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.

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Author's Note: The first scene of this chapter gave me fits, due primarily to the fact that I would write a bit, decide I wasn't in the right mood to write it properly, and then quit. This happened three or four times, and the result was a disjointed, crappy scene. So major thanks to Moonbeam, whose fresh perspective and talented eye helped me make the scene into something readable.

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Achieving Closure

It wasn't until Alec chugged his first pint of Bud – Crap American swill, but you can count on a company that weathered the Great Depression to also muddle through The Pulse, Alec decided – that he felt it all coming back. New Orleans. There's just no other city like it anywhere in the world. He had only been in the Crescent City once, on a sultry night in a bar not unlike the one he was in now. It was Abita Purple Haze that night, he remembered, surprised at how easily he recalled trivial facts like what beer he'd drank so many years before. Given the circumstances, though, he thought it fitting that his memory leaped back to New Orleans.

Alec took a look around and smiled. He'd heard many things about Seattle Jack's. He'd been told it was as rough as waterfront bars got, that it was the kind of place only the bravest and most dangerous men would drink. Such statements made him smile with amusement. None of these guys would last five minutes in some of the bars in the French Quarter. Especially that one Syl took me to… His memories of the night he had found Ames White quickly skimmed past the actual encounter and proceeded to his alcohol-fueled celebration afterward, when he and Syl drank until sunrise at a dive called The Gold Mine. He'd heard that before the Pulse it had been a popular bar with the college crowd. But not anymore.

The calendar might claim that it was well into the 21st century, but in New Orleans – specifically, the French Quarter – time had returned to a simpler era, when pirates and other assorted cutthroats ran amuck in riverfront taverns that generally considered it a slow night until someone was stabbed to death with a broken beer bottle. Prostitutes openly plied their trade while pickpockets were predictably more discreet; the token policeman who walked through the door often enjoyed several drinks and left with his pockets significantly heavier than when he entered; and anything – be it animal, mineral, vegetable, or some combination of the three – could be bought and sold as easily as most Americans bought a cup of coffee.

Too bad Syl doesn't live there anymore, Alec lamented. I could have made a tradition of going to the Quarter after I hunt down and murder those who wrong me. The last he'd heard, Syl had managed to settle down in Australia, just outside Perth. Another crazy, fun town…

Alec started thinking about the only other surviving transgenics – six of the original escapees, and him. Of all the ones who escaped Manticore when Max took out Gillette, only I survived the war. As advanced as the X7s were, they were so spooked by being in the real world, outside of the familiarity of the military, that they never really got their act together. The X8s were too young. The X6s had a chance until the Familiars started specifically targeting them, knowing they were the only capable replacement officers for fallen X5s. The freaks… well, they were on borrowed time as soon as they left Manticore. Lydecker was always right – the X5s were where the program hit its high-water mark. We were more adaptable than any of the others, we were the only ones independent enough to plan an escape. We were the only ones stupid enough to go back and take down the whole project. He drained his beer, fighting off a wave of frustration. Well, Max was all those things, anyway. Zack, too, once he returned to the fold. I was just a schmack who tagged along, enjoying the benefits that they won for the rest of us. She taught me how to live, how to be something other than what Manticore always tried to get me to be. And without her, I woulda been dead long ago. Wouldn't have needed the Familiars to do it, either. I just wasn't ready for the real world… none of us were. It's no coincidence that other than me, only the original escapees – the ones who had a decade to adapt before the world found out about them – are still lurking about.

The bartender set another beer in front of Alec, and the transgenic stared at it for a moment. "Did I order another beer?" he asked, genuinely confused as to if – and when – he'd decided to have a second drink.

"Nope," the bartender responded, "but the look on your face says you need it. Woman trouble, huh?"

"Why should I be different than any of the other guys here?" Alec answered with a forced grin. The bartender gave a thin smile back and walked down to the other end of the bar, promptly refilling the beer of another man drowning his own female-induced misery.

She did so much for me – for all of us – and never asked for anything in return, Alec remembered. Never asked, though I would have given her anything. Hell, I wanted to give her everything. He sighed heavily and drained half his beer, hoping to avoid that line of thought; it was too late. She had to have known how I felt about her, but she never opened the door to anything between us. Maybe it was just because I reminded her of Ben. Maybe she was waiting for me to make an obvious move, and I was always too afraid. Maybe – probably – she was just so genuinely interested in Logan that I never stood a chance of being anything more than a friend, the older brother she needed in her life after Zack died, then came back as a cyborg only to go away again, then return just long enough to turn the tide of battle before getting his head blown completely off his shoulders.

Nope, when it came to affection, all she ever needed was Logan. She could have had anyone in the world, but she chose him. I'll never understand why… Alec's mind began to wander, raising questions and doubts he thought he'd put away forever when Max had died. Not just an ordinary, but a crippled ordinary. If I live to be a thousand, I'll never understand how in God's name I never seemed to measure up.

From the recesses of his mind came memories of a long-ago conversation with Asha, when she had tried to explain to him what it was about Logan that kept Max interested. He never gave up believing she was still alive after the assault on Manticore. That took faith, commitment, and a kind of dedication that I've just never shown… to say nothing about ever having felt. To be honest, I would never have waited around like he did; I would have moved on, and I would have been wrong. Again.

"Fuck it," he grumbled, discarding his faux confusion as easily as he would discard an unwanted jacket. "I know exactly why I didn't measure up." He had never really allowed himself to dwell upon Max's lack of affection for him, always convincing himself that to do so would reduce him to some poor bastard who spent his life wallowing in misery over what could have been. Like that guy down at the other end of the bar, Alec decided. The one the bartender just poured another beer. He hated his subconscious as soon as it realized where his train of thought had brought him. The bartender just poured me another beer. Try as he might, the transgenic couldn't help but wonder whether the guy at the other end of the bar had just been looking at him, trying to convince himself he wasn't as screwed up over a woman as that poor bastard sitting on Alec's barstool.

Truth is, I was always a bit of a child, Alec admitted to himself. Logan spent his time helping people, putting himself on the line to make the world a better place. I spent my time figuring out my next scam and counting on my friends to bail me out when things went wrong… like they always did. Logan gave his legs as a price for his idealism, while I gave the lives of my friends. But never my life. I always made sure I was one step ahead of anything bad, no matter what happened to those around me. Sure, I was faster, stronger, smarter, and in my humble opinion far better looking than Logan, but when people shot at Max because of something Logan did, there was always a damn good reason. When people shot at her because of something I did, it was usually because I whelched on a debt. It wasn't just that I couldn't be counted on, it was that virtually every time she heard my voice it was because she had to do something absolutely crazy to yank my fat outta the fire. How could somebody even be friends with a person like that, no less form any kind of romantic relationship? I was a blight on her existence, and I don't think becoming a hired gun has done anything to improve my stock with any future acquaintances.

Fact is, as much fun as I was always having, if someone had ever caused me as much trouble as I caused Max, I would have shot him. I certainly wouldn't have considered that person a friend. It's absolutely insane how much inconvenience, irritation, and pain I caused Max. And I never changed…

He sighed heavily, puzzled by the sudden disgust he felt rising within him. I really haven't come far at all in the past five years, he admitted painfully. Five years later, and here I am in another dive bar, planning to avenge myself on another enemy who hurt me because I made the same mistake I made back then. I left another job half-done. "Max would kick my ass if she was alive to see what I've made of myself," he grumbled. Then he took a moment to contemplate what he'd said.

"Oh crap," he mumbled miserably, coming to an exceedingly uncomfortable epiphany. I've been miserable all these years because my mistake got Max killed; but given what she'd been doing, leading us in a war against the Familiars, she had to have known that death was a constant threat. What really would have pissed her off is seeing what I've made of the chance she gave her life to buy for me. But she did even more than that…

"Need to keep going?" the bartender asked as he walked back up to Alec, wrapping his thick fingers around the base of the pint glass.

"Yeah," Alec muttered, finding it easy to put off his date – and his recently avowed sobriety – one more night. Hahneman's not going anywhere. At least not yet. He's gotta know I'm looking for him even as he's looking for me. He wants to be found, just like I do. But I'm not gonna go and get him 'til my head clears. I'd hate to accidentally kill him before I get to have my fun.

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Alec slowed his Mustang to a crawl, gazing at the warehouse where he knew Hahneman was waiting for him. Two weeks after his interrogation of Sheldon Barlucci – two weeks of following money trails and dead bodies – Alec was finally certain he had pinned down Hahneman's location. Long hours of boring research and stakeouts had finally paid off.

Sometimes irony can be pretty ironic, Alec thought grimly, borrowing a quote from one of his favorite guilty pleasure movies. He had been in this warehouse once before – the first time he'd met with Sergei Ivanov. Back here, where my career as a hitman started, to finish my last job in that vocation.

Well, his roof, his rules, Alec thought anxiously, surprised that he was so unnerved by the situation. He took a deep breath and tried to settle himself. There's no reason to be so damn uptight. I'm an X5, a transgenic super-soldier with a killer education and years of experience fighting a superhuman cult hell-bent on your destruction. Why on earth should I be so wound up right now?

He checked his weapons – the PPK, his two Berettas, and one of the MP-5's – then stepped warily from the vehicle, leaving it parked about a quarter of a mile away. He slipped the pistols into their holsters and grabbed the MP-5 in his hand. Got enough weapons? he asked himself sarcastically. Deciding he was better armed for an assault on Omaha beach than for taking on a single target and perhaps a handful of guards, Alec tossed the MP-5 back on the driver's seat. He was about to add the PPK, too, when he decided at the last moment to keep that with him. Rather than place the small weapon back in its holster in the small of his back, Alec dropped it into the large pocket on his thigh. His beloved old Manticore-issue survival knife took the PPK's normal spot at his back.

That's a little more reasonable, Alec decided, vastly preferring the thought of slowly filleting his target rather than ending the encounter quickly with a few bullets. I've done that before, and this time I'm not missing my chance to work over the man who hurt me. Knowing he was likely already under surveillance, he strode confidently toward the warehouse, his eyes and ears attuned to his surroundings, searching for the slightest indication that there was anyone else around. He reached the door without detecting anything and walked right in, not needing to bother with picking a lock – the door was propped open, as if he was expected. Which I no doubt am, Alec knew.

"Candy-gram for Mongo," he muttered, trying to inject a bit of levity into the steely chill that had descended over him, erasing almost all feeling, almost making him miss the anxiety he had felt moments earlier. Alec drew his two Berettas and put his back to the wall, sidestepping slowly around the perimeter of the building, wondering more every second why nothing had happened yet.

Ending his curiosity, two holes were punched in the steel wall on either side of him. Alec fell to a crouch, knowing that someone had just fired two shots with a very high-powered sniper rifle. And whoever it was wanted to miss. No way two shots come that close without hitting me unless that was the guy's intent. I'm just not that lucky…

"Drop the pistols," a callous, empty voice called out from an unseen spot in the rafters. Alec hesitated, weighing the merits of trying a blind shot at a man who probably had his head in the crosshairs of his scope. "I'd prefer not to shoot you, but I will if I have to," the voice added.

Alec reluctantly did as he was told. "Happy?"

"Walk to the middle of the warehouse," the voice – he'd concluded it couldn't be anyone other than Hahneman, though he sounded a little different than he had last time – commanded. Again Alec complied, though he stole several glances back at his discarded Berettas, gauging with every step he took what his chances would be of darting back and bringing the weapons to bear on the asshole that was pissing him off from above.

If I keep going where he wants me to go, I'll be completely at his mercy, Alec decided. Although, if I make a run for it, he might shoot me before I finish my first step. Then again, if I make it to a second or third step, I'll probably be moving too fast for him to have a chance of hitting me. Deciding almost on a whim that he'd had enough, Alec turned and made a run for his Berettas. No gunfire erupted, but when he was in the middle of his fourth stride, he was slammed to the concrete floor by what felt like a piano falling on him.

Alec managed to roll to his right even as he struggled to decide whether he had some broken ribs or had just had the wind knocked out of him. As he rolled, Hahneman sprang to his feet, revealing that it had been him that had landed on Alec. You've gotta be kidding, Alec thought with amazement, figuring that Hahneman had likely been on a catwalk that was twenty-five feet up. That fall shoulda crippled the bastard. Bulletproof is one thing, but indestructible is something else entirely. It's not quite fair.

Before Alec could analyze the situation any more, Hahneman was lunging at him, a survival knife of his own slashing at Alec's face. The transgenic dodged, though barely, and shook off the rest of the cobwebs. Think I probably cracked one rib, he decided, feeling a throbbing, stabbing pain in his side that was only growing worse as Alec drew his knife and started to test his opponent's defenses.

Hahneman seemed completely content to hold Alec at arm's length, letting him try to find an opening. "Bet you never expected to see me again," he commented mockingly. "Your woman was surprised, I can tell you that much." And just like that, both the anxiety and the cold chill vanished as an inferno of rage ignited in Alec's heart; caution was abandoned as the transgenic threw himself at his foe, his measured cuts becoming wide, sweeping arcs that opened him up to counter-attack. Hahneman took full advantage, slicing lightly into Alec's right thigh before slashing his right forearm on the back-swing.

Slow down, be careful, a voice warned in Alec's mind. He disregarded it, deciding instead to let himself go. I'm a fucking transgenic – no way this clown keeps up with me. He was suddenly reminded of Ames White, of how formidable the Familiar had been when he'd abandoned all semblance of self-control and simply reveled in rage. Alec now did the same, immediately discarding his earlier plan to torture Hahneman for months.

Alec was a whirlwind of death, but his frenzied mind failed to register a crucial detail – Hahneman was matching him step for step. Within seconds the transgenic was bleeding freely from several wounds, none of them serious on its own but the combination of them starting to slow him a step. He tried to exploit an opening he thought he saw on Hahneman's left only to get kicked in the face and cut again on his forearm. This time the wound was deeper, and he dropped his knife. Only then did he back away to re-evaluate his foe.

What the hell? he wondered silently, falling into a defensive stance and trying his best to focus on the task at hand and not on his growing concerns. A Familiar? That's impossible… even if he were one, I put enough lead in him to kill him. No way a Familiar survives that hit a couple months ago.

"No, I'm not a Familiar," Hahneman taunted, seemingly able to read Alec's mind. Stunned surprise threatened to distract Alec from the task at hand, and he did his best to push his questions from his mind. "I'm just a good old ordinary human being. Well, with a bit of technology thrown in, anyway."

"Cyborg?" Alec guessed, considering and discarding thoughts of South Africa's reds once he realized that Hahneman had apparently been in Seattle for quite some time. Hahneman smirked as he fell back into a fighting stance and approached his unarmed opponent slowly. If he's a cyborg, then the cybernetics he's got goin' are beyond anything I've ever even heard of. That's gotta be fully integrated wetware… that's supposed to be years away from complete development. Who the hell is he? The question was pushed aside as Hahneman lunged again, his blade coming within a fraction of an inch of slicing Alec's nose from his face. The transgenic actually felt the breeze caused by the blade, heard it cut through the air. Out of the corner of his eye he suddenly saw an opening – Hahneman obviously hadn't expected Alec to be as quick as he was, and he'd overextended badly. Alec took the momentary opportunity, only to sidestep directly into an unexpected roundhouse kick that Hahneman had thrown in desperation. Rather than fall back and re-assess, Alec pressed on. The opening was still there, right behind the left hook that Hahneman was launching at his opponent's head. Alec shifted his weight again, dodged right, and lunged. He saw the following punch that Hahneman was throwing with his right, but knew it would be of little account. I'm more than willing to take a hit to the gut if it lets me get close enough. Both combatants landed their strikes at the same time – Alec to Hahneman's head, Hahneman to Alec's stomach. On both accounts, Alec did poorly.

He felt the knuckles on his right index and middle fingers crumple under the force of the impact as he struck what he could only assume was a titanium jaw. Simultaneously, he felt a burning, tearing pain in his abdomen. He staggered back, blinded by the temporary shock of the two injuries, fending off every one of the blindingly bright spots he saw dancing in front of him. He heard an amused chuckle and struggled just to maintain consciousness. His sight was returning, and the first thing he saw was the gore dripping from Hahneman's right hand. Then he saw the glint of metal – retractable razor blades had been surgically implanted under his fingernails. They didn't look particularly strong, but in close quarters they had provided what Hahneman had wanted – a surprise. Alec didn't look at his own stomach; he didn't have to. His transgenically modified brain chemistry was already producing enough endorphins to dull the pain, but Alec knew he'd taken what might very well be a mortal wound. Haven't been cut this badly since the day White escaped… and this is even worse than that was. Okay, so I'm dead, he thought grimly, surprised at how easy it was to accept. But I'm not the only one who isn't walkin' out of here.

"That's not quite fair," he commented as glibly as he could, satisfied that he sounded stronger than might have been expected, given the circumstances. "Nice workmanship, though," he added, gesturing toward the razors with his left hand as his right hand, crippled and useless for anything other than holding in his entrails, went to his abdomen.

Hahneman didn't respond to his maimed transgenic opponent; he simply closed in for the kill. Alec gave ground, scanning his surroundings for something – anything – that might help him gain an advantage. The warehouse was all but empty, and only a handful of support columns throughout the structure offered any cover. Hahneman knew what he was doing when he chose this as the place for our little showdown. I don't see anything that could help.

Alec began to move more quickly, trying to sidestep around Hahneman and back to the far end of the warehouse, where his Berettas were laying on the dirt-coated concrete floor. Not surprisingly, Hahneman was both quicker and apparently well aware of what Alec was thinking. He cut Alec off, forcing him to retreat again, putting more distance between the transgenic and his weapon. I'm such an asshole, Alec suddenly realized, remembering his PPK. It might not be enough to kill him, not through that body armor, but it might buy me a few seconds if I can at least knock him off-balance. He backpedaled a little more quickly, trying to put a few extra steps between himself and his opponent. Hahneman seemed happy to let him run, confident that Alec would not be able to escape.

Now the trick is gonna be getting my left hand into my right hip pocket and bringing the weapon to bear before Hahneman can do something else that's unexpected, Alec told himself, working through the awkward maneuver in his head, trying to figure out how to go through the motion as smoothly as possible. Hahneman was now about twenty feet away, and Alec was quickly running out of room to back up.

Just do it. He seemed to lurch forward briefly, freezing Hahneman in his tracks as he took a split-second to figure out what the transgenic was up to; by the time the cyborg realized Alec was producing another weapon, it was too late. Alec stumbled toward his right, doing his best to hit full stride even as he felt what he was sure was his small intestine start to slip out the gash in his abdomen. He fired three shots, one to the head and two at Hahneman's left leg. The cyborg's head snapped back and his leg momentarily gave out under him, but he recovered far more quickly than Alec had hoped. Hahneman took three quick steps to his left, forcing Alec out wide around a row of columns running down the middle of the warehouse. Alec took what he could get and started running, hearing Hahneman's uneven gait behind him. He's hurt, Alec realized, confident that at least one of the rounds in Hahneman's leg had done some kind of real damage. He's limping. He's still running, but he's limping. Despite his better judgment, Alec stole a glance back and saw Hahneman holding even with him. The cyborg was reaching back slightly, and Alec realized he was going to throw his knife. Under normal circumstances, Alec would have simply sidestepped to his left and hooked around a column; but bleeding the way he was, operating solely on adrenaline, he didn't dare do anything that would break his stride and create a risk of losing his balance and falling. He looked around desperately, wondering at how far away the opposite end of the warehouse suddenly seemed, and was momentarily confused when his gaze settled on one column about thirty feet away. It didn't match any of the others – it was wood while the others were metal, and it had the look of having been added after the rest of the structure was completed. An extra support, Alec decided. But for what? He thought about the second floor of the warehouse, about his meeting with Sergei Ivanov, and a wicked grin broke across his face.

The expression was erased when he felt the tip of Hahneman's blade embed itself in the back of his left shoulder. His arm went numb and he dropped the PPK. He now doubted he could even pick up the Beretta if he reached it, and the desperation of a man facing death – a focused display of energy he had only seen once, in White's death-defying attempt to strangle him – helped him focus in a way he never had before. "As much as I train you to make the most of what you have, I'll never be able to begin to show you how to tap your true potential," he remembered Lydecker telling a group of X5s twenty years earlier. "Ordinary human beings have been known to move cars with their bare hands, lose both arms on a battlefield and keep fighting, and survive days lost at sea – in the water the whole time – all because of the human mind's resistance to death. When faced with the end, humans are capable of superhuman feats that defy rational explanation and can only be described as the result of adrenaline or some other improbable result of misunderstood biochemistry. The day will come when some of you will face death, and given that you are all superhuman to begin with, I shudder to imagine the things you might accomplish to defy your own mortality."

Alec didn't stop to ponder the uncomfortable irony of recalling life-saving wisdom spouted by a man he had killed with own two hands. All that mattered was that he understood what Lydecker had been trying to tell them – his pain was gone, his limbs all suddenly seemed to be working, if only for a second, and he felt the strength of ten transgenics. On some level he understood that his feeling of euphoric invulnerability was partially an illusion cast by a mind that was terrified of being extinguished, that the strength he now had was as fleeting as a breeze, and that he would be able to make only one desperate attempt to save himself. He had this one chance, and his mind and body would then be spent.

In that moment, Alec surged forward more swiftly than he ever had. He accelerated so quickly in his final two steps that the air actually stung his eyes, much as he'd always imagined it did with a cheetah that reached full speed. The transgenic gathered himself and launched a flying side kick at the column ahead of him. His foot seemed to crack halfway through the beam before the thick wood absorbed the brunt of the impact – after that it was left to his leg to absorb the rest. He felt his lower leg shatter, felt his ankle dislocate when his foot became momentarily stuck in the beam as his body flew off to the right. His vision went white with the assault of a new wave of pain; the only benefit was that the agony erupting from his leg made him forget about his mangled abdomen.

But even before Alec's body had collapsed in a heap on the floor, he heard the magnificent crack of his kick grow into a shudder. With the last of his energy he began rolling away as the column gave out, raining debris just inches from the prone transgenic. Hahneman had finally caught his prey, arriving before Alec just in time to be buried by the second floor of the warehouse that toppled down upon him. All of it, including the item that had required the extra beam in the first place – Sergei's massive safe.

Alec awoke to the sound of a tugboat's foghorn, and he stirred carefully, wincing as he moved. He glanced down at his stomach, now caked with dried blood, and scolded himself for having over-reacted. The wound was terrible, but apparently not mortal. Hahneman had indeed pierced into Alec's stomach cavity, but the transgenic was certain that given proper medical attention, he would make a full recovery. Of more concern was his right leg. The pain that had assaulted him when he'd dropped kicked what amounted to a telephone pole had not been misleading – his leg had shattered. There were three compound fractures, each of which had caused him to lose a good deal of blood. No wonder I'm so damn light-headed. Despite the somewhat disconnected sensation he was still feeling, he couldn't help but marvel that he had been able to crack the beam, no less break it. But he had broken himself in the process, and he was far less certain about his ability to recover from those injuries.

Still laying on the floor, Alec pulled himself up onto his elbows, wincing slightly as the act of repositioning himself caused his leg to move the slightest bit. His left shoulder throbbed, and it was only then that he remembered the knife that Hahneman had embedded in his back. The knife was gone, knocked out when he'd started rolling away from the falling safe, but he added the wound to his mental checklist of injuries. I'm really gonna have to get to a hospital, he told himself, only then realizing how cold he was. I'm going into shock. I'm lucky as hell I didn't stay unconscious – a little longer and I never would have woken up. He glanced a few feet away and saw Hahneman's body, folded backwards over itself and pinned under the edge of the safe. A thick pool of blood, only starting to congeal, spread out across the floor, coming within a couple of feet of Alec's face, sickening him with the scent of fresh death. Not the way I'd like to die.

It took almost half an hour for Alec to drag his broken body across the remaining eighty or so feet to the door. Once outside in the gray pre-dawn light, he continued to move, leaving a thin trail of blood as he strained for every inch that he pulled himself along the docks. Several times he almost gave in, surrendering to the cold darkness that tempted him. Just rest for a few minutes, a voice – he was certain it was White's voice – teased in the back of his mind. Resting just two or three minutes will give you enough strength to keep crawling for another ten. Alec knew better; he knew that was the voice of human weakness, of frail mortality tempting him to surrender. "I may die in the middle of the street, but I'll do it while crawling, not while laying here licking my wounds," he gasped, allowing himself no opportunity for even the briefest respite.

"What the fuck?" he heard a voice say from far away, a tinge of an East Coast port accent coloring the words. It was the accent that assured Alec that he had been found – if he'd been dying, if the voice had been God, it would have been an English accent. He'd seen enough movies to know that much. That thought brought a sarcastic smile to his face just as two men knelt over him.

"What the hell happened to you, buddy?" a second man asked in an almost identical tone and accent.

"Need hospital," Alec wheezed.

"My buddy's callin' them right now," the voice assured him. Alec's vision had gone hazy – he could only make out two shapes looming above him. He did hear a third voice, though, this one with a Spanish accent.

"Don't…" Alec mumbled, finding his breath give out before he could complete his sentence. His body shook as he drew in as large a breath as he could. "Don't let… me fall asleep." Another breath. "Shock."

"It's okay," the man assured him. "Doctors are on their way. You're gonna be okay."

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Alec awoke with a start, reflexively wrapping his hand around the familiar grip of the Walther PPK on his bedside nightstand. He's dead, Alec, he assured himself, trying to banish the image of Hahneman that had intruded upon his dream about Jasmine and a new leather outfit she'd brought to the club. Hahneman still danced behind his eyelids, promising a death that Alec couldn't escape, a foe that could never be out-fought. Alec far preferred Jasmine's seductive dancing at the strip club; it held its own danger, but that was a danger he could live with.

If I hadn't been in that building once before, if I hadn't known the layout and the fact that there was an oversized safe on the second floor… It was the same thought he'd had a dozen times a day, every day since he awakened at the hospital, three days after escaping the jaws of death once again. Forget the jaws of death – I was halfway down the Reaper's gullet. He'd managed to escape the hospital in the middle of the following night and spent most of the next week in bed, allowing his bones to mend themselves and his stomach to reseal itself.

His wounds had healed, for the most part, and he was increasingly confident that he would make a full recovery. It would still take a little time; even transgenics needed time, especially when they took wounds that would have killed an ordinary, but he would be able to walk, run, and jump to his heart's content. Only the psychological wounds remained.

Alec had always felt that labels like "psychological trauma" and "traumatic stress" were a bunch of crap ordinaries talked about when they wanted to deal with their own weakness. He had never thought he would ever suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. He had never expected to have recurring nightmares while he indulged in necessary, though unusual, sleep. Lydecker never adequately prepared X5s for flashbacks and panic attacks. I need more time, Alec told himself for the thousandth time. There're ordinaries who suffer from this shit every day, and they get over it. So will I.

In lieu of proper therapy, Alec returned to an exercise he'd decided Lydecker would have recommended – re-living the traumatic experience in his mind. He didn't distance himself from it in his thoughts, though; he relived his encounter with Hahneman in all of its gory, horrifying detail. As he had every other time, Alec felt his body quickly become soaked in sweat. It wasn't that Hahneman was himself very frightening; Alec knew exactly what it was that terrified him – he had never faced an opponent that had so fully overpowered him.

If I hadn't been in that building once before, if I hadn't known the layout and the fact that there was an oversized safe on the second floor… "I'm alive only because I knew the terrain better than Hahneman thought I did." He tried once more to remind himself that knowledge of terrain was an essential element of combat, that taking advantage of terrain to achieve a perhaps undeserved – and thoroughly slapstick – resolution of the encounter was not a cheap victory. The argument did little to assuage his feelings of inadequacy.

Not even the Familiars ever overwhelmed any of us like that. Hahneman was stronger, faster, and had fucking armor plating under his skin. Seriously… what the fuck? Armor plating? How on Earth… "Stop it," he told himself, ordering his mind to refrain from dancing down the increasingly familiar spiral that resulted in despondent insecurity. "I'm lucky to be alive; I admit that. But the fact is that I am alive, and Hahneman isn't. Whether he was stronger, or faster, or whatever doesn't matter, because right now I'm the one who's above ground." Alec found the sound of his own voice soothing, and he didn't bother to try seeing through the false bravado that he'd added. All he wanted was to feel safe, and if he had to lie to himself to feel that way, he would do it.

Guess it's actually sorta ironic that avenging one woman I loved convinced me that I was born to be a killer, and avenging another convinced me that I should seize the opportunity to give that all up. Not just go through life avoiding dying, but actually live.

That wetware in Hahneman, though… that was advanced. Only a government could have financed the R & D, collected enough brilliant scientists to make the technology work, installed the components in a living person, and kept it all completely quiet. Guy definitely had military training, too… and an American accent. Another secret super-soldier program?

And whether it was our government or some other, Hahneman was bad-ass. Somebody out there was crazy enough to come up with a way to create cybernetic super-soldiers, and being a super-soldier myself, I know that no one is gonna make just one. There are more out there somewhere, and I'm sure as fuck not gonna do anything that could cause me to run into any of them.

But if he was the product of an American program, it was one that knew about us, Alec decided, refusing to just let that train of thought go. I mean, he knew he was facing a transgenic. He was expecting it; and he also knew my first guess would be that he was a Familiar. Between that and his connection with Berrisford… Was it all coincidence, or were our oh-so-qualified elected officials up to something else that maybe even Lydecker didn't know about? Could even our government be stupid enough to keep playing with fire, failure after failure?

"Forget about it," he mumbled, chasing away curiosity he knew from experience was likely to burn through a few more of his feline DNA's nine lives. Okay, so Hahneman was a cyborg. Truth is that's none of my business. I'm retiring. In fact, once I feel like I'm back to 100%, I may even leave the country for a little while. I'm gonna start a new life, the kind of life Max always wanted for all of us. A completely unexpected thought occurred to him. I think Max would be shocked if she was around to see what I'm gonna do.

For the first time in years, thinking of Max brought a thin – though grim – smile to his face. It's absolutely insane how much inconvenience, irritation, and pain I caused her. And I never changed… The thought kept dancing through Alec's mind, haunting him worse than the words 'half-done' ever had. This time I will change. No more killing. No more adventures that are likely to get me killed. From now on, I'm gonna be the man that Max – and Rachel, and Keri – thought I could be. After all, it's not just about being a better person; the last thing I need is to run into anyone else like Hahneman.

To be continued……………………………………