Disclaimer: See chapter 1.
Summary:  Set after "Camera," Logan tries to adapt to life without money. Max tries to help. Will he survive?
AN: I am currently putting together a promotional video (text-only) for Dark Angel Virtual Season 3, premiering at www.pvtonline.com on September 10, 2002. I hope to air this at the start of next week's chapter, so stayed tuned.

This Makes No Sense Whatsoever
Chapter 6: Meo-ouch, Part 2

Logan rolled down the passenger side window and gasped. There she was sitting on the curb by the gas station, shivering and looking small and forlorn. Her skimpy little dress was wet and looked like it had shrunk two sizes. Logan sighed empathetically—now it fit perfectly.

"Max. What's wrong?"

Her head jerked up at the sound of his voice, eyes flashing and hair bristling. Bristling? Now that was strange, he'd never seen her bristle before.

"Wrong? Nothing . . .well, it's just . . .." She stood and began to stalk back and forth across the pavement. "Logan, I owe you an explanation. See, I go through these phases."

"Phases?"

"Because of my feline DNA. Oh God, this is something I so don't want to talk about. You know, cats? Cycles? Well, three times a year my feline instincts overwhelm me and . . ."

"Cycles? What do you mean . . . cycles? Overwhelming feline instincts and cycles . . .? Oh my God! How could I have been so stupid?" He sank his head in his hands. He was such a fool, an unfeeling fool at that. Women were right, men were dense and insensitive beasts. All her cat-like feelings were amplified and he had put her in an impossible situation—an intolerable situation for any feline.

"Of course, you're scared of water."

"What?"

"And I took you through the god dam car wash."

"NO, NO." She stopped abruptly and gazed at him, her eyes full of warmth and appreciation for his understanding and superior deductive reasoning powers. "YES, YES. Three times a year I am deathly afraid of water."  

***

Logan smiled as they pulled up in front of the mansion. Max had graciously accepted his apologies. In fact, as he had explained the arbitrary towing practices enforced at the Cale residence, he could feel her eyes bore into him with acceptance and hear her little mews of sympathy. He would have liked to gaze back at his perfect angel but he couldn't see that far, the inside of the Aztec being enveloped in a fog as dense as that over lake Okeechobee on a particularly humid subtropical evening. Must have been Max's final dash through the car wash as the drying cycle was in progress. He bet that little dress was becoming littler with every molecule of water evaporating from it's slinky surface. Yes, he was lucky to have such an understanding friend as Max.

Hey . . . look at this. Margo had valet parking this evening. She obviously was going all out for the party. You really had to admire her sense of dedication to the company. She had always entertained tirelessly on it's behalf, and this last ditch attempt to rescue the shreds of Cale industries from the ruthless reorganization being imposed upon it was a testament to her drive and dedication. Logan sighed as he reflected on the importance of family and tradition and the selfless efforts and countless sacrifices—for the most part unappreciated, even by himself-- his aunt had made over the years. Shame she was such a bitch.

He handed the parking attendant his keys. "Dude, are those bullet holes?" The young man's eyes widened as he surveyed the side of the Aztec. Logan frantically tried to think of an innocent explanation: an attack by giant hornets with humongous stingers? a shower of tiny meteorites traveling at incredible speed?

"Yeah, they're bullet holes all right." What was Max saying? "See this intense concentration right here?" She waited until the youth, mouth hanging open and eyes wide, had his face practically pressed up against the evidence. "That's where the last valet parking attendant was standing when he allowed this car to be towed." The kid paled perceptibly. "Capiche?" The kid nodded—emphatically.

That really wasn't very nice of Max; effective, but definitely not nice. Must be those feline instincts taking over again, bringing out that species' aggressive and territorial tendencies. How fascinating. It would be interesting to see what other effects would manifest themselves as the evening progressed.

Logan turned toward the house, noting that Margo had finally installed a ramp up the center of the dozen or so steps leading to the impressive entrance of the neo-gothic building. He supposed that was a good thing, but it irked him to have Max's attention drawn to his disability. Still, what was it that Jonas always said? If life gives you a lemon, make a bloody Mary? You know, if that ramp had been positioned a little further to the left so the large ornate fish-pond in the center of the circular curve of the driveway didn't impede the run up to it . . . yes, with sufficient momentum he bet he could catch some air on top.

Of late, he had become very interested, if not obsessed, with Extreme sports--specifically those involving wheels. He was sure he could adapt some skateboarding moves for the chair. Maybe it was immature, but he wanted to impress Max: to still be a guy able to show off his physical prowess to a beautiful, desirable woman. He looked over as Max stalked beside him up to the steps. Maybe fear of water and territoriality weren't the only things taking hold. Cats greatly admired and respected agility, didn't they? Yes, a display of fearless skill and audacity would probably very much impress her right now.

If only he had his grandmother's old eighteen-foot drop in ramp from her boarding days to use in conjunction with this one; man, he could fly right through the front door and not touch dirt until the dining room. But he was getting ahead of himself. One day he would launch himself through the air, effortlessly performing a kick flip frontside, boardside with a double ally to boot, but that would require a lot of practice and a thorough inspection of his health insurance entitlements. He put it on his mental list of things to look into tomorrow.

For now, he would have to be content with just the one ramp. "Hey Max, check this out." He grinned his best boyish grin as he turned his back on the entrance to the house and wheeled toward the pond. A graceful one eighty, a second spent carefully aligning the chair with the ramp up ahead and . . . he was off. He glimpsed Max watching as his muscular arms pumped furiously, propelling him forward at a stunning rate.

Up the ramp he flew and . . . yes, yes . . . at least a foot of air at the top. He laughed in triumph, how could she fail to be impressed by that? OK, the landing was a bit rough, but that senior executive currently under his wheels was one scheduled for reassignment to Muncie, so he would probably welcome and extended hospital stay instead. "Sorry about that sir, lost control a tad on the landing. Narly take off though."

***

Max was being . . . well, catty would be a good word for it. Cheek of her, saying he had embarrassed them both. He wasn't the one who had chased Margo's pouch up the stairs, or the one who had snuck into the kitchen and gobbled up the Siamese's Fancy Feast gourmet canned cat food. Still, he should really be making allowances for her in her present condition. If only he didn't feel that she was being petty, and trying to avoid all contact between them. Well he thought he could cure that. Yes, cats were well known for their jealous streak and at the wedding she had seemed a little resentful of the attention he had paid to his ex-fiancé.

"Hi Daphne. You're looking especially gorgeous tonight." He frantically scanned the room—yes, Max had them in her sights as she silently stalked a waiter carrying a tray of salmon pâté canapés. He caught hold of Daphne's hand and smiled his most charming smile. He could almost hear the hiss across the width of the elegant banquet room and above the sound of the string quartet playing melodically in the background.

"Hi Daphne." Woah . . . that was quick. Max was beside them, waiter safely in tow. Although, if she didn't loosen her grip on his bow tie immediately she would be picking those sandwiches up off the floor.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Max had dropped the waiter and taken up position behind the wheelchair. Her delicate hands rested on his upper arms, her nails gently embedding themselves in his flesh. She was smiling sweetly at Daphne—oh God.

"Could I have a word with you?" Max's voice was sweet and pleasant. Run Daphne, run. Before he could maneuver around the body on the floor—damn waiters, always getting in the way—Max had lead the innocent and unsuspecting woman into the hallway.

Damn, Margo was starting on her speech—he could only catch a couple of words of their conversation over the horrible din as he skulked up to them. "OC usually did it . . . temporary neurological condition . . . very grateful . . . OC would explain later . . .." Daphne was nodding with a sympathetic, if confused expression on her face. It was OK—Max wasn't going to scratch her eyes out and tear her to shreds. His shoulders slumped. Somewhere in the depths of his deluded mind he'd really hoped he meant more to her than that—he was such a fool. Friends, they were just friends.

They traipsed back into the party to hear Margo expound the virtues and strengths of Cale Industries. Max was looking extremely distracted, well who could blame her—Margo was such a bore. He placed a reassuring hand on her arm and felt her bristle under his touch. He was beginning to like the bristling thing. Suddenly, she turned toward him, eyes flashing, and started to mess with his tie. Oh, he must have forgotten to tighten it back up after their conversation in the car wash. He really would have thought nothing of her action except for the fact that she had first stuck her fingers in his mouth and her tongue in his ear.

Smack! What the . . .. Daphne had just slapped her across the face. However, Max hadn't seemed to notice. She must be having trouble with the tie because now she was straddling the chair, a knee on either side of his thighs and a look of intense concentration on her face. SMACK! Woaah . . . that left hook Daphne had just landed had got her attention alright.

"Thanks." Max smiled pleasantly.

"You're welcome." Daphne smiled back.

OK, something strange was going on. Maybe the gin punch was stronger than it tasted—Margo probably hadn't watered it down this evening. He tried to listen to his aunt's impassioned speech, but it was difficult to focus with Max trying to fix his tie and all the slapping and politeness taking place.

"Logan, I have to leave." What? It was hard to hear Max over the noise of Margo belting out "Memories." The string quartet was having a hell of a time trying to stay in her keys. "You stay. I've got to take care of something at work."

"At this hour of the night?"

"Yeah, I . . . I . . . have to . . . Oh God, I really do have to. I mistakenly left Normal in my locker. He might be running out of air by now . . .." Slowly she untangled her fingers from his tie and gave him a regretful parting look. No, he couldn't let her leave like this. Something was bothering her and, to be honest, after their knee on thigh contact he was feeling pretty bothered himself.

He managed to catch up with her as she made her way hastily down the hallway. "Max, stop." She turned and he rounded on her, blocking her path to the front door.

"No Logan, stay away—for your own good . . . for the good of our friendship."

Friendship be damned. He was going to find out what was the matter, even if it killed him. He grabbed her arm. Uh, oh . . . she was bristling again.

"No, no . . . you don't understand. Stay back . . . you have to . . .." With that she placed a hand on either wheel of the chair and thrust it away from her. Logan felt a slight apprehension building as chair barreled backward along the hallway toward the entrance. Oh God, if the door wasn't opened at his present velocity he would soon be bonded to it at a molecular level. He felt a gush of air as he shot through the entrance into the night. Thank heavens, he was  . . . safe? It certainly didn't feel that way as he gazed up into the starry sky, his chair at a 45 degree angle as it dove down the ramp. There was nothing he could do; his fingers would surely be ripped off if he tried to interfere with the momentum of the wheels. Wait . . . something was impeding his rapid progress down the driveway.

No, he was wrong—only the chair was impeded—he himself was flying over the decorative wall of the fish-pond. And he was catching some massive air—at least six foot, grandma would have been so proud. He closed his eyes as he waited for the SPLASH that would mark the completion of his arc of trajectory. SMACK! What the hell? Daphne wasn't out here was she? This was no time to be engaging in perverted pastimes.

Suddenly enlightenment struck—though not nearly as hard as the three-inch layer of ice covering the fishpond. Ice, of course . . . well at least that would prevent him from being immersed in the frigid water. CRACK! Wrong again. He sighed as he sank into the glacial depths, trying to avoid inhaling any rudely awakened fishes  . . . sometimes life just sucked.

***

Max ran desperately after Logan and the chair. She was sorry, so sorry . . .she just hadn't realized her own strength. By the time she reached the steps he was already flailing around in the fish pond. As she jumped in, she could see he was conscious—thank God. "No Max. Don't go near the water . . . don't go near the water . . .."

"Ssh, ssh. Don't try and talk." Gently she lugged him onto dry land. "We've got to get you into the house and warmed up."

"N n n n no. N n n n not going to see Margo l l l l like this. H h h h h home . . .."

With the assistance of a very cooperative parking attendant, she managed to get him into the Aztec. He was rapidly turning a purplish shade of blue. Frantically she gunned the engine and fidgeted with the heater. Oh no, she'd forgotten the heater was shot—literally. She put her foot down heavy on the accelerator. There was nothing for it but to get him home and into a hot shower. Whatever it took she would save him . . .yes, save him from anything . . .except maybe herself. She licked her lips and patted down the hairs on the back of her neck as they roared down the driveway into the night.

Wow, I've really gone over my targeted word count and, as don't like to bother my readers with overly long chapters, I will break here. I realize that Meo-ouch still hasn't reached a satisfactory climax, but hopefully that will be taken care of in the next installment.