A/N: Character death ahead. But before you go ballistic, and start making threats on my life, ranting about how could I kill off *another* beloved character, please pay attention to the 2nd author's note at the bottom of the page.
Disclaimer: Let me tell you a little story called: Not Mine. Dark Angel and its characters belong to some rich people with far more money than I currently have or ever will have. Fox, James Cameron, and Charles Eglee own Dark Angel and everything associated with it. But really, people, does it matter anymore? The show's canceled.
Chapter Eleven
__________________________________________________________________________________________
Nothing Is Forever
Sewers
Seattle, Wa., September 12th, 2021
She felt the bullet enter her body, its brutal path tearing flesh, ripping sinew as it
settled finally to rest. The force of its impact jerked her backward, thrusting her lithe
body against the cement wall at her back.
Hands fumbled to the front of her jacket, filling with crimson, her gore pattering
noisily against the ground. She looked up, into his stunned and frightened face, eyes
fluttering as the world swayed before her.
His muscular figure fluctuated before her, blurring into incongruous lines,
enveloped by the shroud of ebony fog that rose as a silent demon to claim her.
Max sagged gratefully into his warm, strong arms as he blurred to catch her, his
frantic cry of "Max!" the last thing she heard before falling into oblivion.
"Any new information, sir?"
"No. He's not telling me anything. Either the man has an extremely high
threshold for pain, or he doesn't know anything about 452's current whereabouts."
White studied the broken and mutilated form strapped to the table. Sketchy lay in a pool
of blood and vomit, fluids twining as one against the crimson-stained ruin of tattered
garments. His right hand, severed at the wrist, dangled as a snarl of exposed veins and
arteries. His flesh glowed wanly beneath harsh overhead lights.
"What are you going to do now?"
White crossed both arms over his chest, a pensive look spreading his hard
features. "452 has a strong...emotional attachment to a few people. If we can locate
some more of her friends, capture them and let her know we've got them, she'll come out
to play. That goddamn 494 she's always hanging around is our best bet."
"494's not going to be easy to locate, with the transgenic scare. He'll be playing
it safe, sir."
"Yeah. But the man's a royal fuck-up. Sooner or later, he'll screw up and 452
will come out of hiding to save her fellow transgenic freak's precious ass. I know her.
She won't leave him to us."
"So we use 494 as bait."
"That's the plan, Otto. Now be a good man and fetch my gun; it's time to put this
sniveling little drunk down for good."
He crouched within ambulant shadows, clutching the body possessively to his
hard chest. Through the ebony fog of nighttime, his eyes perceived movement, and the
flash of moonlight on steel.
Sector cop activity had increased immensely all throughout Seattle since the
recent murders of a few transgenic-harassing street thugs, and the discovery of one of his
victims, found with her throat ripped out. He'd been playing his cards carefully, moving
cautiously, avoiding trouble spots such as the one he now found himself cornered in. But
tonight he'd been caught off guard, so lost in his kill had he been. The scent of fresh
blood, the tang of it, welling thick on his tongue, had banished all other senses.
*Shit.* he thought darkly, crouching low as a beam of light pierced the night sky.
The cops fanned out, poking amidst the post-Pulse rubble of Seattle, searching for
anything out of the ordinary.
"Hey!" a voice shouted, and the beam of light flicked to his dark and lurking
figure.
He straightened, liquid fluency and powerfulness in even so insignificant a
movement. Six gun barrels surged as one to his muscular frame, and the limp body
encased within strong arms.
"Freeze!"
"Don't hurt me!" he sobbed, stumbling to meet them. "They attacked us! Two
of those freaks! My girlfriend..." he cried, and trailed off into broken weeping.
"Hold it. Slow down and tell us what happened, son." one of the cops said
gently, rifle lowering.
"My girlfriend! They killed her! Oh God..."
"Calm down, son. Let me have her. Now just breathe, son. You're going to be
fine. We're going to need you to give us a full report of what hap-"
The cop flew backward in response to the fist that connected with his jaw, taking
out two of his companions as he went down.
The transgenic spun, and drop-kicked a third in the stomach, allowing the body of
his victim to slither to the ground. His fist surged upward, cracking the nose, driving
shattered bone into the brain. The cop went down with an agitated gurgle.
"Shoot him!" someone screamed.
He dodged the coming rain of bullets, and blurred to boot a gun from the
quivering hands of a terrified officer. His fingers plunged around the man's neck,
snapping it, and already he was moving again. A chop delivered to the back of the final
cop's head broke his spine.
He paused, barely winded, and noticed movement among the blood-slick ground.
His fingers snatched up a fallen weapon, and he thrust down hard on the trigger, stitching
the tangled bodies with a barrage of rounds.
"Sorry, boys. But I can't afford to have any witnesses." he whispered as the last
scream of agony faded into oblivion.
* * *
She stopped breathing.
He felt the struggle of her chest as it rose and fell, the normally simple task made
particularly laborious by the bullet lodged in her body. This slight motion the only
comfort lent to him while Max lay dying in his arms. But now, beneath his frantic hands,
the movement waned, and froze as the air stilled within her lungs.
"No! Come on, dammit!" he said harshly, and gave her a shake. "Max! Max!"
He unzipped her jacket with trembling fingers, laying bare the black T-shirt she
wore, and the gaping edges of the bullet wound. "Fuck." he whispered, his vision
blurring violently as he groped for a pulse, tilting her head back with one gentle hand.
"Fuck!"
Squeezing his eyes shut, Alec set his lips briefly, firmly to her own, and blew a
breath into her lungs. Her mouth burned cold beneath his, the flesh full, soft...lifeless.
"Max!" he whispered against her lips. "Come on." Another breath.
Nothing.
He worked feverishly, alternating between breathing life into her body and
checking the rise of her chest as her lungs inflated with his air. The minutes crawled
sluggishly by, each passing moment heightening his fear as she failed to respond.
Desperate, Alec pulled back for a moment, his panicked gaze perusing her still
and pale face.
And looking at the beauty of her features, slack in their final rest, he finally
recognized his efforts as futile. Too late. He was too late to save her, too late to prevent
her death.
"Oh God." Alec said, his voice breaking. He cradled her head in his lap, pulling
her deadweight into his arms. And, rocking them both, her blood thickly coating his
hands, he began sobbing brokenly into the softness of her hair.
* * *
Asha lay in a halo of moonlight, silver illumination caressing the soft curves of
her body. In the dim light streaming through the window, she exuded beauty, made
ethereal by the soft play of moonlight.
He watched her from his chair at the computer desk, removing his glasses to rub
at weary eyes. Her chest rose and fell in deep breathing, full lips parted the slightest as
she slumbered peacefully. Hair tumbled thick and golden across sculpted cheekbones.
Logan sighed, and spun to face the glowing monitor before him, resuming his
vigil. He'd spent the entire day, and yesterday as well, scouring the Internet, hacking into
confidential records, anything he thought might aid him in the search for the ever-elusive
Max and Alec. And so far-nothing. No arrests, no sightings. Where ever the two had
holed up, it was in a place no one thought to look for two transgenic murderers, as the
news had taken to calling them.
*Give me a sign, Max-anything.* he thought, reaching for the mug of coffee at his
left elbow. He'd need the caffeine if he planned on staying awake. Burning liquid
descended his throat. *I just need...something.*
He was beginning to grow severely worried. If the cops nabbed them now, there
was no way, even with his contacts and connections, that he would be able to free them
from the pile of shit they'd inevitably buried themselves under. All the money in the
world couldn't persuade a blood-thirsty and frightened public to release two transgenic
murderers before justice had been served.
Still slumbering peacefully, Asha moaned lightly, and shifted positions, a slight
smile curving her lips. Logan swiveled to look at her once again, cocking his head as he
contemplated the soft arch of her body. She looked hearbreakingly young in her sleep, a
certain vulnerability that he found strangely beguiling softening her features.
Almost as though she'd sensed his gaze, Asha stretched languidly, and slowly
peeled her eyes open. She blinked a few times to clear the fog of sleep, smiling gently
when she caught Logan's eyes on her. "Anything yet?" Her voice rang husky with the
last remnants of slumber.
He shook his head, setting to work once more. "Nothing. No sightings, no
hysterical old woman claiming they broke into her house and held her at gunpoint." He
sighed and fumbled to massage away a cramp in his right shoulder. "I don't know where
else to look."
"Take a break, Logan. Just for a few minutes. You've been at this all night. I'll
make you something to eat."
"I have to find them before someone else does. The cops aren't going to take any
pity on them, Asha. Neither are the citizens of Seattle. You heard what happened to that
transgenic boy a week or so ago, the one beaten to death before Max could save him.
Think about what they'd do to two of the 'freaks' who have killed their own kind."
"I know." she said, sighing gently. "But I don't know what else to do. Do you
think Eyes Only could really help us, when you're drawing a blank?"
Logan shrugged. "Eyes Only has some resources not available to me. He might
be able to come up with something where I'm drawing a blank." He didn't bother
mentioning that he'd already scoured Eyes Only's resources-several times-as that would
undoubtedly give away the true identity of the man behind the Streaming Freedom
videos.
"Is there any way we can help them if they are...caught?"
"Short of storming the police station, weapons drawn, and breaking them out?
No. Not that I can see. And then we'd be as much a 'danger' to society as Seattle
believes Max and Alec are. Whatever punishment came to them would fall on the two of
us as well."
"Why do you get mixed up in all this shit, Logan?" Asha asked softly. "I know
you love Max, but don't you sometimes wonder how much easier, how much less
complicated it would be if she hadn't come into your life?" She leaned back into the soft
cushions of the couch. "I like Max. And Alec too. He's not such a bad guy, if you can
see past the whole tough-guy exterior." She shook her head. "But sometimes I think
about what it was like before I got into Manticore and all its crazy shit."
"Me too." he whispered, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a wan smile. "But
I love Max. No matter what, no matter who she's with. A part of me will always love
her. I can't control that. And love makes you do crazy things."
Sketchy tasted vomit, and the acrid tang of blood. He moaned, and shifted
slightly, undulations of pain rippling all through him. His nostrils curled against the
scent of his own bodily fluids, staining the steel table beneath him in a gruesome
mockery of an abstract painting gone horribly wrong.
*Where the hell am I?* he thought fuzzily, squinting into bright light. The world
shifted and blurred treacherously before him.
He felt cold. Shock, no doubt, judging from the amount of blood he'd lost. He
craned his neck weakly, struggling to bring his surroundings into focus. *Where am I?* he
wondered again, and then his eyes fell on the stump of his right hand, and he felt his
stomach shift violently.
*Shit.* Vomit seared his throat once more. He lowered his head back to the table,
panting and weak.
For a single moment, a shape blocked the harsh illumination. A face, eclipsing
his own.
"Hey-"
"Time to say good night. Too bad I don't have time to read you a bedtime story."
Ames White muttered, smiling coldly.
And Sketchy found himself now contemplating the barrel of a gun, its sights
aimed directly between his eyes.
A/N 2: Things are not always as they seem. Think about that before you curse me to hell for killing Max, kay?
Disclaimer: Let me tell you a little story called: Not Mine. Dark Angel and its characters belong to some rich people with far more money than I currently have or ever will have. Fox, James Cameron, and Charles Eglee own Dark Angel and everything associated with it. But really, people, does it matter anymore? The show's canceled.
Chapter Eleven
__________________________________________________________________________________________
Nothing Is Forever
Sewers
Seattle, Wa., September 12th, 2021
She felt the bullet enter her body, its brutal path tearing flesh, ripping sinew as it
settled finally to rest. The force of its impact jerked her backward, thrusting her lithe
body against the cement wall at her back.
Hands fumbled to the front of her jacket, filling with crimson, her gore pattering
noisily against the ground. She looked up, into his stunned and frightened face, eyes
fluttering as the world swayed before her.
His muscular figure fluctuated before her, blurring into incongruous lines,
enveloped by the shroud of ebony fog that rose as a silent demon to claim her.
Max sagged gratefully into his warm, strong arms as he blurred to catch her, his
frantic cry of "Max!" the last thing she heard before falling into oblivion.
"Any new information, sir?"
"No. He's not telling me anything. Either the man has an extremely high
threshold for pain, or he doesn't know anything about 452's current whereabouts."
White studied the broken and mutilated form strapped to the table. Sketchy lay in a pool
of blood and vomit, fluids twining as one against the crimson-stained ruin of tattered
garments. His right hand, severed at the wrist, dangled as a snarl of exposed veins and
arteries. His flesh glowed wanly beneath harsh overhead lights.
"What are you going to do now?"
White crossed both arms over his chest, a pensive look spreading his hard
features. "452 has a strong...emotional attachment to a few people. If we can locate
some more of her friends, capture them and let her know we've got them, she'll come out
to play. That goddamn 494 she's always hanging around is our best bet."
"494's not going to be easy to locate, with the transgenic scare. He'll be playing
it safe, sir."
"Yeah. But the man's a royal fuck-up. Sooner or later, he'll screw up and 452
will come out of hiding to save her fellow transgenic freak's precious ass. I know her.
She won't leave him to us."
"So we use 494 as bait."
"That's the plan, Otto. Now be a good man and fetch my gun; it's time to put this
sniveling little drunk down for good."
He crouched within ambulant shadows, clutching the body possessively to his
hard chest. Through the ebony fog of nighttime, his eyes perceived movement, and the
flash of moonlight on steel.
Sector cop activity had increased immensely all throughout Seattle since the
recent murders of a few transgenic-harassing street thugs, and the discovery of one of his
victims, found with her throat ripped out. He'd been playing his cards carefully, moving
cautiously, avoiding trouble spots such as the one he now found himself cornered in. But
tonight he'd been caught off guard, so lost in his kill had he been. The scent of fresh
blood, the tang of it, welling thick on his tongue, had banished all other senses.
*Shit.* he thought darkly, crouching low as a beam of light pierced the night sky.
The cops fanned out, poking amidst the post-Pulse rubble of Seattle, searching for
anything out of the ordinary.
"Hey!" a voice shouted, and the beam of light flicked to his dark and lurking
figure.
He straightened, liquid fluency and powerfulness in even so insignificant a
movement. Six gun barrels surged as one to his muscular frame, and the limp body
encased within strong arms.
"Freeze!"
"Don't hurt me!" he sobbed, stumbling to meet them. "They attacked us! Two
of those freaks! My girlfriend..." he cried, and trailed off into broken weeping.
"Hold it. Slow down and tell us what happened, son." one of the cops said
gently, rifle lowering.
"My girlfriend! They killed her! Oh God..."
"Calm down, son. Let me have her. Now just breathe, son. You're going to be
fine. We're going to need you to give us a full report of what hap-"
The cop flew backward in response to the fist that connected with his jaw, taking
out two of his companions as he went down.
The transgenic spun, and drop-kicked a third in the stomach, allowing the body of
his victim to slither to the ground. His fist surged upward, cracking the nose, driving
shattered bone into the brain. The cop went down with an agitated gurgle.
"Shoot him!" someone screamed.
He dodged the coming rain of bullets, and blurred to boot a gun from the
quivering hands of a terrified officer. His fingers plunged around the man's neck,
snapping it, and already he was moving again. A chop delivered to the back of the final
cop's head broke his spine.
He paused, barely winded, and noticed movement among the blood-slick ground.
His fingers snatched up a fallen weapon, and he thrust down hard on the trigger, stitching
the tangled bodies with a barrage of rounds.
"Sorry, boys. But I can't afford to have any witnesses." he whispered as the last
scream of agony faded into oblivion.
* * *
She stopped breathing.
He felt the struggle of her chest as it rose and fell, the normally simple task made
particularly laborious by the bullet lodged in her body. This slight motion the only
comfort lent to him while Max lay dying in his arms. But now, beneath his frantic hands,
the movement waned, and froze as the air stilled within her lungs.
"No! Come on, dammit!" he said harshly, and gave her a shake. "Max! Max!"
He unzipped her jacket with trembling fingers, laying bare the black T-shirt she
wore, and the gaping edges of the bullet wound. "Fuck." he whispered, his vision
blurring violently as he groped for a pulse, tilting her head back with one gentle hand.
"Fuck!"
Squeezing his eyes shut, Alec set his lips briefly, firmly to her own, and blew a
breath into her lungs. Her mouth burned cold beneath his, the flesh full, soft...lifeless.
"Max!" he whispered against her lips. "Come on." Another breath.
Nothing.
He worked feverishly, alternating between breathing life into her body and
checking the rise of her chest as her lungs inflated with his air. The minutes crawled
sluggishly by, each passing moment heightening his fear as she failed to respond.
Desperate, Alec pulled back for a moment, his panicked gaze perusing her still
and pale face.
And looking at the beauty of her features, slack in their final rest, he finally
recognized his efforts as futile. Too late. He was too late to save her, too late to prevent
her death.
"Oh God." Alec said, his voice breaking. He cradled her head in his lap, pulling
her deadweight into his arms. And, rocking them both, her blood thickly coating his
hands, he began sobbing brokenly into the softness of her hair.
* * *
Asha lay in a halo of moonlight, silver illumination caressing the soft curves of
her body. In the dim light streaming through the window, she exuded beauty, made
ethereal by the soft play of moonlight.
He watched her from his chair at the computer desk, removing his glasses to rub
at weary eyes. Her chest rose and fell in deep breathing, full lips parted the slightest as
she slumbered peacefully. Hair tumbled thick and golden across sculpted cheekbones.
Logan sighed, and spun to face the glowing monitor before him, resuming his
vigil. He'd spent the entire day, and yesterday as well, scouring the Internet, hacking into
confidential records, anything he thought might aid him in the search for the ever-elusive
Max and Alec. And so far-nothing. No arrests, no sightings. Where ever the two had
holed up, it was in a place no one thought to look for two transgenic murderers, as the
news had taken to calling them.
*Give me a sign, Max-anything.* he thought, reaching for the mug of coffee at his
left elbow. He'd need the caffeine if he planned on staying awake. Burning liquid
descended his throat. *I just need...something.*
He was beginning to grow severely worried. If the cops nabbed them now, there
was no way, even with his contacts and connections, that he would be able to free them
from the pile of shit they'd inevitably buried themselves under. All the money in the
world couldn't persuade a blood-thirsty and frightened public to release two transgenic
murderers before justice had been served.
Still slumbering peacefully, Asha moaned lightly, and shifted positions, a slight
smile curving her lips. Logan swiveled to look at her once again, cocking his head as he
contemplated the soft arch of her body. She looked hearbreakingly young in her sleep, a
certain vulnerability that he found strangely beguiling softening her features.
Almost as though she'd sensed his gaze, Asha stretched languidly, and slowly
peeled her eyes open. She blinked a few times to clear the fog of sleep, smiling gently
when she caught Logan's eyes on her. "Anything yet?" Her voice rang husky with the
last remnants of slumber.
He shook his head, setting to work once more. "Nothing. No sightings, no
hysterical old woman claiming they broke into her house and held her at gunpoint." He
sighed and fumbled to massage away a cramp in his right shoulder. "I don't know where
else to look."
"Take a break, Logan. Just for a few minutes. You've been at this all night. I'll
make you something to eat."
"I have to find them before someone else does. The cops aren't going to take any
pity on them, Asha. Neither are the citizens of Seattle. You heard what happened to that
transgenic boy a week or so ago, the one beaten to death before Max could save him.
Think about what they'd do to two of the 'freaks' who have killed their own kind."
"I know." she said, sighing gently. "But I don't know what else to do. Do you
think Eyes Only could really help us, when you're drawing a blank?"
Logan shrugged. "Eyes Only has some resources not available to me. He might
be able to come up with something where I'm drawing a blank." He didn't bother
mentioning that he'd already scoured Eyes Only's resources-several times-as that would
undoubtedly give away the true identity of the man behind the Streaming Freedom
videos.
"Is there any way we can help them if they are...caught?"
"Short of storming the police station, weapons drawn, and breaking them out?
No. Not that I can see. And then we'd be as much a 'danger' to society as Seattle
believes Max and Alec are. Whatever punishment came to them would fall on the two of
us as well."
"Why do you get mixed up in all this shit, Logan?" Asha asked softly. "I know
you love Max, but don't you sometimes wonder how much easier, how much less
complicated it would be if she hadn't come into your life?" She leaned back into the soft
cushions of the couch. "I like Max. And Alec too. He's not such a bad guy, if you can
see past the whole tough-guy exterior." She shook her head. "But sometimes I think
about what it was like before I got into Manticore and all its crazy shit."
"Me too." he whispered, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a wan smile. "But
I love Max. No matter what, no matter who she's with. A part of me will always love
her. I can't control that. And love makes you do crazy things."
Sketchy tasted vomit, and the acrid tang of blood. He moaned, and shifted
slightly, undulations of pain rippling all through him. His nostrils curled against the
scent of his own bodily fluids, staining the steel table beneath him in a gruesome
mockery of an abstract painting gone horribly wrong.
*Where the hell am I?* he thought fuzzily, squinting into bright light. The world
shifted and blurred treacherously before him.
He felt cold. Shock, no doubt, judging from the amount of blood he'd lost. He
craned his neck weakly, struggling to bring his surroundings into focus. *Where am I?* he
wondered again, and then his eyes fell on the stump of his right hand, and he felt his
stomach shift violently.
*Shit.* Vomit seared his throat once more. He lowered his head back to the table,
panting and weak.
For a single moment, a shape blocked the harsh illumination. A face, eclipsing
his own.
"Hey-"
"Time to say good night. Too bad I don't have time to read you a bedtime story."
Ames White muttered, smiling coldly.
And Sketchy found himself now contemplating the barrel of a gun, its sights
aimed directly between his eyes.
A/N 2: Things are not always as they seem. Think about that before you curse me to hell for killing Max, kay?