactly this 'Poker' thing was.
"Full ... house," announced Mole gruffly, spreading his cards out on the table with a triumphant look on his face. "Nice playing with you, pretty boy. At this rate, I'll never go hungry again," he announced, placing his hand on the food and pulling it towards himself.
"Wait wait wait, not so fast," Alec interrupted. Alec's grin, which never seemed to falter, actually grew wider. He leaned his neck to the side to crack it, then placed his cards face up on the table. "Hate to break it to ya, Mole. But I've got ... a royal flush. I win."
"A ... wait, what? A full house beats a royal flush," argued Mole, pulling the cigar out of his mouth to blow some smoke out.
"No no no, you see, a royal flush is the best thing you can get in poker," countered Alec, placing his hand on the food and pulling it in his direction.
"Says WHO?" demanded Mole, jumping to a stand. He slammed his fist on the table so that the chips and bags of junk food jumped up a bit.
"SAYS MR. POKER," replied Alec, shooting to his feet also. He contemplated slamming his fist into the table, but at the last minute, settled for a meek slap instead. Hey, it was a nice table after all, and if they ever got out of this mess, he could pawn it for a few bucks.
"Well then, if Mr. Poker has a problem with my house beating your flush, he can come SAY IT TO MY FACE," Mole retorted.
Before long, the two of them were engaged in a shouting match which caught the attention of many more transgenics. The crowd which had densely collected around the poker table doubled in size, most anxiously anticipating a brawl coming on. Hardly anyone knew the rules of Poker, but that didn't really matter. Ever since Terminal City's lockdown by the Seattle P.D., any event that didn't resemble sleeping was considered very interesting.
Outside Warehouse 2 were approximately fourteen more beaten down warehouses, bringing the total to fifteen. During this needy time, each building served its own purpose. Most were used for lodging, but number eight served as the armory and number seven was made into a temporary HQ. Right below Terminal City, in the sewers, were a complicated maze of tunnels. One direction led to the ocean, while the other led outside the City. After raising what was now considered the official Transgenic/Manticore flag (courtesy of Joshua) on the top of one of the abandoned buildings, and fortifying the exits by assigning transgenics to sentinel duty, Max was fairly positive nobody would be getting in anytime soon. The problem now was how to get out.
"Hey Max, have you seen the TV remote?" Sketchy shouted from the couch. He was surfing the channels to check for any new news. Or at least, he was trying to.
"Shut up, foo. Can't you see she's busy?" Original Cindy snapped at him, before quickly slapping the remote to his chest. "Here."
"Ooof," he twitched a bit, then grinned. "Thanks O.C. Do you think I'll sprout a few extra fingers or another head in this radiation?" he asked anxiously, as if growing extra appendages was the most exciting thing in the world.
"No. But hopefully you'll a grow a brain to replace the pebble in your head now," she muttered, rolling her eyes. O.C.'s attention shifted upwards to glance at Max, who was pacing back and forth in front of the makeshift desk. Beside her, Logan was clicking away on the only computer he had access too. O.C. frowned a bit, and shook her head. Max had barely slept a wink since the lockdown, spending most if not all her time exchanging phone calls with Detective Ramone Clemente outside and giving out orders to the transgenics. So far, neither of them could come to a compromise— and at this rate, it didn't look like they would anytime soon. Max didn't blame Clemente though, he was one of the decent officers in Seattle that she trusted somewhat. He wasn't exactly a Matt Sung, but he was at least honest and honorable. She demanded to negotiate with Clemente only, but she blamed this deadlock on his superiors, who were negotiating through him.
"Don't worry. If they're smart, they'll take the offer," Logan assured her from the side. His smooth voice cut through her complicated train of thought, but for Max, it was a welcomed interruption. He reached out to touch her gloved hands, his own hands shielded in white latex. "We've got babies and children in here," he reminded.
Reflexively, she jerked her hand back. Then, after a quick glance into his eyes, she let her hand be held. "Genetically empowered babies and children," she replied sourly, clearly agitated by the situation. Max was still dressed in her black leather pants and zipped up black leather jacket. There wasn't enough time to beautify herself, especially when food was quickly running out, and she had four hundred plus lives in her hands.
"But they're children nonetheless," he countered softly, nudging his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his other hand.
Together silently, the two of them fell back into their own individual train of thoughts. Then, after a few minutes passed, Max this time broke the silence. "What is that I see you tinkering with all the time, anyway?"
"What?" he snapped to attention then blinked. "Oh, this? They're color contacts. I figured since we're in the 21st century, I might as well get with the program," he replied with a weak smile. "They make my eyes green though, but I don't mind as much."
"I like your eyes the way they are," she said absently.
"Yeah, but I don't like my glasses the way they are," he replied. "I'm trying to incorporate a zoom-in feature to the contacts, but so far, no luck."
"Keep trying."
The sound of her cell phone ringing cut into their tense conversation. Everyone inside the warehouse, including O.C., Sketchy, and Dix jumped a bit, then fell eerily silent. Everyone peered upwards at Max, who slowly reached for the phone, exhaled, and answered. "Clemente?"
"That's right, Max," Clemente's deep voice replied, fatigue evident in his tone.
"As a gesture of goodwill, we've got three-fourths of what you requested. If you want the other fourth, I've been ordered to do an exchange. Twenty firearms for them," he said tiredly.
She let out a breath of relief she hadn't realized she had been holding. Max paused briefly to give it some thought, then agreed. "Got it. But I want the exchange to be done inside the gate, no snipers at all, and no weapons within forty feet." Pause. "Got the drivers for the truck?"
"All volunteers too," he replied in an awkward, sort of amazed tone. "Trucks are coming in ten, better get ready."
"What happened to White and his group, by the way? Still where we left them?" it was two days since the event at Jam Pony.
"White's out, his agency pulled some strings and got him out, which is more than I can say for the group that was with him. They've been booked for impersonating officers, but I'm not sure how long they'll be in jail with friends like White.."
"... Right," said in acknowledgement. "Oh and Clemente— thanks," she said sincerely.
"Just doing my job," he replied. "I'll be in touch," then hung up.
Max slipped the phone back into her pocket, all the while wearing a smug grin. "Food's on the way," she announced to the relieved bunch. "Hey Dix," she called out.
"Yeah, Max?" the pale skinned transgenic, who looked partly human and partly reptilian snapped to attention.
"Tell Alec to gather a few X's and twenty old guns— empty the bullets, we're not giving them any ammo. Tell him to meet me in the lobby area in 1630"
"Gotcha. Any idea where he is?" Dix asked.
"Probably in warehouse two, arguing with Mole over who's the bigger idiot," she retorted with a roll of her eyes.
At those words, Logan, O.C., and Max strangely replied together with the same response: "Definitely Alec."

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Location: Seattle docks.
Time: 12:45 AM PST
It had been a week since Ames White was left duct taped to a column on the second floor of Jam Pony with nothing more than his drawers on. He had gotten over the physical injuries, but the humiliation was still lingering fresh in his mind, and he doubted it would ever leave. Alone in the driver's seat of the black Lincoln town car, he peered out the black tinted windows to gaze at the ocean and dock. Somewhere in that area, 452 was cornered. He would have her soon. His train of thought was interrupted as another sleek black vehicle with tinted windows pulled up to the side. White quickly got out of his car and adjusted his tie. He was wearing dark shades, but they were to hide the bruise under his right eye and the cut above his left.
A well groomed, aged woman with white hair exited the other car from the passenger seat.
"Fe'nos tol," he said respectfully.
She seemed to ignore him completely, more fascinated with the stars than his face. After a moment's pause, she finally spoke in a very irritated tone, completely disregarding the usual greeting. "Your failures have been most testing on the Conclave, Agent White. You're very fortunate Senator McKinley was able to convince Seattle P.D. to release you. I can't say the same for the Phalanx."
The Phalanx was the Conclave's "tip of the spear," a group of four of the best warriors of the cult. White was most regretful of their capture, but he knew they would be released eventually. The Conclave had great influence in the government, it was just the time and effort to get them out that was a big hassle. Also, once the Phalanx was released, they would have to lay low and stay out of trouble, preventing them from handling important missions. Missions such as acquiring 452.
White swallowed hard and nodded his head, following her gaze out into the ocean water. "With all due respect, Priestess, their shortcomings in battle against the transgenics are not my fault," he replied honestly.
"You were the leader of that operation," she countered coolly.
"And Thula is leader of the Phalanx. Her group's inability to capture one girl must speak volumes about 452. Who, I might add, is now in a more complicated position than ever before. Now it's not just Seattle P.D. who's involved, it's the FBI, CIA, SS, and any other American organization with a strange acronym."
"Point made, Agent White. But I did not come here to bicker or to hand down a punishment to you— though one is undoubtedly well overdue. The Conclave feels that very desperate times calls for very desperate measures."
"I'm listening," White replied, his interest peaked.
"12 of the X5's who escaped from Gillette, Wyoming in 2009 are close friends of 452. Actually, 'close' is an understatement, they view each other as siblings," she recited information he was already well aware of. "Two are confirmed deceased, excluding 452, there are still nine of them running around somewhere. One was checked into a hospital four months ago for electrocution with massive second degree burns and head trauma. Heart failure was imminent, but somehow, he managed to survive with all organs intact. The doctor, strangely enough, did not document this at all. Luckily, one of our nurses did. A blond man, probably in his early 20's, entered the hospital without an identity, and exited as an Adam Thompson."
She didn't need to say more, Ames caught on quickly. "But 452 is my assignment," he protested politely.
"The Conclave does not request your help— it demands it, Agent White."
White knew better than to press his luck with the Priestess, he was already in enough hot water with the Conclave. Though it angered him to no end to be removed from handling 452, he simply sucked in his pride and nodded confidently. "Location?"
"Clatskanie, Oregon," she replied, while handing him a manila folder.
"And what will happen to 452?" he asked, still curious. The manila folder was taken without hesitation.
"If the military doesn't get her first, then the Elements will," she said vaguely.
Despite all efforts to prevent it, White felt his jaw drop a millimeter or two. The Elements? Before he could reply, the Priestess entered her car and closed the door. When the window slid down, White could see the driver in the front, and four other figures (whose faces he couldn't see at all) looming in the back of the long car. "Fe'nos Tol, Agent White— and happy hunting." She signaled for her driver to go, and as the window slid upwards to a close, White could swear he saw the Priestess smirking.
He was once again alone on the dim-litted docks, the only illumination provided came from a graffitied dying lamp post and the large moon in the sky. They don't pay me enough for this shit. He got into his car and shifted through the documents he was given; a passport, I.D., money, some other important but boring papers, and one photo. White studied the photograph for a moment, then glanced at another sheet of paper which detailed the person's vital stats and barcode information. For the first time since being relieved of his previous assignment, White smiled widely.
"X5-599— I'm coming for you."

A/N: It's a bit short, but it gets the ball rolling. Continue? Yes? No? Review, please. Thanks in advance.