A/N: Next chapter and Joshua finally makes his first appearance. Feel free to review. I really would like to know what you think so far. Like it? Hate it?

Disclaimer: I do not own Dark Angel or any of that show's characters. They belong to James Cameron and Charles H. Eglee, geniuses both. No disrespect is intended to either of them in the writing of this fanfic.

2002

The shot the scary doctor had given me was a powerful toxin, deadly even to the toughest Familiars. Because I could feel pain, the doctor and my mother both thought I was weak and would never survive the test that all Familiars had to pass at the age of six. So they decided to put me down like an unwanted dog. It was years before I realized this, and after that I never spoke to my mother again. I couldn't forgive her, even though I knew she thought it was a mercy. Mothers aren't supposed to write their own children off so easily.

But miraculously, the toxin didn't kill me. It might as well have been tap water for all he affect it had on me, and the doctor had injected me with enough of the stuff to kill a grown man three times my size. The Conclave was notified immediately and I spent the next month or so getting exposed to every poison and pathogen, both natural and engineered, known to man. Injected, ingested, and breathed in gaseous form. And none of it affected me. No rashes, no sneezing, no fevers. They took blood samples after every exposure and found them pristine every time.

My immune system was...perfect.

The Conclave didn't intend it that way when they chose my father for my mother. I was a random mutation. A fluke. A miracle. My only flaw, as far as they were concerned, was the fact that I could feel pain. They decided to let me live in spite of this defect so that I might pass on my perfect immunity to my children.

When I turned six I was sent to Brookridge Academy, a Familiar training camp disguised as a boarding school. The years I spent there ended up being the loneliest of my life.

Aside from the normal subjects like maths, sciences, histories, and literature, we also received special lessons that only Familiars knew. I was only taught the basics before my initiation. No point in passing everything on if I didn't survive, after all. Mostly, my teachers focused on helping me learn the words I would say during the ceremony, spoken in the secret language of the Familiars. It wasn't long before I could speak it as fluently as English. Like all Familiar children, I learned quickly; good breeding.

It didn't take long for my classmates to find out that I could feel pain. It made me an easy target for every bully there. They were sneaky about it, too. Surreptitious pinches in the hallway, thumbtacks left in my chair or in my shoes. At first I tried going to the faculty, but they just looked at me in disgust and said I had to learn to be strong. After that I learned to keep my face blank no matter how much I hurt, and to always check before I sat down or put on my shoes. The bullies got bored by my lack of reaction and eventually left me alone.

I passed the initiation. I knew I would. My immune system neutralized the pathogen the second the priestess pressed the bloodied hilt of the ceremonial dagger to my forearm and etched the symbol onto my skin. I winced in pain and saw the distaste flicker in the priestess's eyes. Because of that, instead of experiencing the pride every initiate was supposed to feel on this important day, I was ashamed. It didn't matter that I passed the test without any signs of illness. I would always be seen as something less.

2022

I decided to rent a car, since I wasn't sure my old Ford could make the trip to Seattle. I made my way into Sector 7 where Terminal City was located and parked my rental car next to an old building that had undergone some renovation over the last few months. Even though it was located outside the wall, Terminal City owned the place. It was where the Transgenics sold their wares to the Ordinaries. Turns out, there were a lot of artists among the mutants—painters and sculptors—and their artwork was in high demand. It was the main source of income for this emerging community.

I got out of the car with my camera hanging from my left shoulder and my bag from my right, straps criss-crossing over my chest, and entered the building. I climbed up the stairs to where a small diner was located and run by human-looking X-series Transgenics (Ordinaries were kind of squeamish about who handled their food). It was there that Max Guevara asked to meet me. I recognized her right away; she was the face of Terminal City, after all. She was seated at a table with a handsome young man I recognized as Alec McDowell, an X5 and the first Transgenic to hold a seat on the city council. Both of them were dressed casually. Guevara all in black with a leather jacket, biker boots, and fingerless gloves; McDowell in the latest fashion, conservative yet trendy.

I smiled and held out my hand. "Max? Hi, Skye Danziger."

She returned my smile and shook my proffered hand. Her grip was firm, but not crushing. I couldn't help but scrutinize her, looking for some obvious sign of her difference from normal humans. She was stunningly beautiful, like all X's, but that wasn't enough to mark her as Transgenic. It was no wonder she spent the last decade blending in with the Ordinaries without any trouble. For some reason, I found that unnerving. At least with the more extreme Transgenics—the anomalies and the specialized soldiers—there wasn't any room for doubt. But with the X-series, the only thing that gave them away was their barcode. They could be anyone.

Just like Familiars.

Alec thrust out his hand, a charming grin plastered on his face. "Alec McDowell, city counselor."

"I know. Your nomination was nationally televised," I said, shaking hands.

At the mention of his fame, Alec's smooth grin transformed into a self-congratulatory smirk. "That's me. History in the making."

Max rolled her eyes, earning her an annoyed glance from Alec. I almost laughed at their sibling rivalry.

The two of them resumed their seats and I took a vacant chair for myself, setting my bag by my feet and my camera on the table. A pretty teenaged girl, probably an X6, came over and offered me a menu. I waved it off and ordered an iced tea. Once the waitress left I got down to business. While we had the basics worked out over the phone, there were still some details to hash out.

"So, just to be clear, I will be allowed inside Terminal City?"

Max nodded and handed me a piece of paper that turned out to be a map of the enclosed area. There were places marked with different colored dots: green, orange, and red. "We've worked out the different areas of contamination and how serious they are," she explained, "Green means the area's relatively clear. You shouldn't have anything to worry about there. Orange is for moderately dangerous. Limited exposure only; no more than a couple of hours, and you don't want to visit these places several days in a row. Red is off-limits. Period. You go into those places, chances are you're not comin' out alive."

I nodded soberly and folded the map, tucking it into my pocket. "Better not lose this, then."

Alec spoke up, "The map's just a precaution, really. You'll have an escort while your inside and he's been told to extend you every courtesy." That last part came out in a suave drawl. I was beginning to wonder if it was just me or if he acted that way towards every woman. Judging from Max's exasperation, I guessed the latter.

"That's very reassuring," I said, pretending not to notice his thinly veiled flirting. My iced tea arrived and I added a couple of packets of sugar.

"So, what all does this assignment of yours entail?" Alec asked, slouched casually in his chair.

I took a sip of tea. My eyebrows rose a little; there was actually some flavor to it, unlike other iced teas I'd had in various restaurants, which were pretty much just brown water. "Like my editor already told you, it's a four-part special. I'll be doing extensive articles on daily life in Terminal City. Routines, social dynamics, that sort of thing. I'm hoping to interview as many different Transgenics as possible, get a broad spectrum of the different kinds living there and how they all interact with each other and with Ordinaries. I'd also like to do some side columns focusing on specific individuals. Show our readers what the average Transgenic is like."

"If there is such a thing," Alec remarked drily.

"We're just people," Max said, "Like everyone else. The only difference is we were made instead of born."

"Then that's what I'll show people," I assured her, "Get rid of the mystery and preconceptions ordinary humans have about you. Ignorance is the root of fear. The more people learn about you, the less frightened they'll be."

Max leaned towards me, her expression earnest. "That's why we agreed to this. I've read some of your articles. You get the truth out without sensationalizing it or pandering to the mainstream media. You don't let your own opinion influence what you write. We need an unbiased voice to get our stories out there and you're the best person for the job."

I kept my expression friendly, giving nothing away. "That's why I'm here."

What used to be a simple chain-link fence surrounding the contaminated area was now an imposing wall constructed mostly of whatever rubble happened to be lying around; something this post-Pulse city had no shortage of. The gate was made of thick iron bars welded together, topped with wicked spikes and strung with razor wire. Ugly, but functional. The guards on duty—a big hairless man with pink eyes and an X5 woman—opened the gate from the inside. I entered Terminal City for the first time, escorted by Max and Alec on either side of me. I heard the gate clang shut behind me, but didn't pay it any mind. I was too caught up in what I was seeing.

I'd seen old photos of Terminal City before the Transgenics took it over. It was a wasteland that never got the chance to recover from the Pulse, unlike the rest of Seattle; crumbling buildings, trash and debris everywhere, rats and stray animals scuttling in the open or lying dead and bloated from the biochemicals that had driven everyone away. The only people who'd inhabited this place were those who'd pretty much reached the end of their lives anyway. The homeless and the hopeless.

Now I saw a bustling community. The buildings were still rundown, but they'd obviously been repaired enough to make them habitable. The streets were clean, most of the graffiti washed away or painted over. And everywhere there were people, walking, chatting, riding bikes, puttering along in patchwork cars. It could have been any other city block, if it weren't for the fact that some of the people I saw sported scales or fur or weirdly colored skin. I stopped and took up my camera, snapping off a few quick shots of my first glimpse of Terminal City. Max and Alec waited patiently until I replaced the lens cap and gestured for them to lead on.

More than a few glances were cast my way as we continued down the street. Guess the camera was a giveaway that I wasn't from around here. Some of the looks I got were wary, a few openly hostile, but most were just curious. It wasn't any different than the looks I got on my other assignments, so none of them fazed me.

I followed the two X5's to a nondescript building that housed the community's security force and audio/visual center. Inside the light was dim. I dug out the flash from my bag and attached it to my camera. Across a catwalk and down some stairs, and we reached the nerve center of Terminal City. There had to be over a dozen TVs arranged haphazardly around a variety of other electronic equipment; the control center. The rest of the place was filled with scattered chairs, sofas, and tables, none of which matched each other and all of it in need of a good patching up. Men and women lounged around, played cards, or cleaned the arsenal of weapons that they kept. These, I was told, were the volunteers who acted as both militia and law enforcement, depending on whether trouble came from outside the wall or in.

I was introduced first to Dix and Luke, the two technical wizzes who kept the city running. Dix was what the Transgenics called a 'Nomaly, a failed experiment. His head was lumpy and misshapen with a few pale wisps of hair clinging to it. He wore a strange monocle cobbled together from an old eyeglass lens and a rubber strap taken from a pair of goggles. I expected a harsh rasp or wet gurgle when he talked, but his voice was surprisingly light and pleasant. If my eyes were closed, I wouldn't know by listening to him that he was a genetic anomaly.

Because he was considered defective, Dix spent most of his life locked away in a cramped cell in Manticore's basement. He probably would have gone insane—as many other 'Nomalies had—if a sympathetic guard hadn't smuggled him books on a regular basis. Fiction, biographies, history, and, most importantly, technical manuals. It was through those that Dix discovered his affinity for electronics and that knowledge proved invaluable to Terminal City ever since.

Luke was a goblin-like creature with pale bluish skin and black eyes, hairless except for a couple of black tufts on the tips of his pointed ears. He was part of a worker caste created to do menial work, ditch-digging and the like. Smarts were never a factor, yet he had them in spades, especially when it came to cobbling machines together from whatever spare parts he found. He was a jovial little guy and always smiling, especially when he bragged about whatever project he was working on. Him and Dix worked together seamlessly. They answered my questions without hesitation and posed for some pictures in front of their A/V setup, arms draped over each other's shoulders, Luke beaming, Dix's smile more subdued.

A man entered the room and sauntered over, glaring at me the whole time. At least, I was pretty sure he glared; it was hard to tell with that severe face of his. He was a reptilian, designed for desert warfare. He wore several extra layers of baggy clothes and had a shotgun resting casually against his shoulder. The bony ridges on his head were pierced here and there with gold hoops and a well-chewed cigar stub jutted from the corner of his mouth.

Max introduced us, "Skye, this is Mole. He's part of the core group that keeps everything running and he's gonna be your escort from here on in." And he certainly looked thrilled at the prospect.

"Mole," she continued, "say hi to Skye Danziger of Modern Events."

The lizard-man uttered a noncommittal grunt.

I indicated the shotgun. "Expecting trouble?"

"Always do when humans are involved," he stated drily. Behind him, Luke and Dix exchanged here-we-go glances.

I raised an eyebrow. "Which humans? Originals or Transgenic?"

That gave the others some amusement. Mole, however, just scowled even deeper, the crease between his strange gold eyes like a hatchet wound.

Max's pager chose that moment to beep. She sighed and checked the number on the screen. "Sorry, I gotta blaze. Seems there's always some new emergency." She looked at me. "You gonna be okay on your own?"

"I'm sure Mole will be fine enough company."

Max nodded her head in that way people did when they were humoring you rather than agreeing. "Okay, then. Hope to talk to you again soon." Everybody said their goodbyes. "Be nice," she whispered to Mole in passing.

"I'd better head out, too," Alec announced, "Got a city council meeting in a couple of hours and I need to make sure I'm current on all the issues I'm not allowed to vote on." His position on the council was non-voting, but once the Transgenics gained a better foothold in the political world they hoped to change that.

Alec followed Max out the door.

I thanked Dix and Luke for their time, promised them copies of the magazine with their pictures, and Mole and I left the control center.

"Where d'you wanna go first?" my escort asked gruffly.

I shrugged. "Wherever you think I can get a good feel for the place. The first issue's mostly gonna be an overview of Terminal City. I'll get into specifics in the later issues. So," I smiled up at him, "where to first?"

Mole sighed and picked a direction. "C'mon."

I kept pace with him, snapping off occasional pictures along the way. Like before, this drew some attention from the locals. None of them looked all that irritated, though, just curious.

"So, why do they call you Mole?" I asked.

"None of your damn business," he grumbled.

"'No comment' takes less effort to say," I advised in a friendly tone. I pointed my camera at him and he visibly recoiled. "Mind if a take your picture?"

"Yeah, I mind! Just 'cause the others agreed to be in your little freak show doesn't mean I'm interested."

"Okay, then." I replaced the lens cap and let my camera dangle from its strap.

Mole blinked. "Okay?"

I nodded, grinning at his surprise. "Yeah. Not everything has to be a battle, y'know. If you don't want to be in the articles, that's fine. There are plenty of others who will." I nodded at what looked like a crowd up ahead. "So, where are we going?"

"Marketplace."

When the Pulse brought down the containment systems that held all the biohazards at bay, people literally dropped everything and ran like hell. As a result, there was a large variety of items to be found in Terminal City and some of the Transgenics made a business of salvaging and restoring whatever might be useful or desired. Booths constructed from scrap materials were erected in a wide space where two broad avenues intersected, each one offering something different: furniture, clothes, books, CD's, gadgets. The place reminded me of an old-fashioned bazaar. There were even a couple of stands selling hot dogs and ice cream. I snapped off dozens of pictures and chatted with customers and businesspeople. It surprised me how quickly I got used to seeing the different deformities and strange body types. It only shows that humans are adaptable creatures; what's strange one minute becomes mundane the next.

Mole stayed in the background, eying me like expected me to pull out a bomb out of my bag and try to blow the place up. His suspicion made me all the more curious about his story. What happened to make him so angry and distrustful? Was it any worse than what other Transgenics went through before coming here?

A commotion up ahead distracted me from my musing and my eyes turned in the direction the noise was coming from. There were the sounds of children's high-pitched shouts and laughter, overlapped with what sounded like a large dog barking. Pretty soon a crowd of youngsters stampeded into view, and right behind them was a massive creature with long shaggy hair and gleaming fangs set in a snarling animal face. It would have been a terrifying sight if it weren't for the fact that the kids were all grinning.

Without even thinking about it, I raised my camera and depressed the shutter.

The giant dog-man suddenly scooped up a little boy and lifted him over his head. The kid squealed in excitement and the other kids skidded to a halt. Someone yelled "Dog pile!" and the next thing he knew the dog-man was being swamped by small bodies clambering over him. I had no doubt he could've easily shaken them off, but instead he let out a dramatic roar and toppled over, careful not to land on anyone, and all but disappeared under a squirming pile of children.

My feet carried me over and I realized I was laughing. The dog-man's head stuck out from beneath the pile. My view of his face was upside-down. He blinked up at me with the bluest eyes and his muzzle split in a wide, toothy grin. "Hi!"

And that was how I met Joshua.

And he was the biggest man I'd ever seen

When he spoke his voice was low and deep

But he just didn't frighten me

'Cause somehow I just knew he wasn't mean

-Dolly Parton, "Joshua"