Disclaimer: See previous chapters…
Big thanks…
…. to Shywr1ter for betaing and suggestions for both content and streamlining (Of course all remaining mistakes are mine)
…for all the great reviews:-)
…and not to forget: Thanks to Reilynn for her impressive calculation of the timeline in 'Female Trouble' which my poor un-mathematical brain never could have done itself.
The following – obviously – is from Logan's perspective and unfortunately messes up the chronological order of the chapters. I'm sorry if anybody is confused by this, originally this story was intended to be from Max's point of view only.
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Logan's apartment, 2: 10 PM
"This is gonna be okay." That was what she told him, only a minute after dropping the bomb that Dr. Vertes was dead and with her, any chance for him of staying out of the chair. Her voice had been soothing and underlined by a faint, sad smile, but like his answer, that smirked "yeah" it had lacked conviction.
With those words and a last, worried look over her shoulder, she disappeared from his view, seeming to doubt the wisdom of leaving him alone but unable to argue with the necessity of retrieving his files from Vertes' before Lydecker would find them.
Logan listened attentively to the noises of Max's retreat until he heard the sharp, metallic noise of the front door being closed. Only then he allowed the impact of Vertes death to show as his blank expression was undermined by his shoulders slowly sagging forward and his elbows seeking support on his knees.
He would never walk again.
Head resting heavily on his hands to fight the dizzy feeling of struggling against sleep and the accompanying parade of nightmares, Logan numbly gazed at the now empty spot by the door where Max's absence was marked by the undisturbed glow of late-afternoon sun on polished hardwood.
The apartment felt empty without her, lifeless, as if she were his only connection to the world outside of his walls… and still, sending her away had been the right thing to do. Had she stayed around any longer, his calm, stoic mask might have slipped and given Max a glimpse of who he really was: Only a faint, sorry specter of the man full of energy and determination she had barely gotten to know before Bruno's bullet had rendered him a cripple. Then the inevitable would have happened: her concerned expression would have changed into one of pity, maybe even of revulsion at his pathetic state; she would have turned and walked out of the door, no longer thinking of him as the fairly independent computer-wizard who was able to save the day with his hacking skills but from now on regarding him as a helpless invalid, unable to deal with life.
Sure, her statement had sounded ridiculously superficial to him – but how could he blame her for being unaware about the true extent of his depression when it was he who had shut her out at the first signs of the cure being not permanent?
Not wanting to give her any opportunity to pity him, he hadn't told Max that over the last few days he'd been constantly in pain, an ever-present throbbing and pounding in the same part of his body that that had been dead to sensation for the past months. The pain felt like a cruel mockery, a last, cynical parting-shot from his messed-up nervous system – and still, even though the piercing aches made Logan dig his nails into his palms when he was alone and unobserved, he appreciated the pain as being the lesser of two evils, as a sign that at least something was still working. He had welcomed it – while at the same time, in an unhinging confusing of fear and anticipation Logan had thought he would go crazy when every step of his weakening legs had sent piercing flashes through his whole body, from head to toe. The pain was depleting his body, leaving him in state of utter exhaustion of which he hadn't even known it existed before those excruciating weeks immediately after the shooting.
There was no difference between then and now, Logan tiredly concluded as he lifted a hand to massage his achy back. The result would be the same: he was consuming his energy battling through pain and fatigue, only to be left with aching arms and stiff shoulders which felt like those of someone decades older.
Logan had fought the weakness in his legs with all his willpower and every bit of endurance he could muster, hoping against all odds that it would be a merely momentary setback. He had hidden his pain as best as he could, succeeding in fooling Max, to whom the signs seemed to be lost, maybe because she didn't know them or because of the distance he had forced between them with his harsh behavior. With Bling however, it hadn't been that easy, as the trainer's vast medical knowledge and long experience with spinal chord damage had let him see straight through Logan's pretenses. In quiet concern his friend had repeatedly held out a bottle of heavy painkillers in front of Logan, an offer which Logan had turned down just as repeatedly, each time stubbornly avoiding his friend's eyes and the worried look he knew he would find there. No painkillers. They would only prematurely establish that dreaded numbness, which slowly but inevitably was creeping up on him anyway, bit by bit. Painkillers would only bring closer the moment when his lower body would be reduced to a useless appendage again that didn't seem to belong to him, but still demanded to be treated with consideration and care which contradicted the embarrassment and revulsion Logan felt for it.
How could he trust Max to comprehend what he was going through and maybe even find a bit of the old Logan beneath this mess, when all he could see himself was a person who wasn't worth the bother, a complete failure?
Taking off his glasses for moment to slowly rub a hand over his bleary eyes, Logan shooed away the ridiculous idea that opening up to Max wouldn't have scared her away. No, hiding his weakness had been the right decision. After all, how could she possibly understand what it was like in this defeated body of his, she who never slept and always was bouncing with energy. Max seemed to enjoy her life despite all the depressing facts pulling her down: doing dull work for a cranky boss because everything more challenging required a degree or experience or both, and might bring her attention from the wrong places, living illegally in a dingy apartment-block in a run-down part of Seattle, being confronted with the possibility that Manticore might catch her any minute to put her back in their oversized cage…
Logan was glad that Max seemed to have found something like contentment, even happiness, after all she had gone through. For himself though such things didn't seem possible anymore. Whatever mirth Max seemed to find – in a night of partying with her friends at Crash, in a speedy bike ride, in a simple meal prepared in anticipation of her pleased, contagious smile – Logan couldn't share it any longer. All he could see was misery and corruption, poverty and indifference dominating everything around him, ridiculing the work of Eyes Only.
What a foolish notion it had been to think that he could fight all these evils and make the world a better place, he, a guy in a wheelchair. It had been a futile fight from the beginning, Logan knew this now. But in his ridiculous idealism he had dedicated his life to Eyes Only, spending day after day researching the ways of Seattle's crime syndicates.
The chair hadn't diminished his intensity. In contrary, being the guy who safely sat at home, while ordering others around to do all the countless dangerous tasks he could no longer perform himself had only increased Logan's obsession with his work – as if depriving himself of sleep and human contact was a way to make up for his physical inadequacy. Of course his self-destructive overcompensation hadn't worked. At the end of the day, when he eventually succumbed to this all-consuming fatigue for a few hours of sleep that were too less to leave him rested but too long given the enormity of his mission, nothing had changed.
How could she tell him that things were going to be okay? Nothing was going to be okay, not the world, not Seattle and not him. Least of all him. All he had left after Vertes' death was a body that was drained from days of pain, of forcing weakening muscles to move, of delaying sleep to cherish every lasting instant of sensation. His body screamed at him to get some rest…
…and if it was the eternal kind – who cared?
As if in a trance, Logan moved away from the sun-flooded living room area to the relative darkness of his office where he examined his high-end computer equipment as if it belonged to somebody else. This was the command center of the mighty Eyes Only, where he had always done a last check-in before going out on a mission, back when he had been a whole, functioning person. In a ritual borne out of caution, in his attempt to minimize the dangers by being well-prepared, he would come in here to take a last glimpse at the information-net while loading his gun, even as he would hope that he wouldn't have to use it.
The gun…
Haltingly, Logan's fingers glided over the cool, smooth metal of his wheel rims, searching for some kind of distraction to that disturbingly alluring option a gun provided to someone who didn't give a damn about his life. The rims were gripped hard, pushed upon, as callused hands set the chair into a swaying motion, first swinging softly from side to side, as if cradling himself, then harder and harder until eventually his leg was banged onto the desk, again and again. Each hit evoked a soft thud, a dull vibration in his upper body – but nothing, not even the slightest sign of protest from his insensitive leg. Numb, paralyzed, useless… as good as dead.
Coming to a sudden decision, Logan stopped the swaying to reach over and, with a decisive movement, opened the drawer containing the gun-case. Carefully he took the gun from its box, watching it closely for a moment, before, with a precise, well-practiced motion, he loaded the bullet that appeared to be the answer to all his problems.
Only a little pull on the trigger and everything would be over. No more tiredness and exhaustion, limiting his every move and thought, no longer being mocked by the nagging impression that Eyes Only merely amused those who should be intimidated… no more dinners with Max anymore, reminding him that they had been so close to become real, equal partners before he had been minimized again to be only a good friend, trustworthy but broken. Just a little, effortless movement of his finger and the intricate mass of muscles, nerves and bones forming Logan Cale would cease to exist …
Not anymore…
Slowly Logan directed the barrel of the gun into his face, the words playing over and over again in his head. They sounded like a promise.
No longer…
Then something awakened him from his hazy stupor, a drip of water coming from the floor above. He reacted as if on autopilot: go up to investigate, call the ambulance upon seeing Mrs. Moreno lying on the floor, comfort her with a smile and some gently chiding words, explain to the paramedics what happened – all the wile acting like the reliable neighbor Mrs. Moreno knew and not like a man who was about to commit suicide.
On the short elevator-ride down to penthouse level the gun somehow didn't seem like such a glorious solution anymore. Nothing had changed, the thought of spending decade after decade as a paraplegic still triggered nothing but fear and weariness in Logan… but the gratitude on Mrs. Moreno's face unknowingly piercing his self-centered bubble of hopeless exhaustion had sobered him up for an instant. Now there was trace of resistance from the formerly muted voice of reason speaking up and sensibly whispering to him that such a decision between life and death shouldn't be made rashly but deserved to be considered from all sides.
All he had to do was to overcome this hint of doubt and go straight back to the waiting gun to finish the job…
Just some more time to think, that was what he needed, Logan mused as he stared down at his well-worn loafers with a cynical smirk. One way or the other, he wouldn't leave any traces on these shoes anymore, whether he killed himself or was sitting in this chair for the rest of his life.
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The first thing he heard as he pushed himself through his door with slow, weary strokes was Max's voice frantically calling his name. An instant later she had rushed out of his office, eyes taking him in with an unvarnished expression of fear and relief, as she swooped down beside the chair to pull him into a desperate hug. He had given in, bringing her closer with surprising strength as he allowed that, for a short moment, the ever-present distance between them was bridged by Max's worries and his own dire need to feel another living human being.
Logan would have liked to stay like this forever, to just tip down his head a bit a more so it would rest on her shoulder and to breathe in her sweet-smelling hair until he fell asleep…
How could the gun be the right decision when hugging her felt so good? Wasn't having Max enough to carry on?
Then, in a sharp pang, reality hit him and stiffened his body away from Max's softness: They couldn't be more than this. An amiable hug was the closest he could come to Max. Hiding the sickening disappointment beneath a non-committal everyday-face, Logan pushed away from Max to wheel over to the office where he put away the gun with a casual gesture – whether it was only to hide it from Max's eyes, or for good, Logan didn't know.
However, he didn't want to scare Max. She deserved to be happy and shouldn't be bothered with his problems. So, as she asked about Mrs. Moreno, her oddly intense look showing clearly that the old lady was only her second priority right now, Logan found himself making a promise almost despite himself. "She'll be fine", he stated, lending his voice a calm, easy note that had its sole source and purpose in comforting her.
Max answered with a serious smile, seeming to understand that his words had yet another, coded meaning, a promise that he would be fine. He wasn't in the least sure whether he would be able to keep his vow – but maybe he could give it another try, think about it again – for Max. In this instant though, some soothing words and a little smile were all he could give her.
For Max, however, this didn't seem to be enough. Her own smile replaced by a tight expression of unease, she averted her gaze for a glassy-eyed scrutinizing of the smooth surface of his desk, studiously avoiding the spot where the gun had laid, as if a mere look could bring it back.
Logan could imagine what was going on in her head. Even though she had covered up her panic with the well-practiced ease of someone who was used to hiding her emotions, Max's shock was still tangible in her whole uncharacteristically quiet bearing. She must be trying to figure out how to help, wanting to ask why he wished to kill himself, maybe wanting to yell at him for being so stupid. She wanted him to open up to her.
It was exactly what Logan wanted to avoid, afraid that his earlier fears might come true.
Wishing she would just go and leave him alone, Logan pretended to be focused on one of his computer screens, until finally the awkward silence became too heavy, causing him to throw her a cautious, guarded glance out of the corner of his eye.
In a slow, hesitant turn of her head Max chose the same instant to look up and meet his eyes with a strange stare of determination and insecurity, seemingly undecided whether to broach the topic which was standing between them like a ghost, invisible but haunting.
Logan flinched, abruptly jerking around to sluggishly operate the chair in the direction of the nearest window where he parked at one of his familiar brooding spots, his back to Max. Slowly closing his eyes to protect them from the blinding rays of the low-standing sun, Logan unsuccessfully tried to banish the memory of Max's face creasing worriedly at his uncoordinated movements, dictated by tiredness and exhaustion. She had regarded him as if he was a fragile piece of porcelain that had to be treated with utmost care.
He was shutting her out, behaving like an inconsiderate idiot and treating her like an unwanted intruder. Logan was aware that his erratic attitude must be irritating, even hurting her… and yet, right now, he felt utterly unable to deal with Max's worry for him on top of everything else. It was easier to keep her at arms-length, better not to let her see his failures. It was the right thing…
His strategy worked. With an odd mix of relief and guilt Logan could hear how, after another attempt to trick him into a conversation, Max sneaked out and closed the door behind her with a nearly unperceivable click.
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After she was gone, he stared out windows, gaze unfocused, unmoving, watching the sun go down over the city with an odd feeling of disconnectedness. He didn't seem to belong to the world anymore.
What would have changed if he'd gone through with it, if he had pulled the trigger and put a bullet through his brain? Was there anybody for whom his death would cause such a deep, genuine grief that was worth giving up the alluring thoughts of ending it all? A grim smile crossed Logan's face. He had more fingers on one hand than persons that were close enough to him to really care. To his family he was a loser; his death would only prove their firm belief that 'Junior' failed with everything he touched. The only grief his death would cause them was the rumors and gossiping that would follow the suicide of a Seattle Cale. Bennett was the only exception, a genuinely kind person among all that false friendliness – but somehow their relationship had weakened over the years, had gone from once being as close as brothers to the awkward politeness of relatives seeing each other only at the holidays. No, Bennett wouldn't feel much more than faint regret at hearing of the suicide of his older, broken cousin.
If there was a person who deserved to be called a friend it was Bling, who was far more than only a capable physical-therapist or a valued bodyguard… In his own quiet and assuring way he had become Logan's confidant, the single person in whose presence he felt safe to reveal a fragment of the real Logan every now and then. However, Logan assured himself, in his stoic way of dealing with life, Bling wasn't a person to worry about. Logan had never seen him lose his composure, not even when one of his long-term patients had died unexpected and too young some weeks before. Bling surely would deal with the death of his friend with the same seemingly unshakable calm that dominated his every move.
Then there was Max, the enigmatic, stunningly beautiful young woman, full of surprises and wit. With her, the impact of his death was the most difficult to judge. For reasons unknown to Logan she had chosen to become his friend, making it a welcomed habit to keep him company when she could have been partying with her friends at Crash. Logan didn't doubt that she cared and considered him a reliable part of her life. Even now he found it hard to play down a twinge of guilt and nagging shame for considering an option which would hurt Max, the person who counted most. However, seen from a purely objective, reasonable angle, in the long run it would be best for Max if he wasn't around. If he was dead, there would be one less factor to keep her in Seattle, as she no longer would feel committed to be protection, legs and support to her older friend.
Sure, she might be devastated at first upon finding his body, and Logan wished he had enough energy to spare her this pain. In the long run, however, Logan reasoned himself into accepting the unpleasant truth, Max would get over him. Soon she would meet someone new who could give her all the things that were denied to him. She would find someone who could make her happy.
Bracing himself with sore arms that shortly had enjoyed the luxury of forgetting the weight of his body, Logan shifted uncomfortably in his chair to find a position that would ease the stiffness and tension without triggering another wave of pain radiating upwards from his numbed lower back. He could have cried out loud with disappointment, sadness and frustration at the biting contrast between his sorry state now and the high, exuberant mood only days before when he had felt like 'anything and everything' was possible.
It just wasn't fair. Finally he had been able to prove Max that he could be a whole, worthy partner, one who could run with her when Manticore was closing in. He had been so close to making the decisive move to transform their friendship into a romance, that evening when Zack's call had interrupted them. Full of hope and silly plans for their future, he had prepared everything to perfection… dinner, wine, candles. He had even given his clothes that obsessive bit of extra-attention at which he normally scoffed as superficial, all to show her that the look of encouraging flirtation in her eyes was mutual.
It hadn't lasted, couldn't be real. Just when they had been caught in a blissful moment of flirtatious banter, his legs had started to give out on him, effectively crushing his mood from giddy anticipation to sickening self-hatred. Not wanting Max to witness his weakness, Logan had covered his weakened leg with a show of true Logan Cale cranky-ness. He had shut her out, destroying the tender beginnings of something which couldn't work and only would disappoint both of them the moment when Max realized what exactly a spinal cord injury involved.
A relationship wouldn't be fair to her while he was in the chair. He had nothing to offer, would only tie her to a place she should have left months ago at the first signs of Lydecker spotting her. From a neutral point of view, his death would be a good thing for Max.
She would leave Seattle, the place which had been Logan's home for his whole life… Here he had spend year after year to help all those who hadn't been born with the privileges of being a Cale, first as a journalist, then even broadening his efforts with Eyes Only. He had risked his life and freely handed out his money to buy documents, homes or a new start for those in need…
Had he left an imprint on the city, on its people? What would they think about the abrupt change in their TV-program when the 'last free voice' of Seattle suddenly would be gone? Would they miss the feeling of knowing somebody cared for them? Surely one of them thought back in gratitude to his anonymous savior and would feel regret, disappointment or even sadness if he somehow learned of his death…
But he was fooling himself, again falling prey to his old belief that the energy of a single person could make a difference against Seattle's aristocracy of crooked thugs ruling a mass of indifferent people. Burying his face in his hands, Logan forced himself to finally grow up and say goodbye to his childish superhero-fantasies. It was stupid to believe those people would even notice if he was gone. No, the world wouldn't be any different without Logan Cale.
………To be continued……….