Arcanum:
Verisimilitude
by
Kel
Disclaimer: I don't presume to own Dark Angel or any of it's characters. I gain no profit from this fiction, other than pride and joy and hopefully reviews.
Author's Note: This is the seventh fic in the Arcanum series. The official order of the fics in the series is Interloper, Something Else That Didn't Fit, Catalyst, Almost a Memory, Permanence, Solitary, and Verisimilitude. That is the order they are meant to be read in - but this fic takes place following the events of Catalyst, which is a post-After the Dark fic. It's not important that you have read AtD (DA novel by Max Allan Collins, if you haven't already heard), you just might want to note that the siege and the familiars are over and done.
verisimilitude - n. likelihood, state of being probable or true
On some nights, he saw them. Not often, but every now and then. It wasn't always easy to tell - they were pretty damn good at blending in. But that was alright. He didn't really care. He didn't see because he was looking; he only saw by chance; he only saw because that was what he was good at - seeing people, knowing who they were.
Sometimes this made him feel more isolated. The ordinaries were nothing like him and his kind. He knew this better than most. Ordinaries were more carefree, more likely to smile, less haunted. They didn't share the fears of transgenics, and they didn't feel the confidence that would keep a transgenic safe from ordinary demons. Everything that he was, they weren't. Everything that they were, he wasn't.
But being an expert at reading people sometimes made him feel less alone too. He knew his people were out there. He knew that they were in hiding in plain sight, like he was. The threat to their kind had diminished greatly, but they could no more stop looking over their shoulders than he could. So, knowing they were out there made him feel less alone. But it didn't make him feel any less cheated and angry; like now.
Maybe he was losing it. After all, his memory of Max did play constantly in his head, like a broken record. He hated the one person who had set him free. Could that possibly be called 'sane'?
Or maybe probability really was the problem. In all the bars, in all the cities, in all the world - out of all the X5's, maybe he really had wound up across the room from the only one other than Max who could inspire this heavy, disgusted fury in the pit of his stomach.
Had it been X5-453, he could have had one more beer, gone home, and forgot all about it. 453 and 452 shared a face, but that was all. They looked alike, but they weren't alike. 452 had caused his pain, 453 shared it.
But X5-471? Krit, as Max would call him? Rizzo stared at the vile offender's back.
He was a deserter, just like she was. He shared her backward values, and her complete disregard for those loyal to Manticore. He didn't care about the cost of his actions. He shared her audacity; her defiance. He had even joined her in her initial attack on Manticore.
And he looked like her.
He waved the face of Rizzo's pain like a flag, every day of his life.
Rizzo downed the last of his beer. His grip tightened on the bottle. A wild growl formed itself in the back of his throat.
Clutching the empty bottle, he stalked over to the bar, his movements angry and deliberate. Perhaps 471 could smell the danger he was in; for as Rizzo neared, he saw 471's muscles tense, and caught the barest whiff of fear.
In keeping with the violence coursing through his veins, Rizzo smashed the bottle on the nearest object - some unlucky man's shoulder - and closed the last few steps to his prey in a blur.
With a savage roar, Rizzo grabbed 471 by the hair, and hauled his head back.
471 raised his arms to defend himself, but was too late - too slow. Almost of its own accord, so detached was Rizzo from his own thoughts, the broken bottle plunged itself into 471's exposed jugular.
The sight of blood was enough to snap Rizzo back to reality.
His blood.
Not Krit's.
Caught in the grip of his involuntary, carnal fantasy, Rizzo had squeezed the empty bottle - the whole, empty bottle - to it's breaking point.
A few nearby witnesses turned their backs on him and sidled away, and as Rizzo's gazed snapped up to them, he noticed Krit staring at him, a guarded look in his eyes. He must have heard the implosion. The explosion had yet to come.
Krit took out his wallet and tossed a few bills on the bar. He picked up his scotch and stood.
Rizzo absentmindedly tugged shards of broken glass from his bloody palm.
Neither took his eyes off the other.
Krit had heard this song before; played this game. He had caught the disgusted glares in dark alleyways. He had bore the snide remarks with an indifferent turn of the shoulder. He had heard the story of the scar that traced a path along Zane's back. There was a certain animosity among those who had been left behind that he, and the other escapees of '09, had grown aware of.
He had spent more than half his life learning to keep his head down. Even when the threats of Manticore and the familiars were over, the heat would never be off completely.
Heat. Fire.
The hate he found in the stranger's eyes was more than that of the deserted. It was his death, perhaps. Written on the walls in blood.
He could run. He could drop his scotch and take off right at that moment, blurring out the door, knocking down anyone and everyone in his way. And this stranger would simply follow the mowed down path, moving faster because of less resistance, and take him out. The stranger was X5, and had ten more years of training under his belt. It would be easy.
He could stay. Put down his glass, put up his fists, and pray for a miracle. The fight would not stop - the stranger would not stop - until one of them was dead. It would be long and bloody; the stranger fighting with everything he had to kill, and Krit fighting with everything he had to live. The victor would be almost as dead as the victim, in the end, and the police would arrive and shoot him down.
What else could he do? Turn his back and pretend like nothing was wrong? Leave himself open to the attack that would undoubtedly come?
Backup would not arrive in time to do anything but stand over the grave. He was alone. While his family entertained thoughts of relief and rejoicing at their newfound freedom, he was alone with his demons. Once, not long ago, Syl had been with him - but she had left. Maybe it had hurt too much to feel the weight of his grief added to her own. Maybe she had left because it was what Zack would have wanted. Probably, she had left because he reminded her more of the sister she had lost than the brother she hadn't.
The sister they had lost. Only they then found out that they hadn't, really. He might have visited her, but he found that he couldn't. Maybe because it was too risky. The government had been on her ass. She had been a news story. An entire cult had wanted her dead so they could rule the world. Probably, he hadn't visited her - didn't plan to - because if he found her, he could only lose her again.
Krit was alone. Maybe he was meant to be alone. Maybe he would fight this stranger. If he won, he'd still be alone. If he lost, he wouldn't have to deal with it.
He paid for his drinks, and stood to approach the stranger. Then he paused, but didn't allow himself to speculate the night's outcome any longer. He turned his back, breaking the eye contact with the enraged X5. His every sense went on high alert for telltale signs of the stranger's approach.
He bought another drink.
"You've got a lot of nerve."
"That, and a cold beer." Krit thunked the bottle down next to the pile of broken glass in front of Rizzo and sat on the other side of the worn-out table.
Rizzo ignored it. Blood dripped from his clenched right fist onto the table between them - the only thing that separated them. "You've got a lot of nerve," Rizzo snarled.
"So I've been told," Krit shot back. If he was fazed by Rizzo's fury, he didn't show it. "Why do you want to kill me?"
Perhaps this one had left his brain behind at Manticore. It should have been plain why Rizzo was angry. Or perhaps Krit knew that this was about more than a little desertion. Rizzo smoothed his game face on as well, blanketing his emotions.
He flashed a predatory grin and leaned back in his chair, relaxing. He picked up the beer and flipped off the cap. He dropped it in the blood on the table and took a drink. "Why don't you take a guess? Wow me with your daring and your smarts."
Krit showed no sign of joining the easy-going act.
"You don't just hate me for the usual reason."
"Oh really?" Rizzo raised an eyebrow. "And what would 'the usual reason' be? That you're a disloyal, arrogant son of a bitch?"
Krit took a sip of his scotch. "Sounds about right," he said, nodding.
Rizzo's words betrayed the anger that his tone didn't. "Chug this down, you nonchalant prick. If you and your little sister don't watch yourselves, some angry bastard - probably me - is gonna come along and snap your traitorous necks. Call me crazy," Rizzo shrugged, "But I think you might care then." He seemed as indifferent as Krit; picking up a shard of glass and carving random lines in the table top.
"Don't ever threaten my family," Krit said quietly. He probably didn't know or care which sister Rizzo spoke of.
Rizzo laughed at the threat in his tone. "I'll threaten her if I damn well want. That bitch burned down my life - or didn't you hear?" An easy-going smile on his lips; a turbulent darkness in his eyes.
It was Krit's turn to laugh. Rizzo saw that he couldn't help it. "No offense, but your life sucked."
Then they were both laughing. Any nearby onlooker would wonder what the joke was. It was funny enough that a man who had been displaying an incredible amount of anger only moments before, was now giving in to belly-deep, uproarious guffaws. He had crushed his bottle in his bare hand and was still bleeding, a pile of broken glass sitting between him and the object of his overpowering fury - a worn-out shell; too tired to feel. Neither of them seemed to care; they laughed as if the world would end the next day.
Their laughter was completely nonsensical. It was absurd. It was crazy, perhaps. It was something that didn't fit any more than they did. But they laughed anyway.
They laughed, because it was either laugh or snap.
They laughed until tears leaked from their eyes.
Neither knew if they were tears of laughter or pain.
When they were spent; when they had been silent for what seemed like hours, one of them spoke. "You have no idea what it was like. To lose her."
Rizzo did not reply. It was true, he didn't know what it was like to lose Max. Maybe he wished he did.
But to lose your family? Your unit? The people who love you - who care about you? He imagined that to suffer such a blow might shatter one's faith. It was alright he didn't have any family. Or faith, for that matter.
He gave another small chuckle - because there was nothing to laugh about. Nothing to smile about. He tipped his bottle back and drank deeply.
Maybe someday it would be better. Maybe he'd find someone. Someone who didn't care where he had come from, or why he was broken, or what strings he came attached to. Someone who would hold him close and ward off the demons. Someone he could call family.
Maybe.
Someday.
The chances were laughable.
End.
Author's Note 2: The mention of Zane is reference to my upcoming other fic, Stoic. Though this was written first, and Stoic was inspired by said mention. Stoic is not technicallyan Arcanum fic, and you will not need to have read this to understand it, but it does take place in the same alternate reality, and will explain a small part of why Krit is so alone. Check it out, if you're interested!
Enjoy the fic? Have a question/comment/concern relating to anything in the Arcanum universe? Leave a review! :) And check out my website, if you're interested, at designation (dot) not-quite-human (dot) net.