A/N: Same stuff applies as in the Author's Notes chapter. Oh, and unfortunately I neither own Supernatural, nor Dark Angel. Just this.

A/N part two: Specific episodes of Supernatural mentioned are: "Nightmare," and kind of "Ghostfacers." Specific episodes of Dark Angel mentioned are: "Bag 'Em."

Of Desire and the Status Quo

Chapter VII: Return in a New Alliance

"Let me get this straight," Logan's saying from his desk chair, looking at Max and Original Cindy's earnest faces. "You want me to locate, to an exact address, the brother of a guy that may be famed Dean Winchester, looking fifteen years younger than he should."

"No," Cindy says immediately, watching Logan's expression with amusement. "Just thirteen."

Max is a little more forgiving. "Not to an exact address, if you can't find it," she says. "Alec and I can cover a perimeter if we need to." Logan's still incredulous face causes her to continue hastily, "But yes. We're pretty sure Dean will try to get to Sam."

"Max." Logan removes his glasses and leans forward, the signs Max knows all too well to mean he's trying to talk sense into her, sense to which they both fully know she won't pay any regard. "Look, I want to help, I really do…"

Cindy and Max exchange a glance, both in doubt. Mainly because if Logan doesn't like Alec, a member of a people Logan'd pretty much sworn to defend, what are the chances he'd actually like Dean, an Ordinary? Especially given Dean's…bumpy past.

"I do!" Logan protests with a flush, thinking the same thing Max and Cindy were. "But it's not as simple as just Googling 'Sam Winchester address.' You do know how hard it was to find them before? They slipped the police every single time!"

Both women's faces sober appropriately, realizing that they don't even know what Googling is, let alone know what Logan is referring to. They know the basics, but…they just weren't around like Logan was. "Logan, you can find anything," Max wheedles, staring doe-eyed at him.

"It's not just their ability to wriggle through the cracks," he sighs. "The Pulse wiped everything that wasn't archived. There's just—there's already not a lot about them, particularly now."

"I'm aware," Max objects hotly, and she is. Very much so.

"No, you aren't," Logan counters, with more vehemence than any of the three expected.

He's apologetic, but they just can't fathom what he can when it comes to the Winchester brothers. He rubs his eyes until he sees spots behind his lids, suddenly fatigued. He's almost wishing Max had him back looking for her siblings. At least then he wasn't ninety-nine point nine percent sure he wasn't going to find anything else about them. With Sam and Dean…he does. He may be a cyber hacker, but that's easy, given the day and age. But if police back in the good old days, when everything worked, couldn't find them, how could Logan?

For Dean's part, he had set out to do just the thing Cindy and Max had presumed. His only problem is, of course, the fact that he has even less of an idea where Sam might be than Logan. Not only is it that he's found Seattle has changed tenfold since the last time he'd been through there, but also it's apparently 2021—a truth Dean's still having trouble working through—and while there are some motels around, Dean can't see Sam staying in any of them. Primarily since there's pretty much zero security around; although in their better days they didn't exactly have or need much in the way of policing (a sawed-off and machete were really all the security they required), there was at least some sense of decorum. Now, though…well, privacy would be a privilege.

Dean does know Sam's alive, however, and that's a small comfort. He can't explain how he knows, he just does. He can't tell if Sam's actually in Seattle proper or not, but at least he can be somewhat satisfied in that his little brother—big brother? Hell, there's a mind-bender that he really doesn't want to tackle right now—is still living and breathing. Dean doesn't know what he'd do if he came back from Down Under just to find out that Sam had died. Or worse, taken his own life. Dean's stomach rolls over at the thought.

Adding to his already phenomenally shitty day, Dean's resigned himself to being lost. The last intersection he'd reached was First and Valley…well, he thinks that's what it was. It was at least First. And there was the sign for Valley on the ground…

Ah, shit. He would like to say something cavalier and manly, like his internal GPS is doing just fine, thank you, and he'll have himself on the right track in no time, but. He's just too damn tired to adopt his hardass shell. He's gonna go with a solid: I'm lost as all hell.

He's also feeling a little nauseas at the moment, overcome with a sudden vertigo, the cause of which he can only dismally attribute to that pesky little fire pit he'd been ejected from recently. Rolling with the punches, as is pretty much Dean's motto, he climbs up onto what he's presuming used to be a full wall, but has now been reduced to more of a segmented ledge. He brings his knees up to his chest, breathing in heady, foul air.

He looks straight ahead, the decimated downtown of Seattle greeting him as he depressingly recognizes a landmark or two; Lake Washington is bleak and sluggish now, Quest Field's notable design now in crumbles, half the stadium seats obliterated with disrepair. It's not like Dean's ever been a huge football fan himself—sure, he'd throw a ball around now and again, usually at Sam's censure (and head), but he was never really into it—but still. The Seahawks were big news up in the Pacific Northwest.

"Guess not anymore," Dean mutters darkly, feeling another wave of dismay flood over him. He wants to tell his body to shove the fuck off, to quit with the sorrow vibes ('cause really, Sam does emo, not Dean), but the masochism that he's comprised of—in addition to zilch self-esteem, but that's a whole 'nother saga in and of itself—is satisfied that he's feeling something other than, you know, agonizing pain.

He's still not feeling fantastic as he continues staring, and when he hears a rustle from somewhere behind him, he assumes it's just some abandoned soda can or something blowing in the frigid wind. At least until the sixth sense he'd developed in over two decades of hunting supernatural fiends flares up. Dean's not been hunting in a long time, and when he was in Hell, the demons pretty much came right at him, but the sense he has is innate; he'd always considered himself better at it than Sam, anyhow. Plus, now that his ears are focused more definitively, he hears another scuffing, the same kind as before, and now he's positive it's not a soda can, but rather a set of Belleville 500 USMC combat boots. He'd know the thudding, thick leathered sound anywhere. Including in the middle of some kind of post-disaster metropolis.

Putting aside whatever bodily discomfort he may have been in a moment ago—another side effect of his previous line of work, that setting feelings aside—Dean's off the ledge and sprinting over to the alleyway in an instant, his arm pinning someone to the wall by the neck.

"Who are you?" Dean demands, his voice remaining coarse and husky from disuse.

He's ready to repeat his statement, maybe rough up the guy a little—Dean's not in the mood for beating around the bush—when he truly looks at whom he's halfway strangling. Frowning now in confusion, he finds it's rather a kid than the adult he'd been expecting, a kid that has to be no more than sixteen or seventeen if Dean has to guess. He hadn't been wrong about the army boots, though: although the kid is dressed fairly simply in some light cargo pants and a black sweatshirt, the boots are fitted, sized just right for their owner. Which means that he'd either really lucked upon that size, or…

"What the hell?" Dean wonders aloud, not sure if he really wants to know why someone not even out of puberty is in ownership of personal army gear.

Knowing he can't exactly get anywhere with this by having the kid still held against the wall, Dean loosens his grip, dropping his arm. The moment he does, however, he realizes it was the wrong thing to do—in a movement that's a total blur to him, Dean's suddenly the one against the wall, a few inches above the ground, the kid's face eerily neutral, though it says nothing for his iron grip.

But Dean didn't get out of Hell just so he could die in some back alley. He's not up to his full strength yet, but his adrenal glands are doing just fine, allowing their organic upper to make up for the muscle degeneration. The kid has his arm against Dean's throat, but he hadn't secured Dean's legs, so Dean makes use of it and kicks out as hard as he's able, his own CAT-booted feet making a hollow sound as they lash out against their adversary's softer ribs. There's an audible oof, but it doesn't stop the almost immediate punch that comes Dean's way. He ducks, his reflexes being another of the innate gifts he possesses, the fist hitting worn brick instead of his face; he counters the strike with a hit of his own.

The kid dodges it as well, and uses Dean's momentum to flip him over, slamming Dean's body onto the pavement. Dean's winded, but he's up as quickly as ever just the same. He knows he could probably beat the kid, but there's a look in his ice-colored eyes that sends Dean the signal it'd be a hell of a fight. Despite his more scrawny than burly stature, Dean knows firsthand that the kid does have some muscle behind his blows. More than that, Dean doesn't like to, in general, throw himself into a brawl if he doesn't have to. (And on a more ego-driven level, even if he did beat the kid, he's sure he'd still feel like a douche for beating up a teenager, regardless of how Fight Club the guy seems to be.)

"Just want to talk, kid," Dean says, keeping a good two or three yards from the boy. Come to think of it, that gleam that Dean'd observed now is getting kind of creepy how calculating it is.

Right before the kid does that blurry thing again and punches Dean's lights out (possibly for good this time), he stops, his fist six inches from Dean's face. He cocks his head, and his expression morphs into one of hazy recognition. "Hey, I know you," he says, slowly relaxing his hand and peering closer at Dean.

"'Scuse me?" Dean asks, taking another step back. He takes in the look of comprehension, and realizes it just about mirrors the one Cindy had worn earlier. Oh, please, Dean begs to himself, don't you also call me—

"Alec, right?"

Dean heaves a sigh, and rolls his shoulders, already feeling their tightness. "Okay, is there some kind of poster telling everyone to call me that?" Dean scowls, staring at the adolescent. "'Cause I'm getting real sick of it real fast."

If possible, the kid looks more confused than Dean is. "No, I'm sure of it," he says, still frowning. "You were with that woman—"

"Hey, bud, that's not gonna narrow it—"

"Max," the kid finishes, ignoring Dean's interruption.

"I don't know—wait, what?" Dean halts, the kid's words catching up with him. Normally, the name wouldn't mean anything (besides maybe that suicidal psychic back in Saginaw), but in this case…well, it's something anyway.

"Max," the kid repeats, still eyeing Dean like he knows him but is now fearing Dean may have lost his marbles. "And you—you helped us escape."

Dean pulls in another lungful of air, breathes it out, rubs a calloused hand over his now bruised face. "Okay, that aside," Dean hedges, "what's your name, kid?"

To Dean's surprise, the smallest bit of a blush goes over the boy's face, something between sheepish and embarrassed. "Zero, sir," he replies.

Dean blinks, for the moment ignoring the "sir" part, and paying more attention, instead, to the rest of the response. "What are you talking about, 'Zero'?" he inquires sharply.

"It's my name."

"The hell it is," Dean snaps, thinking the boy's some ghetto reject or something. "You got a real name. What is it?"

To add to Dean's already impressively flummoxed state, the kid's jaw clenches, and his eyes downcast. "X6-852, sir."

"Huh?"

"You asked for my 'real name,'" the kid says. "That's my designation."

"Oh, for Christ's fucking sake!" Dean exclaims, his nerves already frayed and dangerously close to completely unraveling. The kid jerks, surprised by Dean's reaction. Dean looks around, and finds a small pile of crates a few feet away, pulls two over and points at one. "Sit," he commands, and the kid obeys.

Taking his own seat on the deceptively firm box, Dean leans forward. He's had enough confusion for one day. And if finding out what in the world is going on with this kid's nominal crisis will curtail some of that, well, Dean'll take it. It's already going somewhat well—at least Dean's nose isn't broken.

"First thing I think we need to get straight is that I'm not this Alec dude," Dean says, clearing his throat past the persistent pseudo-laryngitis. "I don't know who he is or why people keep thinking he's me, but he's not. I'm Dean Winchester. Not Alec. Got it?"

The kid stares at Dean for a few seconds, but then nods slowly, his dark, unkempt hair falling into his eyes that, for a split second, reminds Dean wholly of Sam. "Yes, sir," he says.

"And that 'sir' thing has got to stop," Dean comments, putting whatever reason there was for it aside for now. He could deal with that later. "Now, what's your real name?"

For the first time, Dean sees true anger flare up in the kid; before, he'd just been as riled up as anyone in a fistfight, but now he showed actual irritation. "I told you," he snaps, and for the life of him, Dean doesn't know why he feels the urge to smile. "My name is Zero."

"Guess you're going with the Holes theme then, eh?" Dean jokes, his jest falling flat. "Okay, you're Zero. Wanna tell me how you got that? I doubt your parents gave it to you."

Dean doesn't fail to notice the dark shadow that falls over the kid's—oh, all right, Zero's—expression at the mention of parents, but he doesn't comment on it just yet. "Max," he answers simply. "I…I mouthed off. She didn't like it. So, Zero."

Dean chuckles, both because of how uncreative people of this time apparently are, and also because of how weird it is to see the kid okay with it. "All right," Dean begins, "and you were totally square with that?"

"I disrespected a superior officer," Zero says. "It was deserved."

"So what if you were a smartass?" Dean objects with a snort. "Zero means nothing. No one's nothing, kid. Understand?"

Zero looks at Dean a little differently, like Dean's not the guy he'd originally thought, but someone entirely separate. Like, Dean would bet, he's actually Dean, and not whoever Alec is. Dean's pretty okay with that. His sense of self-worth is kind of in the sewers, but the one thing he is totally comfortable in saying is that there's only one Dean Winchester. And he's a scary son of a bitch, damn it.

"Super," Dean says succinctly, sitting straight. "Now, what the hell are you doing on the streets? You're what, sixteen?"

Zero shrugs, a little uncomfortably, not quite meeting Dean's eyes. Even though Zero knows he's superlative to Dean in terms of fighting skills and intelligence, he can't help but feel like Dean's that sympathetic older brother who'll reprimand you, but do it with your best interests in mind and without judgment. It only adds to it that Dean reminds him of his CO back at Manticore; not just in terms of looks—that rugged, outdoorsy appearance—but in attitude as well. So even though Zero's been trained to be suspicious of absolutely everyone, he realizes he's beginning to fall prey to Dean's unintentional charm.

"I'm not entirely sure," Zero answers with a frown. "But I think I'm around there."

Dean nods in faux understanding. "So, what, '91, then?" he asks, going for the small talk approach in order to not scare off the kid that, for all his prowess at throwing down, looks like a skittish kitten.

Zero cocks his head to the side, confused. "Erm—no, sir. 2004, if I'm the age I think," he replies.

Dean heaves a deep sigh, pinching his nose with his fingers, his eyes scrunched closed. Zero knows the stance well—Dean's trying not to completely break down. He's not sure why Dean's reacting the way he is, but he won't call him out on it. "Right, 'course," Dean responds finally. "So weird."

"Sir?"

"Never mind," Dean brushes off, not wanting to get into something with this kid that he's not even figured out completely himself. "Anyway. That streets thing? I mean, judging by this damn town it looks like it's a regular thing, but…you're just a kid…"

Zero's inadvertently touched, that strange warm feeling that he got when Ralph would hug him for no reason, or Bugler would want him to make up a contraband bedtime story. Normally, he'd think Dean was just trying to get him to spill his guts, but his over-accurate eyes and brain see it for what it truly is: concern. Genuine concern and regret for someone he just met and who very possibly could have broken his neck with nary an effort. He thinks Dean wouldn't be terrible at being considered an X-series with how legit his expressions are.

Which causes Zero to remember that Dean's not the guy he met so long ago who was actually an X5, and that just confounds him again. But he goes with the flow. "Manticore burned down and we had to go to ground," Zero explains. "My unit and I went up to Canada with some fake passports and ID."

"Manticore?" Dean repeats puzzlingly. "Isn't that some kind of animal?"

Zero almost laughs at the crude irony, but doesn't. Primarily for the fact that Dean looks completely clueless. "It's a—no offense, sir" Dean shoots him a glare, and Zero corrects, "Dean, but how do you not know about Manticore? It was all over the news. Still is, I think."

It's Dean's turn to gain a dark expression, and it immediately intrigues Zero's interest, which is already higher than normal given his feline DNA. "I haven't been—I wasn't in a place to pick up a signal," is all that Dean offers, deciding it's going to have to be good enough for the X6.

Still, Zero searches Dean's features, looking for some telltale tic that would indicate Dean's dishonesty. But he finds none. Not a trace. But just because Dean isn't lying doesn't mean Zero wants to talk about Manticore. Unlike most of the Manticore creations, he'd hated it, still does for that matter. Yet he feels compelled to enlighten this stranger-who-doesn't-look-like-a-stranger. Hell if he knows why.

"It's an experimental facility," Zero answers hesitantly. "Genetic engineering."

Dean looks Zero up and down, he supposes to find some kind of indicator, a tail, maybe. "Wait, you're a—I mean, you're—"

Zero's mouth quirks at seeing Dean trying to work through it all, but is also getting a little mental whiplash with how quickly Dean's switching emotions. It's giving him a headache. The only one he hasn't seen Dean show is weakness; which almost worries him despite that he doesn't know Dean much more than that bum he saw a few streets back, simply because the way the guy looks…well, he'd expect more pitifulness from him.

"Don't strain yourself," Zero retorts deadpan, causing Dean a beat of silence before he chuckles just a bit. It gives Zero a surge of pleasure. "I'm not one of the ones that's too animal or anything, I'm human except for a few changes to my DNA."

Zero expects Dean to regain his look of dubiety or disgust—like, sadly, a lot of people tend to get—but he doesn't. He looks…intrigued. Impressed. "That would've so come in handy," Dean remarks, thinking of the hundreds of fights with evil bastards in which he and Sam got beaten to a pulp. If what this Zero guy is saying is true, and the way he fought was no lie, Dean pretty much wishes he or Sammy had had a little genetic engineering help themselves.

"What?" Zero asks, unable to read minds regardless of his improvements.

Dean struggles with himself, which only serves to catapult Zero's curiosity. "My brother and I, we—" his voice breaks on the word "brother," but he only clears his ever-present scratchy voice and continues, "we were, uh, we were hunters."

"Like, what, deer?" Zero inquires, not seeing what the big deal is. What, is Dean some crazy environmentalist that despises hurting all things animal or something? Somehow, he doesn't strike him as the philanthropist type.

"Not quite, kid," Dean responds, almost laughing at the naïveté of Zero's questioning. He may claim that he's some kind of Superman, but he obviously still contains that sort of childlike inquisitiveness. It heals Dean a little, that kids could still have the kind of innocence that Dean and Sam were so deprived of. "I don't think you'd believe me if I told you."

Zero stares aghast at Dean, temporarily silenced. "Are you kidding?" Zero exclaims. "I'm someone who was built in a test tube and mixed with animal DNA!"

This time, Dean actually does let out a laugh, a real, if self-deprecating, one. "We hunted…" For a moment, Zero actually believed Dean would tell him the answer. In fact, Dean opened his mouth and started to say something, which Zero presumes is the real thing. But, at the last minute, Dean pauses, and his shoulders slump, making him look not like the handsome twenty-something badass, but instead like someone who lost everything they had. Zero, of course, hasn't the slightest clue what it means, but he feels sorry for Dean nonetheless.

"Forget it," says Zero, avoiding the awkward yet sad situation. Clearing his throat, he alternatively remarks, "So anyway, what exactly are you doing here? I told you my reason; it's only fair."

Dean wants to give the adage of "Life isn't fair," but he knows he always hated that copout, and though he doesn't know Zero, he's not going to demean him like he's eight. "Let's just say I scraped out of a really shitty environment," Dean says, and he's pretty sure his understatement of the fucking millennium comes through in his voice. "But I don't really know how. Still trying to figure that out."

"Can I help?" Zero asks, getting excited that he might be able to actually do something besides wandering around aimlessly like he had been.

Dean gives the younger man a little smile. "I don't think so," he replies halfheartedly. "I think it's something I have to do myself. You wouldn't understand." He sees Zero begin to bristle and become indignant, and so hurries on, "It's nothing against you, man. It's just a really long story, and I don't think I can explain it very well."

"Try!" Zero protests, feeling for one of the first times like he's just a normal, persistent teenager and not a manufactured, true blue Manticore soldier. It makes him feel better.

Dean chuckles, seeing a bit of himself in Zero. The stubborn ass part, anyhow. He relates Zero's persistence also to Max and Cindy's; yet, at least Zero is addressing Dean directly and not going behind his back to look at his totally bogus police record, looking at him like he's really the mindless serial killer the authorities had made him out to be. Zero's approaching Dean man-to-man, asking for Dean's version of his story instead of a third party's. True, Dean's damn sure that Zero's probably just sticking around because he has nothing better to do (and Dean remains suspicious about that), but still. It's been a while since he's had human—or mostly human, as the case may be—contact.

"I'm trying to find my brother," Dean says finally. "I don't know where he is."

"What, you have some falling out or something?" Zero inquires.

Dean shakes his head painfully. "Not quite. It's more…we were separated. I just need to find him is all."

"Part of that 'it's too complicated' crap?"

"Pretty much," Dean affirms. Of course, "complicated" is also a massive understatement, but it regardless encompasses it well enough. "I just don't know how to go about it. Whatever the fuck happened to this city basically nixes any chance of doing so easily. I mean, I haven't seen one fuckin' computer anywhere."

Zero peers at Dean sharply. The way Dean had phrased that spoke of him not knowing about the Pulse. How could he not? Zero feels another headache coming on. "You mean the Pulse?" he asks.

Dean shrugs, the term being the same as the bartender a few hours ago had used. Something about an electro-whatever. Dean knows what it would do, given that he can build a mean electromagnet that can wipe out an entire room of computers and video cameras, but one that's big enough to wipe out the entire United States'? Even Dean isn't that technologically talented. Needless to say, he'd wager it was some terrorist strike, and judging by the even worse economy than when he'd died, the U.S. hadn't been able to retaliate as of yet. He hopes there won't be another insurgent attack anytime soon. That would really ruin a day that's already fucked up.

"Yeah, sure, whatever," Dean replies. Suppressing his pride for a few seconds, Dean decides to take a plunge. "Okay. I'm definitely going to regret this, but…you really want to help out, kid?"

Zero's face lights up so much that Dean's again reminded of Sam when he'd come upon the possibility of researching something, even himself when he got the chance to get something on the wrong end of his shotgun or, better yet, his MSG3 sniper rifle. "What do you need me to do?" Zero asks fervently.

"Are there any cell phone companies that survived this Pulse thing?" Dean questions. "Best bet, I think, would be to track Sammy's cell."

"GPS?" Zero scoffs. "Yeah, right. Cell towers and companies lost their records. There's some that rebuilt themselves, but I doubt any of them have reliable tracking anymore."

"Damn it," Dean mutters angrily. This whole primitive city thing is really beginning to piss him the hell off. "All right. Is there a way we can get a hold of some newspapers? There might be some signs of—erm…there might be some stuff in there that could be useful."

Zero's eyebrows rise up at Dean's fumbling, but he doesn't say anything about it. He's already pushing his luck with Dean actually allowing him to help. And plus, Zero hadn't told him much about his own past, especially about the Canada escapades, so it's really only fair. "Well," Zero thinks, imagining the city's layout in his head, "there's a paper mill not too far from here that I think keeps some of the old newspapers to make them into other stuff. We could jack some from there, maybe."

"Super," Dean agrees, perusing the area around him and finding the building Zero was referring to. Getting up from the box with his bones and muscles shouting at him, he begins walking towards it, not looking to see if Zero's following, but hearing once more the army boots.

Three hours and countless, mostly ripped newspapers later finds the two men in an abandoned warehouse a few blocks from the paper mill, the papers scattered everywhere. Zero looks down at Dean's figure, which is passed out cold on the cement floor with a paper still in his hands, as if he's in a presidential suite, Zero surprising himself at the enveloping feeling of sorrow he has for the older man. He wasn't trained to be overwhelmed with emotions, but the last nine months with the other members of his unit opened him up to more of them, and now they're back in full force with the man who said his name is Dean. And on that note, Zero's still pretty damn perplexed. He doesn't need a perfect memory to know that the guy who'd kinda helped him out back in that shed was named Alec, and he looked a hell of a lot like Dean.

But Zero's not lost all his Manticore training—he knows when to judge the most opportune moments. And calling out Dean on that issue isn't in the cards at the moment. No, as Zero watches the twenty-something-rather's body relaxed—though his face is twisted in a wince—in slumber, he knows he's not going to address it yet. But he does know what he will do.

Pulling out the cell phone that he's now very glad he'd let Fixit, well, fix, he dials a familiar number, though he'd never called it before. It rings three times before clicking over. "Who is this?"

It's Max's voice just as Zero recalls, and even though she's not here, he sits a little straighter. "It's Zero, ma'am," he answers, forgetting Max's distaste of the moniker.

She's silent for a moment, Zero assumes in surprise. "Oh my God," she finally answers. "How are you? Is something wrong?"

"No," Zero says with hesitance, peering at Dean warily again. "It's just—well, I'm in town, and—"

"You're in town? Everyone's there with you?" Max asks, and Zero can hear the eagerness in her voice.

Unfortunately, the eagerness is confined to Max alone. Zero's voice is grim as he replies, "No. We split up."

"Oh. I'm sorry." Zero guesses that Max had inferred they were all okay despite the relocations, and he hopes she won't ask further questions. "In that case…what's the matter?"

"Um…" Zero's not prone to stammering, but Manticore never exactly trained him for these kinds of circumstances. He's going to have to hope for the best. "Does the name Dean Winchester mean anything to you?"

Zero has to hold the phone away from his ear as Max squawks, "You're with Dean? Where are you?"

Cringing at her tone, and half-expecting Dean to awaken at the sheer volume of it, he replies carefully, "We ran into each other on the streets—I don't know who he is. Should I?"

"Zero," Max interrupts sharply. "Where are you?"

He knows an order when he hears one. And regardless of Max's speech about there not being those kinds of commands anymore, he recognizes it for what it is. "That abandoned Catalyst Paper USA mill over on Fourth Street."

The call is ended almost before Zero can get out the location, and he can almost envision Max already on her motorcycle, speeding towards him. He's done the right thing though, he's positive. Realistically, what could he do with this Dean guy right here, without help? He's in over his head. He knows this. He knows he needs Max's help.

So why does he feel like he'd somehow betrayed Dean by calling her?