A/N: I do not own Dark Angel. Forgive me my trespasses.

-2014-

Logan felt something drop in his stomach, like a chunk of cement. "You're going to have him killed."

"Yes. Look, the wheels are in motion on this already," Darius said. "Even if I told you more, you wouldn't be do anything in time, trust me. You are not responsible."

"Great," Logan spat, "just fucking great." The spartan living room in the house on East Fifteenth Street had no windows, only a set of sliding glass doors, the deck outside obscured by a set of blinds that allowed light to fall across the carpet in a pattern of stripes, like one that a planted forest or prison bars would make. He felt physically ill.

"I'm telling you this because of my respect for you. I've got my part of this taken care of. You don't have to worry any more about whether it's wrong to help me, and you don't have to publish an article before you have the facts and the platform to make everyone listen."

"You think I would ever rush into something for your sake? Fuck you."

Darius dropped his cigarette end on the glass table, missing the ash tray by an inch. "I'm trying to make this easier for you, but I see that that's impossible."

"Why bother?" Logan asked. "If it's so much trouble." He realized what he sounded like, but didn't care. He fingered the disk in his pocket. He didn't know if he was relieved that Darius was out of danger, leaving him free to do as he saw fit with the information he was collecting. It was simpler to be angry. A man was going to die; the fact had been presented to him like it had happened already, and he could not edit it.

"I'm telling you," said Darius, "because I like you." He looked exhausted in a way he hadn't before. "I used to get fired up when I saw people who had it easy, people who seemed to be able to live their lives without thinking. It seemed so fundamentally wrong to me. I thought the Pulse and its attendant plagues of hardship and struggle would change things, but it hasn't, not in that way. Very few have become mindful. This is still a nation of sleepwalkers."

Logan thought of his coworkers at the Free Press, joking about police shooting rioters and changing around the numbers. How could a public reading what they printed ever be conscious of what was going on?

"If anyone deserves to have it easy, it's you, Logan." Darius reached out his hand, put it around Logan's waist, hugging the small of his back. "I think the reason I can say that to you is that I know you never will."

He moved his face toward Logan's, and Logan knew perfectly well what was going to happen before the other man's lips touched his. Logan's eyes were open, and he could see the texture of Darius's cheek and the fact that his eyes were squeezed shut. Logan closed his as well, feeling that this was only fair. The safe house around them was quiet.

A car passed by on the street outside, and Darius pulled out of the kiss. "I'm married," Logan said. It was the first thing that came to mind, for some reason, even before I'm not gay and You're a militant terrorist.

"You're fairly young for that," said Darius.

"We're getting a divorce. We're separated. I'm pretty sure it's best." Logan curled his hands into fists, feeling his fingernails bite into his palms.

"I'm sorry," said Darius. They stood in silence for a time. "There's no one else here, you know."

"Isn't that tactical exposure?"

"I like to live on the edge."

Logan smiled, first at the obvious lie, and then at the more obvious truth behind the lie.

Darius took a small step forward, arms at his sides, body language open. "You don't usually do this, do you?"

"Most married guys don't."

"Don't be so sure."

Logan stuffed his fists in his pockets. "Do you think I'm a good person?"

"Yes." said Darius without hesitation. "Can I kiss you again?"

His goatee was scratchy against Logan's chin, and his arms were strong. It didn't feel bad. They shifted, and their teeth clashed together, sending a spark of surprise and pleasure down Logan's spine. He pressed closer, but the rock in his stomach wasn't going away.

He drew back, and took a breath. "What about Darren Jakovski? Is he a bad person?"

Darius closed his eyes, and Logan knew what would say. The answer didn't matter, even if it was the truth. He shouldn't be here, when time was so short. He felt for the edges of the data disk with his fingers.

The next day, there was a headline in the Pacific Free Press about Jakovski's death. There had been a car bombing outside his building, early in the morning. The culprit or culprits were uncertain, although the May 22nd Movement had already assumed responsibility.

Herrero had someone else cover it. Logan Cale was out of the office.

Logan drove back to Wild Waves, and sat under the Timberhawk, trying to remember what it had been like as a kid, back when the Old West section of the park looked less like a jungle. The wooden crosses of the scaffolding supported tracks that plunged from the height of a skyscraper. Logan tried to recall what corn dogs had tasted like, but he was tired from the hours of frantic and futile telephone calls after he left the safe house last night, and they had become estranged from his memory, like an exotic cuisine he had learned to love and then lost. All he could imagine was cigarette smoke in his mouth.

He wasn't worried about writing up the interview, any more. That was part of his job. What he needed was to find a way to send the message.

(JUST ONE MORE.)