TM 201- Talk about something you lost.

This week, it looks like the topic going around my friends list is loss. I'd feel dishonest not writing something about it. Loss is something I know a lot about.

It's funny how the hardest things to talk about, for me, at any rate, are the ones that aren't there anymore. It's like, if there's a problem in your life, something that's bugging you, a situation, a person, there's still a chance to fix it. So, no problem being pissy about it. You know it's not the end of the world.

But when it is the end of the world, or an ending, period, when something or someone is gone forever and you'll never get it back...that's when it's hard. That's when I choke. I guess maybe it seems too pointless, and I've been accused of being 'Logan Cale: Man of Action.' I don't do well when there's a problem and I can't do something to fix it.

So, loss. Things in my life that are gone without hope of repair or return. There's my parents. My uncle (didn't like him, but he was family). My marriage to Val and, with her, my ability to trust people quickly or completely. The world as I knew it. My family's money. The innocent people who got caught in Eyes Only stuff and died. The Transgenics who died as a result of what I helped do.

I started to type 'my legs,' but, you know, that isn't true. Loss means that something is gone. My ability to walk is lost. (Unless I use the exo, which I don't feel particularly safe doing, if I'm being honest. It shorts out a lot. Besides, living alone, I've saved it for using for PT and emergencies, not just hiking for the hell of it.) But my legs are still here. It's weird, but I think about them more now than I did before I got shot. I have to.

And it's weird, too, that not being able to walk isn't the biggest loss, there. I mean, yeah, it sucks. But it's the loss of sensation that has been the hardest to accept. The first time I looked down and saw myself bleeding (I'd hit the sharp corner of a drawer with my shin) and didn't feel it? It was--you know, there aren't words to describe it.

A few times, before the virus, Max put her hand on my knee. The mental battle between what should have been and what was... It's like falling. Vertigo. Like looking at yourself in a mirror but seeing your reflection do something else.

It was that feeling all over again when Max and I found out about the virus. Loss of sensation. And it's the same thing now when we try to get around it, with gloves and plastic. Comparing what should be with what is; knowing that reality's falling short.

And sometimes I think it was bad enough when I was just numb on the inside. The universe has got a sick sense of humor, and honestly? I'm not laughing. I'd say I just want to feel something, but even that's not true. I do. A sense of loss.

Logan Cale/ Eyes Only
Dark Angel
561 words

198. If you could have any mutant/super power, which one would it be, and what would you do with it? (If you already have a mutant or super power, what one would you trade it in for?)

I've been thinking, lately, about special abilities. Superpowers, I guess you could call them. For some people--excluding the people who hang out at comic book stores--it might seem weird to think about something like that. It's hard for me not to think about it.

I mean, think about it. I am surrounded by special people. (And I mean 'special' there absolutely seriously, without sarcasm or political correctness.) I'm interested in/involved with a woman who can bench-press--actually, I don't know what she could lift. A lot. She's fast, immune to diseases, has DNA from Churchill and sharks and cats... And she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, on top of that. Oh. With an IQ that's off the charts, too.

Yeah. She's amazing.

So, there's Max. And then there's her family. Jondy, who's now a good friend in addition to being Max's sister, is just like Max. Different strengths, different weaknesses, but...yeah. Strong, fast, gorgous, smart, the works. Max's brothers are like that, too. Jondy's fiance. Their friends (some of whom I wouldn't call gorgeous, but they make up for it by being able to do stuff like withstand temperatures that'd kill regular humans, or see in the dark).

Then there are the people I've met recently, who aren't transgenics but have been living in an entirely different world. I mean, it's this world, but a lot scarier and a lot more serious than the way I thought it was. And they're comfortable with it. They deal with it.

And then there's me. I've been a vigilante for several years, but all that really means is that I'm a reporter. If the government here wasn't so screwed up, that's all I'd be. Logan Cale: journalist. If things were different, I wouldn't need to be Eyes Only.

I guess what I'm saying is, I don't do anything special. I'm intelligent, a good shot, and I've got impressive upper body strength, but none of those is, you know, super-human. I'm a lot more Clark Kent than Superman. I've even got the glasses.

Actually, I'm kind of like the sidekick. Everybody's sidekick. Max's. The transgenics'. I'm the guy with the laptop and the headset, running comm. And I have a feeling that's not gonna change anytime soon, no matter who I start working with.

Sometimes it gets to me. Sometimes, I wish I could fly. Or have super strength. Or have the ability to mesh my brain with a computer so that I could hack into anything, with zero effort. I wouldn't mind being immune to every disease--especially viruses--on the planet. I wouldn't mind having the ability to heal instantly from any injury, or to heal others.

No matter what power I'd have, though, I'd try to use it to help people. Which, I guess, is what I do, even though I'm just me. Just human.

I do what I can with what I've got, and I usually keep going even when things suck. (Not always happy about it, but I do.) I don't give up. Maybe that's my superpower.

Logan Cale/ Eyes Only
Dark Angel
539 words

TM 196 - Congratulations! You've been granted one wish. What is it?

What do you think I'm going to wish for?

I wish I could

I wish Max and I

I wish things weren't so

One wish, huh? Anything in the world. Okay. I wish I could stop wanting things I can't have.

Unlike the other things I thought about wishing for, with this one, I kinda have a shot at getting it. It's a long shot, but it's better than holding my breath and hoping for the impossible.

And I don't know, maybe it's lame, or whatever, to have one wish and ask for peace (might as well wish for a puppy for everyone while I'm at it), but honestly? I'd take it.

It's the only thing I can think of that I could wish for and not feel like an ass because I didn't wish for something else. Because there is one thing I would wish for before everything else. And, yeah, wishing for that would make me a selfish dick, for any number of reasons.

So. Guess all I'm saying is, give my wish a chance. Or something.

Peace. Out.

Logan Cale/ Eyes Only
Dark Angel
187 words

195: What makes someone a hero? What makes someone a villain?

What makes someone a hero or a villain? That's the wrong question. Not what. Who.

Who makes someone a hero or a villian? The answer is, they do. It all comes down to choice. We aren't good guys or bad guys at birth. There aren't innate characteristics that make somebody heroic, somebody else villainous. We grow up, we're faced with choices, and we act, you know? Those actions define us.

Do you choose the easy way or the hard way? A life that's good for you or good for others? A life that's lived for yourself or others? Do you stand by and let bad stuff happen to other people if it doesn't directly affect you? Do you cause bad stuff to happen to people?

The little stuff matters. Whether or not you give half your sandwich to somebody who's hungry. If you give ten bucks to charity. If you cut in line, or treat your friends like crap.

The big moments, the crucial decisions, those matter, too. I mean, of course they do. Do you risk your life, run into that burning building, take a bullet for somebody? Do you commit murder or rob a bank? But, thing is, moments like that are few and far between. Some people probably never see one.

So. In my opinion, it's the little things that count the most. Not the newspaper headline that calls you a hero, or the angry mob after you because they think you're a villain.

I think, every morning, you've gotta wake up and ask yourself why. Why are you here? Who are you here for--just yourself, or everybody else? Are you a good guy or a bad guy today?

And how somebody answers--that's how you tell, you know?

Peace. Out.

Logan Cale/ Eyes Only
Dark Angel
315 words

193: Forest photo prompt.

A lot of people on my friends list this week have been talking about this picture of a forest. I guess it's some kind of meme, or something.

A couple years ago, I would've looked at that photo and thought it looked like a beautiful, peaceful place. I would've thought it looked like a nice place to go hiking, or camping. I used to like hiking and camping.

Now do you know what I see when I look at that photo? What I think? I think, 'Huh. Nice picture.' And I get pissed off.

I was going to end this entry there, but maybe, for once, I'll elaborate.

( Do yourself a favor and don't read this. )

I could go on, but I've said enough. More than enough. I'll take my fresh air and sunshine through a window, thanks. Or out on the sidewalk. On a paved path through the park.

Now do me a favor and don't comment on this. I said when I got this blog that I wasn't going to lock entries to private, but I wrote this one for myself. I don't need pity, or sympathy, or reassurance. This is just how it is, and unless you have a damn good reason, unless you get it, sorry, but I don't need to hear it.

Peace. Out.

Logan Cale/ Eyes Only
Dark Angel
720 words

192: Write about a recurring dream you've had. (Or, if you've never had one, write about the most vivid dream you can remember.)

I used to be afraid of heights. I can't remember when it started, or why, but I know I wasn't into climbing trees as a kid. Wasn't a fan of the monkey bars, either. I never once went off the high dive at the country club pool.

I used to always have this dream that I was falling. It wasn't a vivid dream in the visual sense, but the sensation--God. It felt real. I was falling miles through darkness, hurtling down, and I'd always wake up just as I was about to hit the ground.

I'd wake up with a jolt every time. I'd be sweating, my heart pounding, and claw my way up out of the sheets. I never peed the bed as a kid, but I swear, I think I came close a few times.

So, yeah. I was terrified of heights. Got a penthouse apartment with a view, but I always looked out, not down.

Then, well. Things changed. And I stopped being acrophobic. Maybe because climbing was suddenly a non-issue. Maybe because I really was thrown off a rooftop, and Max was there to save me. Maybe because, after you've gotten shot in the back and had your girlfriend die in your arms (or so you thought at the time), as a way to go, falling...doesn't seem so bad, anymore.

There's one thing I'm sure of, though. Now, when I have that dream, I know I'm not falling, but flying.

Peace. Out.

Logan Cale/ Eyes Only
Dark Angel
256 words

191: Where do you see yourself in twenty years?

I was sitting at my desk this morning, having a cup of coffee, and I realized. It's August. I don't remember what I was thinking about before that, but I know I thought it was July. Then I caught myself and felt like an idiot. It's not even early in the month, so there's no excuse.

It's just...easy to forget that time's passing, living here. This isn't my apartment, isn't home, and, while I've got a routine, it's not my routine.

Easy, too, since I've been putting in some serious Eyes Only hours, lately. I can't go into detail about the research, but falling asleep at the computer, looking outside and realizing it's light--again--and you forgot to go to bed...that kind of thing screws up your perception of time.

Funny how it's possible to work around the clock and still feel like you're getting nothing done.

Sometimes I wonder if it's true that the more things change, the more they stay the same. I wonder if I'll still be here, doing the same stuff, in ten years. Twenty.

It's easy to imagine. Logan Cale, fifty-two years old. Living in some crappy apartment (I doubt this house will stand for another twenty years), still unable to touch Max, still in the chair, still Eyes Only. The world still turning, still just as broken. It hasn't changed much in the last ten years. Sure, we've got TV, and computers, and the job market's a little better, but the country hasn't been rebuilt nearly as fast as the government promised it would be, right after the Pulse.

Thing is, even if things stay the same, it'll be worse than it is now. My money will run out eventually, and I'll have to find a job. Even if Max would want to stay with me for twenty years, never being able to touch...no way. I won't do that to her. Maybe twenty years will make the chair easier. Right now, just the idea of that long--I can't think about it.

And if I'm still doing the Eyes Only thing in twenty years, I guess it'll mean I'm not doing much good. That I haven't made a difference. Not in the long run.

The truth is, though, I know Eyes Only isn't going to be around in twenty years. I've been lucky, so far. Two more decades? I'm good, but I'm not that good. Sooner or later, either I'm going to quit, or somebody's going to find me. Enough people want you dead, and eventually, your luck's gonna run out.

It's weird to think that.

I like to think that things will change. That, twenty years from now, Max and I will have found a cure for the virus and will have a really nice place together. That there'll be breakthroughs in the treatment of spinal cord injuries. That the world will be back to the way it was before the Pulse. Better. That I'll be a paid reporter working for a newspaper I'm proud of. One that prints the truth. I like to think that, in twenty years, transgenics will be treated equally, that having a barcode will be as much of a non-issue as having blond hair, or brown eyes, or size-nine feet.

I try to believe that things will change, but it's tough. It's easier to get caught up in the small stuff, forget what day it is. Easier to hunch over the keyboard than it is to look up and realize that you don't know what the hell tomorrow's going to bring.

Kind of a cop-out, when your motto is, "it's never enough." That way, you don't have to think about what's next.

Peace. Out.

Logan Cale/ Eyes Only
Dark Angel
637 words

189: If you could read my mind right now...Talk about a conversation when what you said was not what you were thinking.

I realized today that I've had this blog for a month. So far, I've learned what a 'meme' is and posted three of them. Replied to a bunch of others. I've started talking with Max online, which is good. I met Max's sister Jondy, who's now a friend, briefly ran into Sketchy, and have had a few conversations with Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, who I guess I'd consider a friendly acquaintance.

I've found out that I like having a blog.

But. I got this thing with the intention of working through my issues, and, thing is, I haven't, yet. Not really. A month of having a journal that I got for a purpose, and I have yet to start saying what's on my mind. That's...well. Pathetic. Typical. Predictable. Take your pick.

I've talked about Eyes Only stuff, issues I have relating to that, my feelings regarding our broken post-Pulse world, but those are things I could say in person. It's the other stuff that chokes me. Makes my fingers freeze up on the keys. And I tap my thumb below the spacebar and stare at the screen, thinking say something, until I get disgusted with myself and turn away.

I think about all the conversations I've had in my life, the relationships I've had, and I just-- You could fill volumes with the things I haven't said.

Maybe now, in my second month of having a blog, I'll be able to put some of this stuff into words. I just. I wish it didn't have to be so goddamn hard.

Peace. Out.

Logan Cale/ Eyes Only
Dark Angel
273 words

188: Write two letters: one to someone you hurt and one to someone who hurt you.

I remembered something the other day from the intro to psychology class I took in college. Supposedly, writing letters you don't intend to send, letters to people who are gone from your life, can help you find closure. Personally, I think a lot of that self-help stuff is a crock. I mean, visualization? Really? And positive thinking, in my experience, at least, doesn't do a damn thing except lead to disappointment.

But, whatever. I figure I can give this one a shot. And while I would never say most of this to anyone's face, who knows? Maybe it'll feel good to write it out. So.

( Dear Valerie... )


( Dear Bennett... )

Do I feel better? Hard to say. Guess it's good to get some of this off my chest. And now I've got two letters I'm never going to send, and I'm thinking about my ex-wife despite my best intentions. Great.

Think I'm gonna go have a cup of strong, black coffee and contemplate the things I cannot change.

Peace. Out.

Logan Cale/ Eyes Only
Dark Angel
1908 words

187: Which is the more exquisite sensation: revenge, relief, or vindication?

So, there's this guy. And from birth, the way the world is, he's got it made. He's male, white, healthy, born to an upstanding and respected family. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He grows up some, and it turns out he's smart. Really smart. Pretty athletic. He needs glasses, and he's a little shy, but he does okay. He's not Joe Cool, but he doesn't get swirlies in the locker room, either.

After high school, he could have it easy. He's even got two easy-road choices. One, go to college, work hard, major in business administration or something, do well, and go into the family business as a valuable asset. Choice number two: go to college, party hard, join a fraternity, make friends, and go into the family business in name only, living life as a rich, spoiled playboy.

So, what does he do? This guy, for whatever reason, chooses option three. He goes to Yale and works hard, but he majors in journalism and minors in English. He writes for the Yale Daily News and thinks about submitting his poetry to the literary magazine but doesn't.

And, funny thing, that actually wasn't intended to piss his father off. At the time, he had this secret hope that a Pulitzer might fix things between them someday. The truth is, though, an option didn't exist that would have gotten his father's approval.

Shit happened. His mom died, the Pulse hit, his dad died. He got married, which ranks right up there with the biggest mistakes of his life, figured that out fairly quickly, and got divorced. But even though things had gone to hell, his life could've been easy. He had the trust fund money to live that playboy lifestyle. He could've gotten a job as a reporter and settled down to a normal life. Normal. Doctoring the news, writing lies, taking quotes out of context, that sort of thing. Telling the people only what the people in charge want them to know.

And that brings us to the big question, I guess. What leads this guy, this normal guy, to take a stand? To take off his glasses and look the people in the eye through a television screen and tell the truths nobody wants them to hear? Why does this guy need, so badly, to take the bad guys down?

'Cause he does need it. Needs it bad enough to break the rules, break the law, break people, break himself, whatever. The need for truth is like this itch, under his skin, and he can't stop scratching 'til it's raw and exposed. Sometimes it's like a sickness.

And is it revenge? The need to hurt the bastards of the world as much as they hurt others? The need to steal from the thieves, beat up the bullies, expose truth about the liars?

Is it a need for vindication? Is this guy still trying to prove to himself, to the world, to his dad that maybe, just maybe, this choice had meaning? Is he trying to prove that in spite of his family, his birth, his life has meaning?

Maybe it's as simple as relief. Maybe this guy does it so that, when he puts his glasses back on and gets ready to go to bed at some ridiculous hour of the night, he can fall asleep thinking, "Yes. I've done something good today."

That's kind of what the other two come down to in the end, anyway. I've had my revenge, the bad guy is defeated, he won't hurt anyone else. I am relieved.

My choice has been vindicated. I have been vindicated. It was not (I am not) for nothing. I am relieved.

The truth is, it's complicated, and I don't know why, if "because I have to" isn't a good enough reason.

Peace. Out.

Logan Cale/Eyes Only
Dark Angel
674 words

186: Religion

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion, too

When I was growing up, we listened to classical music at dinner. I don't know whether it was supposed to set the mood or just provide background noise so we didn't have to talk or what, but we did. To this day, I can't see a table set with a tablecloth and fine china without hearing violins.

My parents started taking me to concerts as soon as I was old enough to sit still and be quiet. I was four, the first time. We heard Beethoven's symphonies and pianists playing Schubert and Chopin. I knew Bach and Berlioz, but I was in junior high before I heard of Metallica or the Barenaked Ladies.

We saw The Nutcracker every Christmas and heard The Messiah, too. We were...pretty average WASPs. We went to church on Christmas and Easter. I remember, one time I brought five dollars for the collection plate, but when it was passed to me, I was too shy to put the money in. I ran back later, after the service, and put it on the pew.

I never asked my parents if they believed in God. I think, even as a kid, I understood the family rule--you didn't talk about religon or politics. Especially not at the dinner table, but not really any other time, either.

You didn't talk about your feelings.

You didn't talk about money.

At dinner, my father told us about his day at work. I told them about my day at school. My mother let us know about upcoming charity functions and what her friends at the club were up to.

After he died, I realized that I never really knew my father. I know what kind of cars he liked and how he took his scotch.

My mom was different. Warmer. Maybe it was because she didn't come from money, maybe it was just the way she was. I don't know. But she was different than my dad. She had my kindergarten artwork framed and let me play with my G.I. Joes and Power Rangers in the living room, even though my father thought action figures were nonsense.

When I was really young and she'd tuck me in at night, she used to sing. John Lennon's "Imagine" was one of her favorites, but she sang other stuff, too. The Carpenters. Fleetwood Mac. Joni Mitchell.

I was eighteen when she died, and I fought with my father about what music to play at her funeral. He won, but after that fight was the only time I ever saw him start to cry.

I was in college before I knew the Lord's Prayer by heart. When I was a kid, I never knelt beside my bed and said "Now I lay me down to sleep."

I can't remember a time, though, when I didn't know all the words to "We've Only Just Begun" and "Imagine." Maybe that's why I ended up--

I don't know. The way the world is, anymore, it's not easy even though I try. I keep trying, though, because I know things aren't so broken they can't be fixed. I know things can get better. I think, just by being alive, I have an obligation to do my best to make things better.

But, hey. We all need something to believe in, right?


Logan Cale/Eyes Only
Dark Angel
584 words

169: Fragile

You know you're pathetic when, instead of using your blog to work through your issues, you talk about how you're going to use your blog to work through your issues.

And I am going to, one of these days. It's funny how I can even consider talking about that stuff here, when over on Max's journal, the subject sort of came up, and I chickened out, big time. I know perfectly well that she can read this.

When I first decided to get this thing set up--you remember, Sebastian (I know you're reading, even if you don't show up on my "friends" list)-- I said I wasn't going to make any of my blog entries visible only to me. What's the point of having a voice online if you're just shouting down a well?

Maybe it's that I'm not used to having this voice. Just me, uncensored, without the excuse that I've got to go work on Eyes Only stuff instead of writing here. (I set aside time for blogging. Dammit.) I feel like Clark Kent stuck without my cape, with no phone booth in sight.

And maybe that's the wrong way to go about this. Maybe, for some stuff, it'd be easier to put on my cape and take off my glasses and, you know. Report the facts. Objectively. Probably not the best way of talking about my feelings (have I mentioned that I'm not a fan of that phrase, by the way?), but, for now...yeah. Maybe that's the best I can do.

So.

Do not attempt to adjust your monitor. This is a sorry excuse for a blog entry. Writing this will take exactly as long as it takes me to type it out. It cannot be traced, cannot be stopped (unfortunately), and it is the only way I can think of to make myself say this.

The effects of the transfusion received from Joshua wore off recently, gone as suddenly and surprisingly as they came. The simple fact seems to be that one Logan Cale, reporter and sometime vigilante, has a blown-out spinal cord that doesn't want to be repaired. His body has rejected blood cells from two transgenics, now, and Mr. Cale has decided that enough is enough.

He's done pretending. Done looking for a miracle that doesn't exist, especially when so many other things are so much more important. There are other miracle cures that'd be more welcome.

Mr. Cale has been known, on occasion, to walk with the aid of a stolen military exoskeleton. But in a spectaular show of bad timing, this device has been malfunctioning lately. Some have speculated that there are perhaps other reasons why Mr. Cale has all but ceased to use the device, but when contacted with questions, he declined to comment at this time.

This has been a--

Oh, screw it.

Analysis of my feelings on the subject another time. For now, just the facts. Sorry to say it here, like this, but I guess I had to say it sometime, and this seemed... I don't know. Easier.

Peace. Out.

Logan Cale/Eyes Only
Dark Angel
521 words

145: Tell the truth about something you usually lie about.

My name is Logan Cale, and I'm Eyes Only.

It feels so strange to type that, to admit it, but there it is. Out there.

Awhile ago, after...certain events that I'm not particularly proud of in retrospect, Bling suggested that I talk to someone. And by 'someone,' of course, he meant a therapist. Something about finding a gun in my desk drawer and seeing me watching footage of the shooting made him jump to conclusions. Not entirely incorrect ones, but by the time we had that particular discussion, I was over it. I'd gone to the edge of the abyss, looked down, and then slowly backed away.

I never have been a fan of heights.

Therapy was not an option, for a number of reasons, and I shot down the idea of joining a support group, too. Basketball was one thing, but the idea of sitting in a room, drinking instant coffee and talking about my feelings...uh. No.

It was Sebastian who finally gave me something I could work with. "Why don't you start a blog?" he said.

I distinctly remember snorting. I remember back before the Pulse, when everyone had one, detailing their thoughts on everything from sports to sex. They're making a comeback now, but... "And say what on it?" I asked him. "I already share my thoughts with an audience daily, remember?"

"Say anything you want. Personal stuff. Eyes Only stuff. Just...be you. I'll set it up for you, so it'll be secure."

I'm lucky, I guess. Bling knows me well enough to know what watching that tape of the shooting really meant. Sebastian knows that I talk better with my keyboard than I do with my mouth, sometimes. A lot of the time. Maybe that's a reporter thing; you can lie when you speak all you want, but your hands on the keys, the ink on the page, it has to be true.

So, here I am. I'm Logan Cale. Eyes Only. Coming to you in black and white, so, you know I speak truth.

Peace. Out.

Logan Cale/Eyes Only
Dark Angel
344 words

185: It's your moment of triumph! Where are you and what are you doing?

It's evening in summer. And it's raining--of course it's raining, it's Seattle. Why bother to fantasize if I don't keep the setting realistic? So, it's raining, but I don't care. It's the good kind of rain, the rare kind that actually seems to wash the grime away.

I'm back in my old apartment, which is miraculously free of bullet holes and broken glass, looking the way it used to. (Yeah, I know what I said about realistic settings. I take it back.)

I've placed candles on almost every available surface, and their soft, warm glow fills the living room. A chilled bottle of champagne sits in a bucket (all right, a saucepan) of ice on the coffee table. Beside it are two glasses and a bowl of fresh strawberries.

I called Max earlier and asked her to come over at eight. I told her to wear a dress. She thinks we're going out undercover, working.

At seven fifty-seven, I go into the living room and wait, sitting by the window, palms alternately smoothing over my thighs nervously or poised above the wheels, ready to turn.

At ten after eight, she comes in. Almost silently, but I've gotten used to listening.

I turn and see that she has stopped short by the sofa. She's giving me one of those head-cocked, hand on her hip, 'what the hell?' looks. I'm sure I'm giving her a look, too. A 'sorry, can't breathe right now, catch you in a minute' look. Max would be gorgeous wearing a paper sack. Max, dressed up, is...yeah.

One of her eyebrows quirks. "Thought you said we were--"

I interrupt her by pressing a button on the remote I had in my lap, and music fills the apartment. Not classical--that'd be a little too predictable, even for me. This is just a radio station I know she likes. Not the most romantic, no, but it'll work.

And now she's looking somewhere between pissed and amused. "Logan--"

"Max." I try hard, but I can't quite suppress a smile. I don't ask her to close her eyes. We've been there before. Instead, I just...stand. And I take an effortless step forward and take one of her hands in mine. I'm grinning, now, and I don't care, 'cause she is, too. "Will you dance with me?"

She nods and closes the distance between us. Puts her arm around me and lays her head on my shoulder. Her hair brushes my nose. She smells amazing.

We don't talk. Don't need to. We just dance.

And my legs don't give out, this time. I'm not wearing the exo, so, it doesn't short out. We can touch each other. Nobody pages her or calls me or barges in the door. The world is broken outside, but in here, life is good.

I hold my girlfriend close, and we dance. And that's my moment of triumph.


Logan Cale/Eyes Only
Dark Angel
485 words