Disclaimer: No ownership of characters or DA; no profits made.
A selfish, sappy but heartfelt A/N: This final bow from each of us seems fitting for Thanksgiving, even if not all the characters in the story can see it: friendships, even the screwy ones in an up-ended, crazy world, are what get us through intact. I am thankful for each and every one of the writers who gave their time and never-ending enthusiasm and support for this challenge. It's been thirteen months and a handful of days since the original challenge-invitation was posted, and we lost some and gained some participants before the story was underway and ready for posting. We spanned three countries and crossed many more time zones; we represent a wide range of backgrounds, interest and experience – yet this was smooth sailing throughout.
Lilmouse, Mari, Blue, Lisa & Troll – thank you for casting in with this insane project. It has been a joy. (hope you don't mind me sneaking in one final quote!)
All of you reading — thank you. We'd love to hear your thoughts on the project. To those of you hearty souls hanging in and faithfully reviewing every week — your support means more than you can imagine. Special pumpkin pie with whipped cream thanks to you!
Epilogue(s)
"The person who tries to live
alone will not succeed as a human being. His
heart withers if it does
not answer another heart. His mind shrinks away if he hears only the
echoes of his own thoughts and finds no other inspiration."
--Pearl S. Buck, 1892-1973
Original Cindy by Lisa
With a satisfied smirk, Original Cindy tucked the scrap of paper inside her bra. She had not only scored some face time with her targeted shorty, but she had managed to obtain a name and phone number as well, and she wasn't taking any chances with it. It was shaping up to be a good night after all.
She wondered how Max was getting on with her own hottie and scanned the bar for them. She spotted Max and Logan just as they were rushing out the back door. Max was practically pushing the boy. She figured maybe those two were finally clued in and scurrying off to find a bed or the nearest available flat surface. It was about damn time. Cindy smiled her blessing at their retreating forms, silently wishing them a happy gong banging.
Then she saw Max's give a quick, furtive look over her shoulder, and Cindy's smile faltered a bit. Her girl didn't look right. Cindy saw Max looking positively freaked out, straight up terrified, and she glanced around the bar for anything that could have upset her friend so much. But Cindy didn't notice anything outside of the ordinary, just the usual peeps getting their drink on and making their moves.
She'd catch Max in the morning, find out what happened and put the smack down on anyone who was screwing with her girl's head. Nobody messed with Original Cindy's crew and got away with it.
Sketchy by Lisa
Oh my god, I'm gonna hurl…no…wait…no, I'm okay. No wait, I'm gonna hurl.
No, I'm okay.
Jesus, it smells like garbage in here…Where the hell am I anyway?
How the hell did I wind up in here again?
Oh man…Why does shit like this always happen to me?
Murray by Mari
Locking up Crash's back door for the night, Murray repetitiously checked the dark, narrow alley behind him with some quick, nervous glances over his shoulder. Nowadays simply roaming around in these parts of Seattle at night was just as good as a personal invitation for robbery.
Mostly though the only sign of life were the beggars that had bedded themselves in the relative security of the back yard, shrunken bundles of dirty clothes long having forgotten their past lives. Murray just couldn't walk past them lying there, was unable to just leave them to the night chill when he went to the comfort and warmth of his own modest apartment. So he tried to rouse them, enclosing their stiff, icy fingers around some bits of small change while he helped them up and sent them on their way, knowing that they'd lie down again on the cold concrete just around the next corner.
Today though the back yard was empty and silent… except for the strange, strangled grunts coming from one of the dumpsters. Already having a strong suspicion that the sounds weren't coming from some savaged dogs searching for food, he went over to the metal container with a sigh, impatient to finally get to bed.
Of course it was Sketchy. Again. It would always remain a miracle to Murray how the guy managed to fall into the dumpsters at least once a month.
As he halfheartedly listened to Sketchy's drunken ramblings, Murray wondered what would have become of the boy if the Pulse hadn't hit. Maybe he wouldn't even have spent his time all that different, only numbing his brain with booze and pot at college parties instead of a run-down bar… others of his generation, however, had never even had a chance to make something of their potential, had been deprived of an otherwise brilliant career. Max for example. As much as she tried to hide it, the girl was definitely a lot brighter than Crash's average customer. Murray had noticed her quick mind long before she'd demonstrated that astonishing trick of remembering phone numbers only by their dial sound, had seen her intelligence in the way she promptly picked up everything new, was it pool or a new card game. Being a bike-messenger was such an awful waste of talent for someone smart enough to catch the subtle hints on quantum physics and check Murray occasionally wove into his conversations just to prove himself that his brain was still working.
At least with the handsome guy in the wheelchair Max seemed to have found someone who genuinely cared for her, a person who maybe even could help her deal with whatever had shaken her so much today. Even now, hours later, Murray still vividly remembered the look of sheer, mortified horror on her face upon discovering the drunken colonel at the bar. Her inexplicable reaction confirmed Murray's uneasy suspicion that there was something odd, potentially threatening about the colonel whose dominating authority shone through even when babbling ridiculous nonsense. There even seemed to be a strange connection between all three of them, Max, the colonel and the blonde soldier guy, who seemed to have spilled his beer onto the older man on purpose, as if he'd wanted to protect Max. But in all likelihood, Murray thought as he carefully loaded a dump-smelling Sketchy into the passenger seat of his car, he was just starting to see ghosts, his poor brain going crazy after having listened to abstruse conspiracy theories all evening.
Normal by Lisa
With a tired sigh, Reagan Ronald rolled over in bed and placed his book on the haphazardly stacked literary tower that resided on his nightstand. He carefully placed The Election of 1992 on top of Molecular Pharmacology in the 21st Century; a complete and unabridged volume of Wm. Shakespeare; a much loved edition of Who Moved My Cheese?; an handbook on effective management in the corporate setting; and three battered and outdated copies of The New England Journal of Medicine. He folded his glasses and placed them on top of the stack in preparation for bed.
Instead of sleep, he lay in bed and glowered at a crack in the ceiling. He should know better than to read about Ross Perot before bed; it always left him in a sour mood. If that independent had stayed home and minded his own business, George H. W. Bush would have had a second term and America would still be the glorious superpower it used to be.
Thinking about the downfall of society inevitably led to him thinking about the downfall of his personal life and the morons that accumulated at Jam Pony like junk in the bottom of the sink drain. Those imbeciles would be the death of him, he was sure of it. He remembered listening in on Max and Original Cindy that morning. He idly wondered how they were enjoying their evening out, then he was immediately annoyed at himself for thinking about it.
Those losers better not be late tomorrow morning just because they played too much and couldn't drag their sorry heinies out of bed. He stewed on that thought for a few moments, then reached over and set his alarm clock and extra fifteen minutes early. There was no way those two would get away with sneaking in late again, and if they tried any monkey business tomorrow, he would be there waiting.
Logan by Lilmouse
It is two-thirty in the morning.
He sits at his living room window, nursing a glass of white wine and watching the city of Seattle murmur below him. Before the wheelchair, he barely looked at the view. Before the wheelchair, roses were something he had an assistant send to a lady for courting purposes. Before the wheelchair, he was far too busy to do his own shopping and had his laundry sent out, and he certainly didn't make the time to 'unplug' and spend an evening relaxing.
Logan Cale looks at the view a lot now. He doesn't have an assistant - per se - so no roses are being sent. He isn't courting anyone but imminent death by continuing to be Eyes Only. He buys his own vegetables at the market and washes his own socks. And last night, he went to a bar, played pool and 'hung out' with a beautiful woman and her friends.
And had a great time.
Who knew?
He's worried about Max and the whole issue of someone from Manticore being this close to locating her. Max followed him home, for crying out loud, when she should probably have been making a hasty retreat from Seattle. He doesn't want her to leave, but it might be the only option she has to avoid being caught.
He tries not to think too much about why he doesn't want her to leave. Selfish reasons loom before him, none of which make sense in the real world. After all, they're not like that.
He finishes his wine and unlocks the brakes on his wheelchair. He finally decides to wind down for the evening and dims most of the lights. He's been reliving every moment of his tantalizing 'night of freedom', unable to sleep. Crash and Manticore. Those two threads keep weaving through his mind and his brain just won't shut down. The wine has made him a little sleepy, though, so he hopes that when his head hits the pillow, unconsciousness will come swiftly.
Logan enters his bedroom, transfers from the chair and strips, tossing his clothes to the floor. He doesn't set the alarm. Eyes Only might be late focusing on crime come the dawn.
For the first time in a long while, he's okay with that.
He lies back in the dark and listens to the sounds of his apartment. Then he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and lets it out again slowly.
Max.
He'll call her tomorrow, make sure she's alright, thank her for convincing him to join her at Crash.
Remembering how she looked on the drive over when he'd checked his rear-view mirror - straddling her bike, hair blowing, laughing - is his final thought before sleep claims him, a small smile on his face.
Zack by BlueAngel
Zack leaned his back against the wooden apartment door, closing it with a final click. He didn't bother to switch on the light. Being able to see in the dark had some advantages. And as he knew that Lydecker was in town, Zack was even more careful not to give away his exact position, just in case anybody might have followed him.
Would he EVER be able to go "home" without having to worry that someone was pursuing him? Would Manticore ever stop looking for them? And what the hell was he going to do with Max?
… Max, you have to leave Seattle. (You have to leave your friends … your job. You have to abandon your life … the wheelchair-guy). Seattle's not safe for you anymore. …
Somehow he could picture her reaction on that quiet well. He could see her dark eyes widening and filling with overwhelming sadness. And later in that discussion those same eyes would blaze with anger and disappointment. And finally she'd hide her emotions behind that sassy, smart-ass attitude and some sarcastic comments. Just great. He'd already had his share of arguments with his other siblings.
Zack closed his eyes, not willing to deal with this decision tonight. There was only so much even an X5 could handle on one day. And a part of him refused to have this fight with Max.
He didn't want her to hate him.
Tomorrow, he thought to himself with a tired nod. Tomorrow I'll decide what to do.
Lydeckerby Insane Troll Logic
Donald Lydecker has a hangover--a rather spectacular one at that. His head throbs, his stomach churns and more than once, he has to swallow the bile building up in his throat. He can see his officers regarding him strangely as he walks into their base of operations nearly three hours late. He can see the speculation, the questions burning on their lips. The first one who dares voice it will be dismissed in the harshest way Lydecker can imagine.
"What's our status on the X-5s?" Lydecker asks.
"Nothing at the moment, sir," one of the technicians says, scrambling to pick up the papers on his desk. "We've been listening in on the private eye, but he's yet to make contact with the X-5."
More likely, Lydecker thinks, she's seen the ad and skipped town. Escape and evade, just like he'd taught her.
Still, there's something nagging at him in the back of his mind. Something about the night before, about the blonde and the stoner and the surreal conversation aided by alcohol.
He banishes the night to the back of his head. The last thing he wants is to revisit his own drunken antics. He'll subject himself to a night of listening to self-pity in Alcoholics Anonymous to remind him of what he doesn't want to become.
For now he has more important matters to attend to. Max, 452, is in Seattle, is looking for the others. She's taking risks and where there's risk taking, there is going to be mistakes.
Not even the perfect soldier can stay under the radar forever. Lydecker just has to wait for her to surface for breath.
Max by Shywriter
So much for that "calm, clear " mind she'd gotten from her night on the Needle. It might not have been raining on her angry trek back to Jam Pony from the impound yard where her motorcycle had been towed by the thieving sector cops who stopped her the night before, but the face of the smarmy, sneering lump of humanity behind the grate kept looming in her thoughts, steaming her even more than the cops had...
"Three thousand dollars..."
If she had any question on her arrival there about why he had a grate between his counter and the rest of the office, it was answered right then – certainly he would have been strangled by a 'customer' his first week there.
Three thousand dollars.
Those three simple words made her earlier, irritating inconvenience into a moral dilemma without easy resolution, made worse by all the simple actions she could have tried only a handful of months before.
...before Logan Cale...
She didn't know what she wanted to do: first flatten the tow yard man's nose back into his throat ... bust into the place, to steal back her baby ... or go give Logan a piece of her mind.
Now how the hell am I going to get back my bike? Max played it all out in her head, only irritating her more as she compared pre-Logan to now: before she met Logan, she might not have punched the guy's lights out but she wouldn't have even bothered to wait until they opened, much less ask how much it would be to buy back her stolen cycle. But now, like a little guardian angel on her shoulder, Logan loomed in her thoughts to tell her not to fight crime with crime...
...well, that, and a little voice of reason pointing out that they could track her with her license plate and bike description, and want to know how such a 'tiny little thing' could break in to steal back her bike...
So that settles it, she grumped in her thoughts as she turned the block and headed for Jam Pony's entrance and another day riding her other bike, Logan's gonna have to decide how I can do the 'right thing,' since in a way it's his fault I'm stuck like this – his Boy Scout sensibilities would be all out of whack if he ever learned I just broke in to take it. Maybe he can get Matt Sung to help, it occurred to her, or he could talk them into a more reasonable ransom. But no way am I gonna let either him or me pay that sniveling rat three thousand dollars...
PS: And there you have it. We have now changed 'reality' for the world of Dark Angel, because next time Max sees Zack, she'll recognize him as the guy from the bar! Will Zack still apply at Jam Pony? Will he confess who he is right away, or does Max confront him – or both?
The next challenge, if anyone wants to take it on: write your version of "411 on the DL" with events as they now stand, from this fic... Happy writing!