James Cameron and Charles Eglee own Dark Angel. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned (or any other) copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended (and would really be sorta whacked, given some of the events and persons depicted herein).
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EpilogueDana looked up wearily, setting her eyes on the two Secret Service agents that hovered over her, their burly frames all but completely blocking her view of the slender young man that stood behind them. "Can I help you?" she asked, feeling a lump form in her throat. She had always felt she had very good instincts, and something about this situation seemed dangerous. She couldn't think of any other word that really fit.
"Visitor," one of the agents muttered. Dana thought his name was Richard, but she wasn't completely certain. Not that it really matters, she decided. The boss never keeps any of his bodyguards around for too long. He doesn't trust them enough to let them get comfortable.
"There isn't anyone on the schedule," Dana answered without even looking at her calendar. She had her boss's itinerary for the next six weeks completely memorized.
"This one isn't on the schedule," the same agent replied. "I'm going to make sure it's okay." He walked past Dana, not bothering to wait for her permission. Once he had gone, the young man behind the agents came into greater focus. Once Dana saw more of his face, she realized that he was probably a little older than she had originally thought. Probably about twenty-five, she decided, giving him a thorough once-over. And he's got a nice butt, she decided as he turned in front of her, seeming to take in every bit of his surroundings.
Dana almost gasped as her gaze glided from his posterior up past his thin waist and athletically built shoulders. He doesn't have a barcode! she realized. Her mind did a double take, and she found herself staring at the base of his skull, searching for the mark that she couldn't imagine wasn't there. She quickly shifted her gaze down to the back of his right hand, just to be sure, and once more noticed the conspicuous lack of a genetic tag. How could he not have a barcode?
Ever since 2126, when the UN passed Resolution 81/599, the so-called 'Registration Resolution,' every human in the world had been given a thorough genetic analysis and then branded with a barcode. It was the one and only way that humanity had been able to purge itself of the Familiars, the breeding cult that had declared its own private war against the rest of the species. And somehow, years and years later, this guy is lacking a tattoo. Could he be a Familiar? Could they still exist?
She thought it unlikely. The tattoo, genetically engineered to each individual, had become indispensable since its introduction. It was the one and only form of identification anyone ever needed, and unlike the cards and papers that had once served such a purpose, the tattoo could never be lost, stolen, or altered. Worldwide computerized registries kept track of every individual. The tattoo even served the purpose of currency, much as credit- and debit-cards had for the decades before the tattoos' introduction. And more importantly – most importantly – the tattoos had allowed humanity, the ordinaries and their transgenic allies, to identify and destroy their Familiar enemies.
He doesn't look like I think a Familiar would look, Dana decided as the young man continued to turn, eventually facing her and locking his gaze onto hers. A small, warm smile spread across his lips, and Dana couldn't help but return the expression. She felt drawn to him, as if she could immediately trust him. She was swept away in his eyes, only to be returned to the cold, dark surroundings of her office by the disrupting sound of the office door opening behind her. The agent had returned.
"He'll see you now," he said. The young man only nodded. He stepped toward the door, and both agents let him go, neither one seeming at all interested in him as a threat. He walked inside the office and Dana's years of experience as a secretary took over. She was immediately picking the agents' brains for any piece of information that would be interesting for the next morning's water-cooler discussion.
"Who was that?" she asked. "He didn't have a tattoo, did he?"
"No, he didn't," the agent she was sure was named Richard answered.
"Was he…"
"A Familiar?" he finished for her. Dana nodded. "I don't know," he admitted, "but the old man assured me he isn't. He said he's been expecting him, that they have old business to settle."
"What does that mean? That doesn't make sense."
"How much of what the old man says or does makes sense?" the agent countered. "We were simply told to wait out here and not interfere, no matter what we hear from inside."
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Once he'd crossed into the office, the young man closed the door softly behind him and took in his surroundings. The room he was standing in had been designed to be psychologically imposing, to impress and intimidate any visiting head of state. In effect, it was a throne room for the twentieth century and beyond. The interior design drew his eyes toward the man seated comfortably behind a large, mahogany desk, his wise, world-weary gaze staring back from behind a bestial visage. His hair was still long, wild… but now fine and graying. The once-massive shoulders and chest had withered to smaller proportions, though he still boasted a larger frame than most men half his age.
"So you're Joshua," the young man concluded. "I was led to believe you'd be bigger."
"That's President Joshua," the old transgenic corrected. "You're in my office – the Oval Office – and I expect you to show at least a modicum of respect, genuine or not."
"Of course," the young man said smoothly, taking a seat in front of the desk and leaning back to make himself comfortable. If he was at all intimidated by the surroundings or the company, he didn't show it.
"How's your mother?" Joshua asked.
"She's well," the young man answered, "though she's rather displeased with what you've done."
"I know," Joshua said, suddenly directing his eyes down toward the floor. The young man could see that the president – the most powerful man in the world – was ashamed. He could only guess at the relationship this man and his mother had once had, the high regard in which he held her. "But it had to be done. It was written… it was prophesied."
"And so was this," the young man added. "You've been in office for three and a half years, Joshua. Your time is past. It's time for the people to take back their world."
"Three and a half years?" Joshua asked, a small, tired chuckle escaping him as he mused over the time. "It didn't seem like it was that long."
"I know," the young man said apologetically. "I'm sorry."
"Set told me this would be the toughest part," Joshua muttered, "but I never believed him. I thought I'd be able to face it. I always felt that as long as my enemies were defeated, I would be able to accept any fate that the universe planned for me. And so the Beast is to be destroyed."
"Cast down," the young man added. "Your people faced Armageddon, they became and opposed the Four Horsemen, and the dragon eventually took the world and then gave his power to the Beast. The cycle's at an end. There's no longer any place for you."
"Were you any other person I would kill you for saying that."
"I know," the man admitted, "but I'm not any other person. I'm my mother's son, the son of the woman chased into the wilderness."
"And you've returned to slay the Beast," Joshua finished for him. "I know it all already."
"It'll be quick," the man assured him.
"I know," Joshua said with a smile that spoke of his forgiveness of the violence about to be committed. He slowly opened his top desk drawer, producing a piece of paper and a pistol with an attached silencer. "Your pardon," he muttered, indicating the paper. "Everything's signed and official. The Attorney General is waiting in the next room," he added, gesturing to a different door than the one through which his guest had entered.
"A PPK?" the young man asked as he gripped the pistol.
"Give it to your mother after you leave," Joshua told him. "Tell her it was Alec's – it's something to remember him by." Joshua leaned back, defiantly puffing out his chest. "And please tell your mother I missed her."
"I will," the young man assured the president.
"Goodbye, Logan." The only response was three low coughs, the muffled shots that completed prophecy.
Fin
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Author's Endnote: What are you waiting for? It's done – now review! :)
Well, it's been quite an experience writing this series. First, it was only going to be a single story, but it soon grew into two. Then three. I want to take a moment to thank everyone who's read this, and especially the two readers that kept up and reviewed away pretty much throughout this entire story – Black Rose (who started out as ME, then turned into Black Rose for a few days there, then was ME again, then Black Rose again…) and Moonbeam. Dark Phanton, FireHand, and Toothpicksfromhell also gave lots of feedback, so 'thank you' to them, too. If anyone has anything to add that wasn't really suited to the review page, feel free to email me at obinorm@netscape.net.