As it Seems

~ Not spies. Assassins. ~

Cars 2 Characters © PIXAR 2011

It was a simple mission, really. Get in, get out, nothing more. With a gun at his side and a threat on his lips, the job couldn't be easier. Effortless. A drive in the park, and another couple pounds in his pocket.

But Finn's job had ceased to be 'simple' a long time ago.

The flight to Tokyo had been particularly nerve-wracking. Even Siddeley had to comment on the lack of his usual ostentatious behavior, solicitous as to his partner's silence. But how could the Aston Martin explain to his aerial companion that he had seen his future in the crushed form of his friend—although, Leland had always suspected that he'd be turned into a cube, the paranoid nut he was—but the elder spy car was clearly in more danger than before. With dozens of enemies across the country, there wasn't much he could attempt to do in order to halt the unstoppable.

And what with his sudden decrease in safety, Finn feared that he would become as bloody paranoid as his deceased comrade.

Sneaking into the party had been even worse, however.

He'd felt his firearms quake with anticipation, as if expecting some unnamed foe to jump out from behind him. Looking back on it, Finn didn't really enjoy his job. Or his entire line of work in general.

Whenever he became remotely existential, Leland would take it upon himself to snap, "Just cram it up your tailpipe and be a man! It's our job, and if we don't do it, who will?" The Aston Martin would of course respond with some smarmy comment, and the subject would be dropped. But truthfully, the world would be a much better place if those like him simply didn't exist. The indecision continued to hover at the back of his mind, buzzing aloud like an annoying insect from time to time as the guilt truly set in.

Guilt. It seemed to be a common feeling now, encompassing and overtaking nearly every other sentiment emotion after a mission 'well done.'

But he and the Jaguar weren't alone in their work, of course. There were dozens more like them in C.H.R.O.M.E., which really made him think about who even funded them, and the CIA had been doing the same for decades. Rod 'Torque' Redline was a perfect example.

Finn himself had been 'accepted' into the agency around twenty years ago, recruited for his quick wit and excellent aim. Leland for his uncontrollable energy and eagerness, in which he could literally keep 'going and going', similar to the American Energizer bunny. And while the mental comparison would usually force a small chuckle out of the Aston Martin, now he could only frown detrimentally. There was no Jaguar to laugh at any longer.

Turning back to the event occurring just below him, Finn's frown grew deeper. The racers drove around contentedly, sipping champagne and conversing gaily, completely unaware of the danger lurking just above them. The spy car didn't know what this Axelrod bloke was thinking—gathering all of these important celebrities would ultimately bring several diplomats and fans trailing behind. He was certain that the president of the United States had just driven below him, he and his wife flanked by several dozen bodyguards. Although the enormous Land Rovers wouldn't stand a chance against a highly trained combatant….Finn would know.

The British car shifted his gaze away from the navy BMW and smaller Mercedes, instead diverting his attention to the racecars once more. His aqua eyes scanned over the crowd below, not fully prepared to leave the sanctity of the vantage point that the highest level provided, but it would eventually be unavoidable—he had to meet the Tokyo diagnostic agent on the ground floor, no matter how incredibly exposed he felt.

It occurred to him then, that safety as a whole was nearly impossible and unachievable in his line of work.

As soon as he met the new recruit, Finn was immediately aware of one thing; she didn't know the truth.

This 'Holley Shiftwell' was intellectual, technologically savvy, and general level-headed. A bit new to the field, he'd admit, but an agent with a future. But her point of view was extremely incorrect. To her, he was the Finn McMissile, dashing, debonair spy, and the best in the agency. The one who could do no wrong, and was seen above all others. The Aston Martin was sorely tempted to tell her the truth.

He wasn't the best—Leland had, and still did, take that title—and he could do wrong, and did so on a regular basis. Lives were lost because of him. Destroyed. And the fault was all his own.

Sometimes—most times— he would seriously doubt his state of mind when he'd accepted the offer to join to this agency in the first place.

After exchanging the code phrase between him and the younger Jaguar (in which the root of the axiom come from a quite long and endearing story) he had swiftly led the violet spy car to the higher levels by way of an elevator. He always did feel much safer on higher ground.

The events that had transpired next had mixed and melded together, a blur at the back of his mind. The American agent they'd met with hadn't exactly been the one he'd been expecting. A rusted tow truck, but a master at espionage and planning. He was brilliant, to put it mildly, a genius in every aspect with one of the most believable disguises Finn had ever seen.

Although, the Aston Martin wasn't certain if the tow truck worked in his specific district. There were no clues given, no hints…not even some sort of hidden passphrase. And with an agent of that caliber, who knew what he could be hiding.

Even so, the presence of both the American agent and his own partner seemed to allow the chivalrous and gallant act he had kept up for years—that was how everyone saw him, anyhow—take form once more, and, surprisingly, made crafting it much easier. And it would even stay in place, not faltering for a moment….

It seemed that the attendance of the new spy cars did a wonder to his conscience.

Miss Shiftwell's constant questions were beginning to put Finn on edge.

He wasn't used to being 'put on the spot', so to speak, and whenever Leland's sudden (paranoid) interrogations took a turn for the worst, going a bit too in-depth on the Aston Martin's past, he would slip and stumble over his words as he tried to form a coherent sentence. It wasn't as bad now, of course but the wariness still remained. He refused to crush Holley's fragile innocence, the simple belief that he and C.H.R.O.M.E. as a whole could do no wrong. If she only knew….

But Finn naturally kept these traitorous thoughts to himself, steeling through and keeping a straight face. And in all honesty, it was becoming startlingly easier. It wasn't a thought he was particularly comfortable with when on solo missions, which, to his utmost chagrin, were becoming more frequent as time progressed.

All regulations pointed towards the simple fact that he should've told his partner long ago—keeping secrets such as those were monumentally dangerous, especially within the agency. Although, it wasn't just the simple matter of trust. Anyone who discovered the truth would be in danger, risking their own life. It was a fate that Finn wouldn't wish on anyone.

But even when the Aston Martin returned from another lone assignment, coming back with oil (that usually wasn't his own) smeared lightly over his fender, and the guilt of another death added to his already-guilty conscious, the lifeblood of an unknown car staining his tires and finish, did he truly realize the severity of his crimes. And Finn wasn't one to believe in karma or any of that 'damned' malarkey, but he did know that because of all of his wrongdoings, his pending punishment would be ten-fold.

Siddeley, having flown him in tense radio silence, had never approved of the spy car's less…admirable aspect of his profession. The jet had never voiced his distaste, and even outright disgust at times, but it was clear in the clipped tone he spoke to him with after a 'successful' mission.

And truthfully, Finn couldn't blame him.

There were times when he'd stay up late, whether in his own motel room at the Cozy Cone, (graciously provided by Miss Sally Carrera) one of the rooms aboard Siddeley, or even on a mission, seconds away from pulling the trigger, he would suddenly come to grasp how horrible and utterly wrong his occupation was.

Because they weren't spies…not really.