Disclaimer: I don't own Dark Angel, the characters, or any ounce of sanity, thank you.

Tom Cat Musk and Three Empty Gum Wrappers

It was cold. That was the first moment, and it stood alone. The sky was grey, the wind driving pillars of black smoke and thick clouds around through the air, an ominous mass of darkness against a backdrop of tall buildings. It rumbled. A plastic bag flew past, over head, spiralling. Her eyes were watering a little. The concrete was rough under the pads of her fingers, and she could hear traffic, and people, the noises blurred into an indistinguishable mess of sound, individual voices blurting dialogue into her head sporadically, her head a badly tuned radio.

When she turned to the right she met a can, colourful red and white aluminium crumpled in the middle, bent and broken. Beyond it was a graffiti covered brick wall, a foul smelling puddle of water beneath a bin. When she turned to the left she met a boy. Hazel eyes. Fair skin. Raised eyebrow.

"Who are you?" she asked; voice an alien rumble in the back of her throat, the taste of it a dim vibration. Her cheek was pillowed on the concrete, some sort of plastic that crinkled every time she moved. She blinked. The plastic squeaked. He blinked back.

"Beats me," the guy said, blank as she. "Who are you?"

"I don't… I don't know."

They sat up, and went through their pockets, pooling what they had onto the ground between them, silent and efficient. She owned a dollar forty three, a bronze button, three empty peppermint gum wrappers, one full one and a key to room 14 at Monty's Super Apartments. He had three hundred dollars on an engraved silver clip – the initials reading AF – a half melted chocolate bar, five condoms, and a pair of black sunglasses that covered half his face and looked like something ridiculous when he slipped them on. She told him this, and he just grinned, took them off without comment and started shoving items back into his leather jacket.

Shaking her head, frowning, a foreign emotion growling in her sternum, she started to do the same, brushing dirt off her palms onto her torn and defiantly clean black jeans when all of her worldly possessions were once again secreted away. He stood, offered her his hand, and pulled her up when she accepted it, their movements seamless. He smelled like clean masculine sweat, leather, and tomcat musk. There was a smudge of dirt under his chin, and no stubble on his high cheekbones. Dark, gelled hair brushed over his ear, free strands waving a hello in the wind. She took a step back quickly, dropping the too warm hand, dodging questioning eyes, as she realised tactically that he was a lot taller than he looked sprawled along the ground, and she only came up to his shoulder. It was more meaningful than it should have been, in a way she couldn't describe. It was instinctual, the need to put space between them.

Feeling an itch at the rear of her waistband she placed her hand there, and pulled it back out, staring at the sheathed bowie knife double the size of her palm that lay dangerous and quiet and familiar between her steady fingers. She jerked her eyes back to him, and he just whipped that smirk out into the atmosphere again, saying calm and easy, "Hey, it's the city. Everyone lugs around a concealed arsenal in the back of their Levi's," as he pulled out the knife's twin.