From: Mrsblome Date: 31 May 2001 11:27:28 GMT Subject: NEW: Love and Darkness and Our Genomes, by Sarah Segretti, 1/2 Source: atxc Title: Love and Darkness and Our Genomes Author: Sarah Segretti Feedback: mrsblome@aol.com Category: SA, Crossover, X-Files/Dark Angel. *Extremely* AU for XF. Rating: R for violence, language and intense scenes Spoilers: For Dark Angel, Prodigy (the gene therapy conference); for XF, Requiem. Website: http://members.aol.com/mrsblome Archive: Ephemeral and Gossamer okay on the XF side, everyone else ask first. Disclaimer: I made this ... up. And borrowed some characters along the way. Content Warning: Yes. And that's all you get. Summary: Two people with the same question: What the hell are you? Love and Darkness and Our Genomes by Sarah Segretti May 2001 Seattle, 2019 Damn that Logan Cale. Mister Big Time Hot Shot Cyberjournalist gave me bum information again. Wonder if he'd be so quick to believe these wack informants of his if he was putting his own skinny ass on the line? The click of the bullet falling into the chamber reaches my ears before I actually spot the bad guy behind the dumpster. I step aside as the round whizzes by. Damn. Messed up my hair. Oh, look, he's got a buddy. And the buddy's got a friend. Just another night at the office. Up onto the fire escape, jump down, take down one loser, jump up, snap kick to the chin, two down, spin, kick to the gut. Done. If I got my leathers sweaty during all that, Logan pays for the cleaning. Now. On to the real job. I ease open the warped window that's supposedly a rear entrance to Curley/McCorkindale Imports, which Logan says is a front for one of those scams that make this city run. A motion off to the side catches my eye. Not another one! But when I zoom in on the corner where I saw the movement, what I see is not what I expect. A girl. Maybe my age. Skinny face, big nose, homely as hell. Red hair pulled back into a braid. Tall. Her eyes widen, as if she's seen me, too, and she darts away. The last I see of her is the tip of her braid disappearing behind the wall. For some reason, I stare after her. I know I've never seen her before, but something about her is very familiar ... and very wrong. Well, whatever. Can't think about that now. Time to go save the world again. Cindy spots her next, a few days later. I'm with the gang, knocking back a few beers at Crash, still trying to wind down from that mess at the gene therapy conference. Kendra's recovering faster from being held hostage than I am -- but then, she didn't have to hide in plain sight from the man who created her. She didn't have to balance exposure versus rescue. She didn't have to sit by and do nothing while people died so she could protect her own ass. She didn't have to watch -- well, never mind that. Logan put himself in a stupid, dangerous position and I got him out of it. What a man in a wheelchair was thinking, trading himself for hostages ... I swear, you'd think he still thinks he can walk. I take a long pull from my bottle and try not to remember the sight of his body falling, falling -- It bothers me that this bothers me so much. He's a meal ticket. My ally in finding the rest of the Manticore kids. That's all. It ought to bother me more that Lydecker has seen my grown-up face. "That is so fiiiiine," Cindy purrs, and I snap out of it. "I would love to get my fingers in that hair." We all look where Cindy's looking, and I can't believe it. There she is again, curled over a beer, giving our group little sidelong glances. So obvious. She'd be awful at covert ops. Sketchy makes a barking noise and Kendra whacks him in the arm. "What?" he protests. "Sometimes the beauty is on the inside, mon," Herbal scolds him. Sketchy shakes his head. His greasy bangs fall over his eyes. "Sometimes it's not." "Sometimes," Cindy says dreamily, "it's all in the hair. Think it's red all over?" She's not watching our group. She's watching me. I'm sure of it now. I push back from the table and walk over to her. The gang's idle chatter recedes into the distance. And just as I figured she would, she gets up in a hurry and leaves. At least I know for sure she's not Manticore. They trained us better than that. It's easy to catch up with her outside. She knows enough not to run. That would attract attention. But her height and hair make her easy to follow. Less than a block from Crash I grab her arm and yank her to a stop. She tries to twitch away, but I've got her good. "You're watching me," I have to look up to stare her in the face. "I don't like being watched." "Then you'd better duck," she says in a voice deeper than I expected. She looks to the sky. Oh, damn. A hoverdroid. I hate those things. My hand is still around her elbow, and I drag her into a nearby alley before the hoverdroid can get a good look at either of us. But it follows us. Gotta lose it, quick. I fade us back into the shadows next to a dumpster, and we're clear -- until she yanks free of my grasp and runs. And it follows her. Part of me says it's because she's running and I'm not, but I know in my gut that it was never watching me at all. And I'm just as certain that she'll never evade it. Guess it's time to play superhero. I run back to Crash and hop my ride. That alley comes out in only one place and I know how to find it. Yep. There she is, running with a surprisingly good stride but absolutely no evasive tactics at all. Over the rumble of my engine I can hear the police vehicles closing in. She'll be caught any second. I throttle up and spin out in front of her, blocking her way. "Get on!" I shout. She freezes. I have no patience for this. "Get on!" I repeat. "NOW!" And then she's on, her long arms wrapped around my waist. She's barely hanging on, but I gun the engine anyhow just as the first shots ring out. From the way her arms convulse around me, I can tell this isn't an every day event for her. Me, a day without gunfire is a day without sunshine. Not that the sun ever shines here, but you know what I mean. The cops are easy to outrun, and I do it without fuss. She starts screaming in my ear. "Let me off!" "Not until we're out of the sector!" I yell back. "Now!" she shouts. "Or I jump!" What is with her? It looks safe enough -- we're a mile or so away from the scene -- and I slow, then stop. She hurtles off the bike like I'd made her sit on a saddle of nails. "Your neck," she breathes. Her eyes are huge. My turn to freeze. She's seen the barcode on my neck. The tattoo that marks me as the genetically engineered killing machine that I am. "What the hell are you?" she says. Right question. Wrong way to ask it. "I'm the girl who just saved your ass," I tell her, and roar away before she can say anything else. As I let myself into Logan's place the next morning, I can hear the grunts and groans that mean he's working those legs of his, getting ready for the day when the miracle occurs. So I keep it quiet, sneaking down the hallway so I can bust him exercising. For some reason, he doesn't like me to see his physical therapy sessions, like he's embarrassed or something. I don't quite understand why. I mean, I know he's paralyzed. And he knows that I have seizures. And I don't care. Well, okay. I don't care much. Kind of a macho man thing with him, I guess, although it's pretty clear that I could kick his ass even if it was 100 percent operational. Somehow he always knows when I'm about to step through the door, because there he goes, sliding off the table and into his chair. Bling, his physical therapist, winks at me. "Hello, Max." "Hey, there." I turn to Logan, who's steering himself over to Eyes Only headquarters, the bank of computers that provide his primary link to the world. "Oh, no." "No assignment today." Logan is trying to hide the fact that he's still breathing heavily. Men. "Not until you bring me those towels." "Next time." I'm thinking that the gene therapy conference is probably the last time I get near a fancy hotel for a while. No towel stealing for me. I feel like laying low, anyhow. Lydecker haunts me. I'm pretty sure he hasn't pegged me -- after all, I was a flat-chested nine-year-old with a shaved head the last time he saw me -- but still. "So what brings you over, then?" Logan says, pulling up behind his console. Sometimes it's hard to shake the sense that he's teasing me somehow, that there's something else he wants me to hear when he talks to me, but sometimes I think I'm nuts. "Had a run-in with a hoverdroid last night." I toss my hair over my shoulder. If he can mess with me, I can mess with him. "Wondered if I got picked up on the feed." I doubt I did. It's not really what I'm wondering. Logan's face darkens, and he immediately begins to type. I wander over behind him and lean over his shoulder. He could stand a shower, but sometimes I like that in a guy. "Where were you?" "Near Crash. Sixth and Holgate." We watch the images flip by, and I see her face just as the computer registers a hit. I, of course, am a dark blur, hair obscuring my face, never looking directly at the camera. "Damn, I'm good," I murmur. She's staring straight at the thing, though. I roll my eyes. "Who's your friend?" Logan asks. I shrug. "I think she's following me." Logan sits up straight. "Manticore?" "No way. She's terrible. Look." I wave a hand at her funky-ass face, all up close and personal with the hoverdroid. "Besides, she's got no barcode." "Zack doesn't, either," Logan says. I shake my head. "Zack's just crazy enough to have it removed when he knows it comes back. We didn't have any redheads in the squadron." "So what does she want, then?" "I have no idea." I bat my eyes just a little at him. "Can you run her image? See who she is?" This is, as I expected, no problem. Logan starts the program running and I head off for work. Normal might like it if I showed before noon. No such luck, though. I'm making the final turn into the alley that houses Jam Pony when a broad-shouldered, meaty-faced man steps out in front of me. I grab the brakes and accidentally spin out, nearly falling off my bike. He takes a step towards me, and all of my alarms go off. There's something wrong in that sunken, crooked face. Way wrong. He advances on me, his shapeless suit bunching around his barrel-shaped body as he strides. I untangle myself from my bike and automatically put my hands up in a defensive position, a nice middle block. But damn, I'm too close to Jam Pony to show this creep my moves. "Where is she?" he rumbles, almost within my reach. One good roundhouse kick and I could -- Damn it to hell. Sketchy and Herbal, riding into the alley. They see me. I hope they see this freak. "Where is she?" he asks again. I hear an odd "snick," like a switchblade, but not exactly. What is that thing? Like an ice pick, but not. Decision made. I run like hell. "Max!" Sketchy yells. "Call the cops!" I yell back. Words I never thought I'd hear come out of my mouth. I'd scream, too, but nobody ever listens in this neighborhood. I glance back, and it's like a tank is following me. He moves fast, even if he's not running. Unbelievable. What else has Manticore come up with since I've been away? I duck down a narrow street I've used before as a short cut, and -- oh. Crap. Somebody's hauled in an old delivery truck that blocks my exit. I run right up its side and launch myself off, tracking the goon on the fly. He grunts as I plant one thick-soled shoe into his chest, and he staggers back. His arms flail a bit, and I clench my fists together as I hit the ground, bringing them down on his forearm. I hear that evil-looking weapon skitter across the pavement, but the expected crack of bone doesn't happen. I look up at him in a brief, badly-timed moment of surprise. The goon grabs me under the armpits and lifts me over his head with sickening speed. "Where is she?" Even though I feel like horking all over his head, I keep my voice even. "That all the English they taught you in thug school?" And then I'm flying through the air, and my back and head smack against something hard. The metallic clang rings in my ears as I hit the ground, and it mixes with the nearing sound of the police sirens. As my vision grays out, I realize he's gone. Some skanky street skel is staring down at me. Where did he come from? I wonder, and as my vision slides from gray to black, I hear Herbal and Cindy calling my name. Hurt. Police. Hospital. Oh, no. With my last bit of consciousness, I force myself to come to. Nobody needs to find out my secret. Hands on my face, under my arms. I start to jerk away, until I smell the distinctive scent of Herbal's primo spliff. "I'm okay," I mumble, as he and Cindy slowly come into focus. "Okay." "You sure, boo?" Cindy wonders as I crawl to my feet. "We heard a loud bang. Figured it was you hitting something." "Figured right." Man, I hope that stagger looked like a swagger. The cops finally thunder into the alley, and the click-snick of half a dozen rifles being cocked echoes through my aching head. "Hands up!" one shouts, and Herbal immediately flings his hands into the air. Cindy backs away from me, too, her hands held away from her sides. "Stupid pigs!" I yell without thinking, and the effort makes my vision swoon. "Huge guy! White! Ugly! Looked like somebody smashed his face up and put it back together wrong!" There. I'm sure Manticore monitors police reports. Let them know their newest toy has been busted. The muzzles don't budge off Herbal. "You sure?" the cop says. Of course I'm sure, I've had better target identification training than all of you. But of course I don't say that. I gesture at Herbal. "Brotha don't need an exotic taste. Big. White. Ugly. Gone before you got here." Even that skel is gone, I realize. There seems to be another cop I hadn't noticed before, but with my head still spinning it's hard to tell. The cops hold position for a second -- I can almost hear their fingers twitching on their triggers. And then, finally, one gives the command to stand down. "Thanks for coming, guys," I mumble as the cops pack up and leave. Herbal turns to me. "I and I never seen any man so ugly," he breathes. "Ugly inside, too." "No kidding." But then, my brother, you don't know Manticore. "Come on, let's go back to work." The two of them alternately scold and fret at me as we make our way back to Jam Pony, but I don't listen. I'm still looking around for Mr. Ugly, even though the mere thought of him -- not to mention moving my head -- makes me feel sick. Logan can run his mug for me, because I want that bastard ... You know, I can't believe how bad she is at hiding. "My bag." I screech to a halt, and hope Herbal and Cindy buy this and leave me alone. "Left it back there." "I'll get it, boo," Cindy offers. "You look ragged." I'm watching the shadows, making sure I don't lose her. "No, I'll get it. You go on ahead." Reluctantly, they do, and I slip into the alley where I saw that flash of pale arm. It's deserted. Damn it. I know I saw her. I look around, and ... ... oh. The tremors. Right up my spine, into my brainstem. My hands, jerking, knees, failing. Not here. Not seizures here. No ... ... concrete and glass, slamming into my knees, my elbow, don't hork, shit, glass in my face *hate* this, help, Logan, anybody ... ... hands! No, leave me alone! Caught ... no -- No. What? Not ... brain ... healing? God. The cut in my face is closing. Synapses, reconnecting, oh, God, yes, yes. Fall into it, healing hands, beautiful, like the most fabulous -- -- no, no, don't stop don't stop don't stop -- I want to howl with disappointment and rage as the sensation is ripped away, you were almost done, whoever, whatever, keep on -- and as I think all of this, I roll to my hands and knees -- -- and see her skinny freckled face, long-fingered hands covering her mouth as if she'd done something wrong. And just like I do every time the seizures end, I pass out. End part 1 of 2 Love and Darkness and Our Genomes By Sarah Segretti Part 2 of 2. Disclaimers in part 1. *Extremely* AU for XF. My sluggish brain wants to imagine that I'm on Logan's couch, his handmade pre-Pulse quality blanket covering me and a large glass of milk within easy reach. But it's wack to think like that when what I should be focusing on my real surroundings. It's dark here, and quiet. The usual street noise is muffled and distant, but familiar in a way I can't quite peg. She can't have dragged me far. Her voice comes from a dim corner. "Are you okay?" I remember the terrible feel of her hands leaving my head, of the healing left undone, and it pisses me off. "What did you do to me?" "I shouldn't have done that." There's a weird, panicky catch to her voice. "I might as well have put up a sign." "Make sense," I snap. "They know when I do it," she says. I'm not sure I like this. "How?" "I don't know. They just do. My mom said --" She stops and takes a deep, shuddering breath. The phrase "my mom" rattles around in my brain, which has no place for the concept. She continues, interrupting the loop. "Once, when I was a kid, one of my friends fell off the slide and broke his wrist, so I, you know, fixed it. My mom was furious. She never yelled at me, she just had this look, but this time she yelled. She made me swear I'd never do it again." "So did you?" A quick shake of her head, barely visible in the shadows. "It was awful. Because I could tell when people needed me, and I couldn't do anything." I suppress a shudder, remembering how I felt at that gene therapy conference. Me, or the others. Awful doesn't begin to describe it. "My mom said I had to be normal, or they'd find us again." She sneers out the word "normal." I'm processing her story, and now I'm positive I don't like it. "Again?" "Long story. I was a baby. I'm not supposed to know. My dad told me." She sighs again. "He understands what it was like, to be like me." And I thought I had a weird upbringing. "He can do this, too?" "No, he --" Without realizing it, probably, she's moved out of the shadows. Her hands flutter in front of her. "It's complicated. But he gets it." This hits me on some unexpected, fundamental level. It's why I'm looking for the rest of the kids. I want to be with people who get me, people I don't have to hide from. It's why I couldn't kill Lydecker when I had the chance at the conference. No matter what I think of him, or what he did to us, he knows us. He could help us if he wanted. "You have someone like that?" she asks softly. "No," I say abruptly, and change the subject. "Okay. You're on the run. They know you're here." She nods. "That big guy is their bounty hunter, sent to get me." Oh, goody. There's cash involved. It just gets worse. "And they know I know you're here. Now what?" "I have to go," she says. "I shouldn't have dragged you into this." "You got that right. But now you need help getting out of it." I point at her. "Not only is Big and Ugly on your case, but the hoverdroids have your image." She closes her eyes. "Damn." "Damn straight. Look, I know someone who can help you get out of town." "You do?" She looks at me hopefully, and then her face changes. "Well, of course you do." I roll my eyes and get to my feet. "What was your first clue?" "Not the bar code." That stops me. "Your damage," she says. "I've never felt anything like that before. It's why I followed you. I couldn't help it. And it's the other reason I had to stop. I didn't want to make a bigger mess." She pauses. "What are you?" "I'm an experiment gone wrong," I say. "What about you?" She stands and brushes off her ass. "I'm a miracle." We stare at each other for a second, just a couple of mutant chicks comparing notes on our DNA. Crazy world. But it's the only one I've got. I stick out my hand. "Max." She hesitates, then takes mine. "Charlotte." "Okay, then, Charlotte," I say. "Let's get you out of town." We make it to Logan's without problem. Charlotte doesn't stare at the gilt and brass in his elevator the way I would have. She's even softer than I thought. Wonder what kind of place her parents had before the Pulse? I watch her face as the elevator doors open, and she's clearly unimpressed. Then Logan wheels into view, and she freezes. "Max," he says in that peculiar tone of voice he's got that makes my name sound like private joke and command and question and welcome all at once. I can imitate it now. "Logan." I pull Charlotte out of the elevator. She balks a little. She's staring at Logan. No, she's staring at his chair. She's going to have to get over it if she wants help. But I have to wonder: would he accept, if she offered? Pie in the sky, he'd said when I suggested gene therapy. And he was angry at me for even suggesting it. "We need to talk," he says in that same voice, and I focus on our situation. He looks at Charlotte. "Have a seat," he tells her, and wheels over to Eyes Only. I slide into place behind him as he types in commands. "Your friend has interesting connections," Logan says quietly. Her face appears first on his screen, the shot from the hoverdroid, then slides to one side to make room for another photo. Her face, on a man old enough to be -- "Her father?" Logan nods. "Since you didn't have a name, I ran a face recognition program. This guy came up, too." He taps the screen, then punches another button on his keyboard. Charlotte's face vanishes, replaced by a screenload of text. I whistle as I read. "Precisely," Logan says. "And that's just the official information. When you plug into the network of conspiracy theorists..." "...he's a legend," I finish. "Uncovering Manticore would have been right up his alley," Logan says. Hah. As if anyone who worked for the government would have cared. "What about her?" "This was harder," Logan admits. "Some effort was taken to hide her. Her early records are gone, of course, in the Pulse." But he punches up a birth certificate anyhow. Well, what do you know? Charlotte really is her name. What an amateur. But then, I've been going by Max for 10 years, so I shouldn't talk. "Punch in mom," Logan says, half to himself, and an angular-faced redhead appears on the screen. "Her mother's hair," I say. "Uh huh." More fiddling with the keyboard, more text -- Huh. Her mother and father worked together as a team. I ignore the odd thrill this sends through me, and resist the temptation to look at Logan. "But what is the FBI?" I ask him. Logan glances at me in surprise, then seems to remember my sheltered childhood in the sterile halls of Manticore. "It became the National Peacekeeping Unit after the Pulse, although it was never intended to be a national police force. Had a bad reputation when I was growing up, before the Pulse. Deliberately misplaced evidence. Sloppy lab work. Murders." "It wasn't all like that." Charlotte says. We both look up to see her standing in the doorway, her face flushed. "Good people worked there, too." "I can see that," Logan says smoothly, and taps his screen. She looks curious, but doesn't budge. "What else have you got on me?" Logan nods at her -- come on over -- but she shakes her head. "Tell me." I know why she stays put. Our combined damaged vibe must be a brain-bender. Logan blinks in momentary confusion, though. "Okay, then, Miss Scully. Your childhood records are spotty, but you turn up in Raleigh, N.C., in 2015." She pales. "I moved there with my dad for a while." That's interesting. "They split up?" "It's complicated." She looks at the floor, and I'm sorry I asked. "They fought a lot, mostly about me. My mom wanted me to live a normal life, like I said. My dad thought that was impossible. He thought it was crazy to deny what I could do. She tried anyhow. She wanted him to let it all go, to leave it all in the past. He couldn't." I can't help it. "Leave all what?" She hugs herself and looks miserable. "Everything. Our family -- it's always had troubles." Logan silently pages through images while she talks, and pauses on one that breaks even my unsentimental heart. Her parents, not much older than Logan, wearing black jackets that say "FBI," caught in mid-argument. But you can see the hidden smile on her father's face, feel the heat between the two of them. They belong together, but they aren't? Trouble my ass. Must have been some serious evil that drove them apart. "Why are you on the run, Charlotte?" Logan asks gently. She sighs heavily and looks at me. "Can he handle it?" "I doubt it," I tell her. "Excuse me," Logan says, offended. He is so cute when he gets pissy, I think, even as I dread what's about to happen. "I know about you," he adds. "This is different," I say. "I can heal you," Charlotte says bluntly. "I can make you walk again." Logan sits up straight, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. His face is impassive, but behind those tiny glasses of his I can see the hunger in his eyes. I think I'd rather see him angry again. This is going to be bad. "Logan -- " I begin. He cuts me off. "How?" "It's hard to explain," Charlotte says. "I was born being able to do it. But when I do, it triggers ... something, and they know where to find me." His face tightens. "No" is not an answer he's good at hearing. "You've done ... this ... recently then. Or you wouldn't be on the run." It's nearly an accusation. She looks at me instead. "I couldn't let my dad die," she whispers. "I just couldn't." We are silent for a long time. "Well, we have to get you out of here, then," Logan finally says. "Shall we send you home, or --" "No. Just get me out of the ... sector?" She looks at me to confirm that she's using the right term, and I nod. "I know where to go from there." "So you do have a plan." This surprises me. She just shrugs. "Okay, then," Logan says, and gives her a dark, level stare. I want to smack him upside his spiky head -- lay off her, already -- but I'm not that kind of girl. Even if he does deserve it. Charlotte withdraws into the living room as Logan crafts sector passes and clearances. I go check out the view from his penthouse windows, and suddenly I don't like what I see. "Unmarked vehicles coming up your street, Logan," I call out. He swears. "Almost done, Max, just --" The convoy stops in front of the building. "No time," I yell, and grab Charlotte's hand as I sprint through the living room. She drags behind me, off balance and awkward as I haul her to the roof. "Not this -- " she begins. We burst onto the roof. "Do you want me to save your damn life or not?" "Shut up and run!" she shouts back, and sprints in the wrong direction. I briefly turn in the direction I'd meant to go, and -- oh, crap. Not that guy again. Guess the wrong way is the right one. I chase after her -- my speed makes up for her long strides -- but the human tank is catching up. And we're running out of roof. Charlotte reaches the edge first and stops. I could make it to the next roof, easy, but there's no way she's jumping the width of that alley on her own. I unloop some line from my belt and look around for somewhere to anchor it. She glances down, then over to the next roof. I see something crazy in her eyes, something desperate and terrified ... and something that looks like she's having fun. "No time," she says, and takes a huge running leap. I streak to the edge, praying I can catch her as I caught Logan, and watch her long arms and legs pinwheeling in midair -- and her body collapsing in a heap as she hits the next rooftop square and safely. She tumbles and then scrambles to her feet. "Come on, it's easy," she yells. My heart is still pounding. She's got more guts than I've been giving her credit for. "Showoff," I yell back, and jump. I don't fall. "Any way we can circle back and get the sector passes?" she wonders. I glance over to Logan's roof. The human tank rolls ever closer. Below, Logan's building is ringed with black vehicles. I hope like hell he's deleting files. "Doubt it. Does he jump?" I point at Ugly. She pales when she looks at him. "Don't know. Don't want to find out." "Okay, then. This way." I head towards the next roof, when a new voice stops us. "Charlotte." It's an insinuating hiss, full of danger. She whirls toward the speaker, who steps out from behind a cooling tower. "Damn it, Alex, stay out of this!" she cries. "I can help you, Charlotte, and you know it," he purrs. Him, help? Pretty fit-looking, alert green eyes, but he's old. And he's got something wrong with -- no, he's only got one arm. His left hand is fake. No wonder she's backing off. I hear that familiar "snick"; in his right hand, he holds one of those ice pick things. Who the hell is this guy? It's clear that Charlotte knows him, and that she's terrified of him. "I don't need you! I can handle this myself!" she yells at him, her voice wavering. He chuckles. "So like your father. He never thought he needed me, either," he says, and she flinches. She glances between Alex and Ugly, now near the edge of Logan's roof. I don't like our choices, or our chances. There's a motion behind Ugly. Logan! Where the hell did he get a gun? He levels it at the goon, and two screams nearly knock me off my feet. Alex and Charlotte have both gone berserk. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" Alex yells. "Don't, Logan, his blood is toxic!" Charlotte screams. Logan flicks a glance my way and levels the gun anyhow. He almost looks like he knows what he's doing. I catch Charlotte and Alex trading a quick look, and she nods. What -- ? "Don't shoot him!" Charlotte screams. "Let him jump!" "Are you out of your mind?" I yell at her. "That guy almost killed me!" Logan fires twice. Ugly jerks with the impact, and keeps walking. I can't believe this. Logan stares in disbelief, too -- and then his eyes really bug out of his head, and he bends double gasping for air. That's it. I run to the gap between the buildings. Behind me, Alex shouts something, and I hear running, but Logan's collapsing, and I've got to get to him. Ugly and I pass in midair, but I don't care. I grab Logan just as he starts to slide out of his chair. "Green," he gasps. "Blood." Whatever. "Are you okay?" "Burns," he wheezes. "Okay." "No, you're not." I glance quick at the other roof to see what's going on ... and see two Charlottes. My brain has really taken a beating today. I turn my attention back to -- whew, a single Logan, and drag him back into his chair. I wish he'd stop trying to prove he's still a man and protect himself instead. I wish he could walk, so we could run the hell away. I wish -- A flurry of activity over on the other roof, and I turn to see Alex raise his good arm -- and plunge the ice pick into the back of Charlotte's neck. I don't see Ugly anywhere. "No!" I scream as she falls to the ground. I leap straight from Logan's roof onto Alex's nasty old neck. Let him break a hip, I think, as we fall to the ground and I crack him a good one across the face. I straddle him to keep him in place. "You bastard! Why did you do that?" My voice cracks. I hate emotions. No place for them on the battlefield. He licks the blood off his upper lip. He was good-looking, once. It's creepy. "You wouldn't understand." I don't care if he is an old man. I crack him again, and -- ewwww, he gets off on being smacked around. Sick, fucked-up bastard. I jump off him, haul him to his feet and slam him against a wall. "Who the hell are you?" "Go back to your boyfriend," he sneers at me. "Forget about us. She's safe now." My throat thickens, with tears or the need to puke in this asshole's face it's hard to tell. I glance over at her body, and I still can't believe it. The pick sticks out of her neck at an unnatural angle, but there's no blood. Her eyes are open. Puking sounds really, really good. I open my mouth and before anything can come out, the old man jerks his head and cracks his forehead into mine. My battered brain gives up. Game over. My vision grays out and I crumple to the ground. When I wake up, he's gone. And so is her body. That son of a bitch. The address on the package Normal hands me a few days later is familiar. It's Logan's. "Well?" Normal demands. "Forgotten how to read a map? Bip bip, Max. Let's go!" I haul myself onto my bike and pedal slowly through the throngs. It's been a bad couple of days. The gang knows I'm upset about something, but I can't tell them what. Even if I just said that a friend was killed, they'd want details. They'd want to help. But I can't explain it to them. That bastard Alex was right. I don't understand. Logan is dozing on his couch when I come in. Ugly hit him with some gas or something, and he's still recovering. I watch him sleep for a minute, and I wish I could -- No, I don't. I don't wish I could cry in front of anyone. "Hey there," he murmurs, eyes flickering open. "Come back for more expensive statuary?" "Nah. I stole all your good stuff already." Joking is so much easier. I hand him the package, and my clipboard. "Jam Pony delivery. Sign here." He looks puzzled, and hitches himself to a sitting position. "I'm not expecting anything." He inspects the envelope. "No return address. No chance that you've got X-ray vision, too?" "That was in the super-deluxe package. I missed out." Logan hardly ever smiles with his mouth, but sometimes you can see it flicker in his eyes. He turns the package over a few times, then shrugs and tears it open. Inside is nothing but a slip of paper. He reads it, then silently hands it to me. Wasn't me, the note says in a neat script I don't recognize. Long story. It's complicated. Don't worry. My gut clenches and I look at Logan. "This is a joke." "A nasty one," he agrees. "I saw -- " Two Charlottes, but that was temporary double vision. It doesn't mean anything, except that I was half-concussed. She's dead, and that's all there is to that. I saw her body. "What?" "Nothing. Crazy mixed-up world." I flop down on the couch next to him without even taking off my courier bag. I wad up the paper and throw it across the room. "Who would do something like this?" "I could run a trace," Logan says carefully. "Jam Pony must keep records." "Forget it," I snap at him. "But what if --" "It's not, okay? It's not." We fall silent for a while. I don't know what he's thinking. I'm trying not to think. "Max?" His voice is strange. I turn my head without lifting it from the back of the couch. I have this horrible feeling I know what he's going to ask. "What she said, about healing -- was she ... I mean, did you believe ...?" Damn it, I was right. "Yeah. I did." I watch hope live and die in his face again. He looks away from me. "Crazy mixed-up world," he says, his voice even stranger. "You said it," I tell him, and close my eyes to mourn for all of us. -30- Beta Band: Anjou, Barbara D., cofax, ebxphile, haphazard method and Kris P. A nod to the Segretti Sprogs for unwitting inspiration and technical advice. Feedback to mrsblome@aol.com Read the others at http://members.aol.com/mrsblome