Black
by
Kel
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership to Dark Angel or its characters, and make no profit from this fiction.
Author's Note: Companion piece to Red, Syl's point of view. Takes place after the series ended, and before Arcanum: Verisimilitude.
Krit wore black.
It had once been nothing more than a casual choice he often indulged in; had sometimes been a reflection, conscious or otherwise, of their nature. Now he wore it because there seemed to be no other choice.
She died a little everyday, and was never sure if it was because she shared his pain, or because she was watching him do the same.
When they'd learned of Max's death, they hadn't broken down. There'd been no time, and Logan's grief had been so potent it had shamed them to show their own. As if he'd earned the right to grieve for their sister, and they'd given that right away.
They could not fall victim to the car crash of loss, but only lie still and calm as the highway, being scraped, bruised, and worn down by the constant abrasion of metal.
Every reminder of their sister – the sister they hadn't even tried to save – was a slam of brakes. He wore black, the colour of burnt rubber, even after they'd learned that Max hadn't died at all.
What did it matter?
They hadn't been there when she'd needed them.
And they'd only gotten her back by losing Zack.
She'd often wondered if Krit ever hated her for leaving him when she had, when perhaps they'd needed each other more than ever, but she couldn't watch his death. She'd been trained to kill, had grown up with blood on her hands, but she couldn't be the one who failed to save him, too.
He wore black as if it were the colour of all his sorrow and fear, and if she could convince herself that his pain was all she saw, then maybe she could have stayed.
But she left because she knew the truth, and saw him painted in red.
End.