A/N: This is my first fic posted on fanfiction.net, but that doesn't mean I want you guys to
tell me it's good if it's really not. 'Kay? I'm up to constructive criticism. Anything to
make my writing better. Just no flaming, because that will piss me off. This might be a
bit confusing at first, and I'm sure you'll have a lot of questions about what's going on, but
the chapters following will explain the events leading up to the prologue. Hope you
enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own anything associated with Dark Angel; I just love the show and
think it has a lot of good ideas to follow up in writing. None of the characters belong to
me, but if anyone wants to give me Alec, I've got no complaints. lol
Prologue
_________________________________________________________________________
Death
Space Needle
Seattle Wa., September 26th, 2021
The nighttime lights of Seattle beckoned from below.
He heard their call; like the legendary sirens who lured sailors to fortuitous deaths
with the alluring hail of song. In the remnants of the broken city, they gleamed like
diamonds within barren desertland.
The bottle touched his lips briefly; burning liquid descended his throat. He felt
the warmth traverse to his stomach.
Covetous wind grasped for his unmoving figure; its touch thrust chill fingers
through the alcohol-induced haze.
He closed his eyes, took another drink. Beautiful hazel eyes eclippsed for a
moment by fluttering lashes. When he looked again, they were still waiting. The lights;
the darkness, embracing him from all sides. He perused the post-Pulse rubble of Seattle
through cold, dead eyes.
Insomnia had prompted him to the liquor cabinent that night, and from there to
Max's favorite sanctuary. He'd come here to be with her before. He knew of the Space
Needle's magic, how its spell picked gently through the distorted jumble of thoughts and
images thrown together at will inside your head.
But this night of cold and loneliness, Alec found that the sorcery had chosen to
desert him.
The images could not be blocked, forgotten, no matter how desperately he tried.
And the single thought which insisted on rearing its ugly little head.
*I killed her.*
Four words which refused to be buried, nudged back to the deepest recesses of his
consciousness.
Alec felt his stomach heave, the acidic burn of bile against the flesh of his throat.
He squeezed his eyes shut again. The bottle trembled its way to his lips; another swig of
the amber liquid sloshing inside worked its way through his insides.
He stepped to the edge of the Needle and peered down into swirling blackness, to
the pavement far below. It glowed with a sheen of water from the day's earlier rain
squall. The fading wetness permeated the air with a fresh, pure scent.
And yet, underneath the pleasant smell, he sensed the tang of blood.
Death.
He had not killed her near the Needle, but the odor seemed to cling to him,
hugging each curve, nestling within each folded crevice of clothing. A permanent stench
to remind him of his failure.
Scars no longer showed from the encounter; only the ones on his soul. His
beautiful, manufactured body now perfectly intact.
But inside, his soul writhed, and screamed, desperate to free itself.
He contemplated the shining pavement several hundred feet down.
A jangling erupted from his pocket, shattering the peace of the silent night. He
reached to still it, his fingers drawing the cell phone into the cold, wet air. He clicked it
off, hefted it for a moment in one hand, then hurled it off the building.
It disappeared into the blanket of dark, tumbling end over end, until it exploded
into a million pieces with the crack of severing plastic. The crunch wafted audibly to his
hypersensitive ears.
Another drink.
He imagined his body following the same path; blood spattering; gore coating the
street and few cars parked nearby.
A fitting end, for a murderer such as himself.
"Run, Alec!"
Her scream reverbated throughout his mind.
"Run, dammit, you asshole!"
He remembered the bullet's impact, the thunk as it lodged in soft flesh.
Remembered her head snapping up, to peer frightened-eyed into his stunned face.
Alec couldn't save her. They'd taken her away, loaded her prostate body into an
unmarked white van, then turned to finish him off.
He'd been upon them before they could react; a whirling dervish of motion,
punching, kicking, spinning, his fury lending him strength incredible for even an X-5.
They fell before him without getting a single shot off.
The cock of a hammer had turned his body in the direction of the van. He'd
blurred to escape the volley, a shower of bullets fired from the driver's seat.
Not fast enough. They'd taken him in the abdomen, three in all, a stray nicking
his right shoulder.
And while he lay bleeding, broken, bodily fluids spreading like an oil slick
beneath him, the van squealed away.
Carrying Max to the nearest scientific laboratory, to be dissected and studied.
*I killed her. I wasn't fast enough. I didn't do enough to save her.*
His fingers closed hard on the liquor bottle; Alec felt the glass buckle under his
mighty grip. Broken shards pierced the flesh of his palm.
He allowed the damaged remains to crumble slowly to the surface of the Space
needle. The pain in his hand barely registered within the fogged depths of his brain.
A single drop of wetness twined the length of his face; a tear, perhaps, or liquid
drawn free with the sting of the wind.
He swallowed hard, eyes slipping closed again.
Her presence lingered all around him; the very walls of her favorite place to come
and think had managed to retain some semblance of her. He basked in it for a moment,
closing his eyes to the faroff sound of honking horns and angry shouts.
High above, in his own world, Alec could not be touched. The rain that began
once more-soft and light at first, increasing in its power as time passed-soaked his
clothes, but he could not feel the numbing wetness.
His eyes fluttered lethargically open.
He took a final, speculative look around-a good-bye of sorts, he supposed-and
paced forward another step, until he teetered half out in space, only his incredible
balance saving him from a fatal plunge.
"I'm sorry Max." he whispered to the night, the liquid streaming down his
cheekbones not entirely comprised of rainwater.
His legs tensed to jump.
The blackness reached out for him.
tell me it's good if it's really not. 'Kay? I'm up to constructive criticism. Anything to
make my writing better. Just no flaming, because that will piss me off. This might be a
bit confusing at first, and I'm sure you'll have a lot of questions about what's going on, but
the chapters following will explain the events leading up to the prologue. Hope you
enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own anything associated with Dark Angel; I just love the show and
think it has a lot of good ideas to follow up in writing. None of the characters belong to
me, but if anyone wants to give me Alec, I've got no complaints. lol
Prologue
_________________________________________________________________________
Death
Space Needle
Seattle Wa., September 26th, 2021
The nighttime lights of Seattle beckoned from below.
He heard their call; like the legendary sirens who lured sailors to fortuitous deaths
with the alluring hail of song. In the remnants of the broken city, they gleamed like
diamonds within barren desertland.
The bottle touched his lips briefly; burning liquid descended his throat. He felt
the warmth traverse to his stomach.
Covetous wind grasped for his unmoving figure; its touch thrust chill fingers
through the alcohol-induced haze.
He closed his eyes, took another drink. Beautiful hazel eyes eclippsed for a
moment by fluttering lashes. When he looked again, they were still waiting. The lights;
the darkness, embracing him from all sides. He perused the post-Pulse rubble of Seattle
through cold, dead eyes.
Insomnia had prompted him to the liquor cabinent that night, and from there to
Max's favorite sanctuary. He'd come here to be with her before. He knew of the Space
Needle's magic, how its spell picked gently through the distorted jumble of thoughts and
images thrown together at will inside your head.
But this night of cold and loneliness, Alec found that the sorcery had chosen to
desert him.
The images could not be blocked, forgotten, no matter how desperately he tried.
And the single thought which insisted on rearing its ugly little head.
*I killed her.*
Four words which refused to be buried, nudged back to the deepest recesses of his
consciousness.
Alec felt his stomach heave, the acidic burn of bile against the flesh of his throat.
He squeezed his eyes shut again. The bottle trembled its way to his lips; another swig of
the amber liquid sloshing inside worked its way through his insides.
He stepped to the edge of the Needle and peered down into swirling blackness, to
the pavement far below. It glowed with a sheen of water from the day's earlier rain
squall. The fading wetness permeated the air with a fresh, pure scent.
And yet, underneath the pleasant smell, he sensed the tang of blood.
Death.
He had not killed her near the Needle, but the odor seemed to cling to him,
hugging each curve, nestling within each folded crevice of clothing. A permanent stench
to remind him of his failure.
Scars no longer showed from the encounter; only the ones on his soul. His
beautiful, manufactured body now perfectly intact.
But inside, his soul writhed, and screamed, desperate to free itself.
He contemplated the shining pavement several hundred feet down.
A jangling erupted from his pocket, shattering the peace of the silent night. He
reached to still it, his fingers drawing the cell phone into the cold, wet air. He clicked it
off, hefted it for a moment in one hand, then hurled it off the building.
It disappeared into the blanket of dark, tumbling end over end, until it exploded
into a million pieces with the crack of severing plastic. The crunch wafted audibly to his
hypersensitive ears.
Another drink.
He imagined his body following the same path; blood spattering; gore coating the
street and few cars parked nearby.
A fitting end, for a murderer such as himself.
"Run, Alec!"
Her scream reverbated throughout his mind.
"Run, dammit, you asshole!"
He remembered the bullet's impact, the thunk as it lodged in soft flesh.
Remembered her head snapping up, to peer frightened-eyed into his stunned face.
Alec couldn't save her. They'd taken her away, loaded her prostate body into an
unmarked white van, then turned to finish him off.
He'd been upon them before they could react; a whirling dervish of motion,
punching, kicking, spinning, his fury lending him strength incredible for even an X-5.
They fell before him without getting a single shot off.
The cock of a hammer had turned his body in the direction of the van. He'd
blurred to escape the volley, a shower of bullets fired from the driver's seat.
Not fast enough. They'd taken him in the abdomen, three in all, a stray nicking
his right shoulder.
And while he lay bleeding, broken, bodily fluids spreading like an oil slick
beneath him, the van squealed away.
Carrying Max to the nearest scientific laboratory, to be dissected and studied.
*I killed her. I wasn't fast enough. I didn't do enough to save her.*
His fingers closed hard on the liquor bottle; Alec felt the glass buckle under his
mighty grip. Broken shards pierced the flesh of his palm.
He allowed the damaged remains to crumble slowly to the surface of the Space
needle. The pain in his hand barely registered within the fogged depths of his brain.
A single drop of wetness twined the length of his face; a tear, perhaps, or liquid
drawn free with the sting of the wind.
He swallowed hard, eyes slipping closed again.
Her presence lingered all around him; the very walls of her favorite place to come
and think had managed to retain some semblance of her. He basked in it for a moment,
closing his eyes to the faroff sound of honking horns and angry shouts.
High above, in his own world, Alec could not be touched. The rain that began
once more-soft and light at first, increasing in its power as time passed-soaked his
clothes, but he could not feel the numbing wetness.
His eyes fluttered lethargically open.
He took a final, speculative look around-a good-bye of sorts, he supposed-and
paced forward another step, until he teetered half out in space, only his incredible
balance saving him from a fatal plunge.
"I'm sorry Max." he whispered to the night, the liquid streaming down his
cheekbones not entirely comprised of rainwater.
His legs tensed to jump.
The blackness reached out for him.