Title: Shadow
Author: Dream Writer 4 Life
Rating: PG-13 for language and violence
Genre: Angst, Action/Adventure, Dark Humour
Archived: SD-1, here, and my site. Anywhere else, just ask, and you shall receive!
Spoilers/Timeline: up through 3.14 "Blowback"; alternative ending to Season 3
'Shippers' Paradise: V/L, S/V, Weiss/OC
Disclaimer: If I owned Alias, this is how Season 3 would've gone. In other words, I own nothing. Period. End of story. Wait, no it's not! Keep reading!
Summary: "She melts into the darkness as if an element of the night. She makes no sound and no mistakes. She is the Shadow." They need a mole trap, and she is the best they have.
Author's Note: It's the way J.J. could have rescued the third season: introducing an interesting new character similar to Faye Dunaway's in Season 2 only...young. And blunt. And good. (Maybe.) So, let's commence with Season 3: The DW4L Way! Enjoy!
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This Chapter: You have a problem? She has a solution...
Suggested Soundtrack: "My Vietnam" by Pink, "Lonely Day" by System of a Down, and "Going Under" by Evanescence
Shadow
Chapter One: Darkness Falls
Another target lost.
Another objective missed.
Another game of Dodge the Bullet.
Another botched mission.
Sydney's stilettos stuttered down the slick cement stairs, one hand slipping on the rusty railing and the other grasping the bleeding wound in her upper arm. Sparks flew as bullets glanced off of the meal guide rail, their pings echoing in the narrow stairwell. She ducked her blonde head and ignored the pain in her ankle, willing the joint to hold until backup arrived.
If that would ever happen.
Just as she reached the bottom (and her aggressors reached the top), the plain white van she had hopped out of only an hour ago skidded to a stop, the side door opening just wide enough for her to lunge through, tucking and rolling as sparks flew once more. The van hydroplaned on the wet pavement as they sped away, hanging a sharp left before the mercs had time to read the license plate.
Sydney remained in the fetal position for a moment as she gasped to regain her breath, still pressuring the wound as blood seeped between her fingers and stained her knuckles. As her body functions slowly returned to normal, she pushed herself up against the wall of the van, resting her head against the vibrating metal behind her. She tugged off the wretched wig, sending bobby pins and clips flying, and she heard the passenger excuse himself as he climbed into the back. Ripping the hair net off and flinging it to the side, she sighed as Vaughn's face swam into her murky vision, intermittently lit by a street lamp. His forehead practically concaved with worry lines even as his eyes literally blazed with anger.
"Why the hell didn't you contact us?" He whispered harshly, muting his malcontent for the sake of their relatively innocent driver.
She rolled her eyes, correctly predicting their ensuing argument. "Vaughn..."
"We had to learn from them that you were in trouble! From them!"
"Vaughn..."
"What were you thinking? You didn't even have a weapon to defend yourself with! You could have been killed—"
"Well it wouldn't have been the first time," She countered without thinking. In an instant his face flooded with grief and pain as hers must have exhibited raw regret. As he sat back against the opposite wall hugging a knee, she retouched her characteristic stoic face and demanded, "Now will you please pass the first-aid kit before I bleed out?"
He passively reached under the driver's seat and slid her the red plastic box. "Need help?"
"No, I think I've got it. Thanks, though," She added, her tone a littler softer around the edges. She hesitated a moment, contemplating stripping off her entire shirt to mend her wounds but finally deciding against it, opting instead to rip off the damaged sleeve and a section near her midriff for better access. He watched cautiously, wincing as she wiped the blood off her hands and disinfected both wounds with alcohol pads. Gauze cloaked her arm and tape encircled her waist, but as she braced her feet to sit up straighter, she cried out in pain; she had forgotten her throbbing ankle.
Vaughn immediately crawled over, catching the kit before it skidded away as the van sailed over a pothole. She wordlessly allowed him to cradle her boot in his lap, unlacing the complicated knots before gingerly slipping it off. She knew she should tell him to stop, that this-this dance they insisted on performing only left her that much more bitter the next day at work, but the threads of warmth snaking up her calves had nothing to do with pain.
Even as his skilled hands wrapped her rapidly swelling joint, she spilled out the details of exactly how the mission went so horribly wrong. "Gonzales's study wasn't on the second floor. All of our schematics were wrong, so I had to run around the entire building 'til I finally found a guard who was nice enough to point me in the right direction. Lucky for me, he also gave me a nice, swift punch to the sternum, shattering Marshall's new crystal necklace comm piece. So then I had to—"
Every mission for the past month had the exact same plot. Target: Some diplomatic old guy connected to the Covenant. Objective: Steal something seemingly useless but actually priceless. Result: Failure, along with cuts, bruises, sprains, even a few broken bones. So far no one had died, but if things kept progressing, it was only a matter of time.
It was almost as if they knew what was going to happen and where before it actually happened.
This mole business was out of control.
But she felt it extremely difficult, however, to focus on any objective when the whole Vaughn/Lauren/Sydney Triangle issue insisted on pressing the envelope every chance it got. She could count the nights on one hand during which she slept soundly, uninterrupted by dreams of him, his smell, his touch, his whispered murmurs in her ear.... And the fact that she clearly saw them go through the motions of coupledom did not help matters much.
She had tried to like Lauren. She really did. But still loving the woman's husband put a damper on her efforts, and a liberal amount of awkward pauses and one too many Sloane references later, and they were practically enemies. They only spoke when collaborating on missions (although neither missed a shouting match opportunity during briefings), and then their clipped conversations spread icicles across computer monitors. Everyone in the office knew their absolute abhorrence for the other but not many understood the reasons. They had truly opposite personalities, values, tactics, methods. In fact, they only had two things in common, one being their tempestuous tempers.
The other being, of course, Michael Vaughn.
Whenever the two verbally sparred, he invariably stepped in to mediate between the two. He shamelessly took sides, usually defending Sydney's point of view if not the woman herself. "Everything's new for her," He would counter, laying a hand on his wife's shoulder or hand or elbow. "She needs time to adjust."
Contrast, hypocrisy, duality: Sydney could not decide which was worst, or if any even applied to their situation; everything confounded her that much. When on a mission, she and Vaughn worked as two halves of a whole, the fulcrum to his teeter-totter, the Sony to her Cher. Whenever she stepped out of that van and into the party, she fell under the wing of protection intrinsic to his nature. They performed as the team of yesteryear, down to the inane conversations about absurd subjects, including why pop music had taken a turn for the crappy. ("Where did all the boybands go?" "BSB got married, so the fantasizing is, like, over, and ever since Justin went solo, it's just been 'the rest of 'N Sync.' Duh!")
In short, they succeeded. Everything fell exactly into place; round pegs found round holes.
However, as their plane hit the tarmac, all laughter ceased. Smiles inverted. Ease and grace morphed into artifice and disguise. Tears welled. He descended into her awaiting arms, and she descended into her empty apartment and her equally empty bed. The Fates flipped their coin, and the next day at work, their compatibility dipped into the negatives as they avoided each other at every possible turn. His teeter-totter fell flat on the wood chips without her for balance; she wandered into successful but highly unfulfilling oblivion without him for guidance.
After the mission, it was like taking those perfectly satisfying round pegs from before and trying to squash them into square holes.
Hence the duality, and hence her problem.
Yes, his hand slowly massaging her lower calf felt wondrous at the moment, but it would make the following night alone in a cold bed that much worse.
Vaughn fastened the tape and retook his former position against the side of the van. Their gazes locked for a full moment before they mutually broke their bond, and the two remained in pregnant but amicable silence throughout the duration of the journey home.
"This is unacceptable!" Dixon spat, pounding his fist on one of the glass tables.
Sydney jolted unfavourably from her reverie and glanced around nervously, hoping against hope that no one saw her slight doze. But Vaughn, Lauren, and Marshall stared at Dixon with respectful caution, and if Weiss or her father saw her, neither let it on. 'Maybe I should grow bangs. Then I could sleep in briefings and no one would notice.'
As soon as Vaughn and Sydney landed on the secret stretch of runway LAX reserved for the CIA, they immediately sped to the Joint Task Force Centre on Director Dixon's command. Jack met them at the door and took his daughter aside, throwing an obvious look of disdain at Vaughn and Lauren as they trod off in the opposite direction. He had urged her to tell him everything, any minute detail that could indicate the identity of the mole. Dixon, he told her, was on a veritable rampage. Five out of the last five missions had been compromised in one form or another, and out of that only three had actually succeeded in the slightest. Tonight, she could have been killed, he reasoned, eerily reminiscent of Vaughn. This mole—
"—Has to be found! This abysmal mission record reflects poorly on all of us from Director of Central Intelligence on down, especially on a branch as large as this one." Dixon paused as he stopped pacing and stood beside the large monitor. Suddenly, he sighed in defeat and shoved one hand into his pants' pockets, leaning against the screen slightly. "I hate to do this, but the order passed down from Langley about ten minutes after your plane took off from Lima. Everyone who has been working in this office since Sydney's reinstatement is being subpoenaed by Washington. Jack, as a Senior Agent, you will assemble a team and collaborate with the FBI, the Department of Homeland Security, and the NSC to determine the identity of our mole. Lauren, as our NSC liaison, you are automatically in our envoy. Now, as for the rest of you—"
"Sorry, Mr. Dixon, but none of that is necessary." In unison, everyone's heads swivelled to face the doorway. There stood Special Forces Director Kendall, his chin and ears still pointy as ever, and his smooth head reflecting the light from behind him. He smiled coldly. Jack surprisingly limited his disdain to a minimal lift of the corner of his mouth, but Dixon and Vaughn were not as covert; Sydney almost chuckled at their open sneers. "Well thank you, gentlemen, for the warm welcome." Dixon opened his mouth begrudgingly, but Kendall moved out of the doorway and into the hall before he could speak. "Now, if you'll follow me," he began, gesturing down the corridor to the old section of the building, "we'll get down to business."
While Vaughn, Lauren, Weiss, and Marshall all glanced at Dixon for confirmation, Sydney hurried after him, followed shortly by Jack. She caught up with the former Joint Task Force Deputy Director and fell into stride. "What the hell are you doing here?" she questioned sharply, not bothering to check her volume.
Without glancing at her, he answered, "And hello to you, too, Agent Bristow. I've been fine; Nevada's beautiful this time of year, though the dust storms do get a little violent—"
"You're not here to drop another bombshell, are you?" she interrupted, not caring that anyone could overhear their conversation.
He smirked broadly as he opened the door to one of the old conference rooms. "Depends on how you define 'bombshell.'"
Before she had a chance to reply, he ushered everyone into the dimly lit room and shut the door with a final click. The agents arranged themselves spaciously around the boxlike conference table. Kendall strode to the head of the room and motioned for Dixon to take a seat next to Sydney. He did so stiffly and unwillingly.
Kendall planted himself firmly by the large, old-fashioned screen, his larger-than-life presence and haughty Southern grin stifling the room. "It's not a secret y'all have problems," he began, both hands hidden in his pockets. Lauren shifted nervously, not used to Kendall's piercing gaze and overwhelming aura. "These missions are an embarrassment, to say the least. While not every mission has failed per se, any degree of failure is unacceptable to the CIA and the United States of America. The smallest slip could mean the difference between coming home unscathed, without a limb, or in a body bag. And yes, Agents Bristow and Vaughn—" He glared at the two partners, who each jumped up angrily "—I know it's not completely your fault. There's this whole mole business that complicates things. Well, I've got something to remove that complication. Actually, someone."
Suddenly, Sydney felt the distinct impression of being under surveillance. Almost imperceptibly, she straightened up in her seat and began to peer about. Cameras, a given in any corner of the Ops Centre, did not feel like this; a human somewhere within the room stared blatantly at all of them. Her father, not three feet away, seemed to perk up as well, his beady black eyes darting into the dark spaces of the room. Sydney met Vaughn's gaze, and they exchanged an urgent, silent conversation. She knew Kendall noticed their anxiousness, and his chest swelled with pride as he cleared his throat and recalled their attention.
"I met her through my brief stint as an FBI officer. She also worked with MI-5, German Intelligence, French Intelligence, Indian Intelligence, was a Special Forces officer under my predecessor, and worked for the CIA as a double when the KGB was falling apart. Her record is impeccable, practically flawless. She speaks Russian, French, German, Italian, multiple Slavic dialects, Norwegian, Japanese, two Arabic dialects, and one Chinese dialect. The only two people in the United States Intelligence community who speak more languages and dialects are in the same family and happen to be sitting in this room."
Sydney blushed and slightly ducked her head, but Jack continued his excruciating scan of the room.
"She melts into the darkness as if an element of the night. She makes no sound and no mistakes. She is the Shadow."
Over his shoulder, from the unlit recesses behind the large monitor appeared a woman — not much older than Sydney — with waist-length hair that matched her name. She stood just on the outer rim of the farthest light, the weak illumination reflecting off her pallid skin. Thick black and red outlined her crystalline blue eyes, ones that seemed to set ablaze anything they gazed at. The judgemental angle of her chin, strong jaw, and swoop of her cheekbones added years to her age, contradicted by the smooth skin around her heavily made-up eyes. From the waist up, the woman appeared fairly professional in a fitted black blazer over a red and black lacy corset. But then she shifted her weight, and Sydney caught a glimpse of a short pleated skirt paired with large-holed fishnet stockings and the largest boots she had ever seen. The buckles gleamed, light reflecting back up onto the ceiling, and they raised her within an inch of Kendall's height.
She felt Weiss sit up and lean against the table in interest.
Catching Sydney staring at her clothes, the woman stepped completely into the light with one hand planted firmly on her hip. "I'm in a Goth phase right now," She stated smoothly, her voice surprisingly full of rich, deep tone but also edged with lethal venom. "My last phase was pink and frilly. I grew out of it when I was three." Her chin dipped momentarily in respect as her gaze crossed Jack Bristow's, and she completely ignored Weiss and Dixon on her way to Vaughn and Lauren. "You have potential—" She nodded to the former "—but you, on the other hand...I'm going to have fun with you, Barbie." Sydney easily suppressed a giggle at Lauren's obvious indignation: her lips practically disappeared as her cheeks both puffed and flushed at the same time.
Kendall, offering a half-grin to no one in particular, shifted his weight to quell any brewing rebuttal. "That's enough, Shadow. Why don't I leave you alone for a while to get to know each other?"
"No!" Lauren cried, trying desperately to reign in her emotions. "As the NSC liaison to this office and part of the mole task force, I demand to see proof of this woman's credentials."
Looking slightly bemused, Kendall removed one hand from his pocket to run it over his bare head. "Alright. What do you want to know?"
"A name would be a good place to start."
"Shadow will suffice," The woman answered automatically, staring directly at the blonde agent. "If you ever call me anything else, I'll have to kill you." Somehow, Sydney thought she had killed on account of her name. "You may call me either Shadow or Shay. As for my credentials..." She continued striding to the centre of the box-shaped tables and facing Sydney, she recounted Sydney's biographical information from her classified file in Russian and from memory, tacking onto the end, "How's that Lit degree working out for you?
"Still not convinced?" She faced Sydney's father. In a Southern accent, she drawled, "Name: Jonathan Donahue Bristow. Age: Fifty-five. Formerly married to Laura Bristow A.K.A. Irina Derevko A.K.A. 'The Man,' former KGB officer. Native Canadian. Recruited in 1970 and turned double agent inside SD-6 after Arvin Sloane left the CIA to join the Alliance. Left-handed. Has a doctorate. Languages: Russian, Chinese, Spanish, German, various Arabic dialects. Imprisoned for collaborating with Derevko after daughter Sydney Bristow disappeared. Freed after daughter's return.
"Or how 'bout this?" Her voice returned to normal with the question, but it reverted to an Irish accent when she faced Weiss. "On'y reason I'm botherin' spendin' time on ye is 'cuz yer best friends 're Sydney Bristow an' Michael Vaughn. Shot i' th' neck three years ago. Now drinks more 'n an Irishman on Saint Patty's Day."
Weiss did not seem put off in the slightest; rather, he winked slyly at her before she advanced towards Dixon. In German, she gave him the same treatment, congratulating his relatively new position with a brusk, "Glückwünsche übringens."
Dixon nodded politely once, an amused expression lilting his dark eyebrows. His gaze locked with Sydney's for a moment, and he silently expressed his surprise before eagerly turning back to the captivating woman: she glared down at Vaughn. "Finalement! Le deuxième noyau à ce problème." She peppered his biographical information with intimate references to Sydney, but Lauren — who knew but one language — merely reacted because she heard Sydney's name.
"You guys must have some really f***ed up conversations around here." Shay's second hand attached itself to her hip as she addressed a practically quailing Lauren Reed. This time, she adopted a perfect proper English accent. "Name: Lauren Reed. Kept her last name after marrying Michael Vaughn. Daughter of Senator Reed, who just happens to oversee the appropriations committee for the CIA. Her father classified most of her records as Omega-17, but I have my ways. NSC desk agent because stuffy ole Daddy didn't want her breaking a nail while defending her country. Apparently fancies out-of-style neck scarves, the roots of her hair, and really bad British accents. I'm sure this kind of atrocity takes practice, dear, so I congratulate you on time well spent. Parents live on a farm in Virginia. Too bad those Southern yankees couldn't rub off on her. And, judging by the way her eyes are bulging, she probably feels overwhelmed and inadequate next to all the good talent in the room. Well, you should, darling."
She paused and straightened to her full height, crossing her arms over her chest in triumph. In her normal voice, she stated, "How's that for credentials? Or... Gjør De hører mere? Ik ben zeker er zijn andere talen die u interesseren. Jamais vá a Brasil? Posso estar a mão aí, também."
"Alright, that's enough, Shay," Kendall lazily interjected, one eye on the increasingly red Agent Reed. Without deterring her gaze, Shay retreated to Kendall's side and remained with her arms crossed and chin uplifted. Sydney hid a smile behind her fist as Lauren sunk even further into her chair, and Weiss clamored to catch the strange agent's eye. "Shadow will be leading an independent investigation into the mole, so I have given her clearance to any records she could possibly need. I hope she meets with the same accommodations by each of you." Kendall glared directly at Jack, who returned it with matching ferocity. "She will also accompany you on any missions she deems necessary. Got it? Good. You're dismissed."
The noise level maintained as the agents rose and exited the room in groups; only Dixon remained behind with Kendall and Shadow to discuss logistics. Weiss and Sydney left together but arrived at the door at the same moment as Lauren and Vaughn. Sydney and Vaughn's gazes lingered for a moment before he let her and Weiss pass in front of them.
"What the hell was that?" Weiss asked, tone a mixture of awe and indignation.
Sydney pretended to tend to a loose hem in order to avert her eyes. "Vaughn and I...kind of exchanged words on the mission—"
"Not that, Princess Other Woman," he scoffed, rolling his eyes. They reached her desk, and she collapsed into her seat as he perched on the corner. "That Shadow chick. What do you think of her?"
A small smile lilted her lips as she began packing up for home. "Well, since she seems to dislike Lauren...She's my type of person."
"That's sexy," Weiss moaned. Sydney groaned and slapped her friend's arm. He held up a hand and defended, "Hold on. Let Weiss have his moment. Oh Lord. Merry Christmas!"
She slapped him again and began shutting down her computer, shuffling pencils, and filing papers. Pausing in thought for a moment, she reasoned, "But seriously. This... Shadow seems like an interesting character. She's definitely great at linguistics, but...I don't know. If she's a friend of Kendall's, can we really trust her?"
Weiss seemed to completely ignore her. Instead, he stared in the direction of the conference room. Shadow, Kendall, and Dixon exited, and the men led her to a bare metal desk — void of even a computer — and inaudibly briefed her on odds and ends. Weiss vibrated with happiness. "She has a desk by me! A desk! By me! There really is a God! I need to start preparing..."
Sydney shook her head and rubbed her forehead with her palm. "I need to get myself real friends."
"At least you're smiling again." Weiss grinned genuinely as she ducked her head, stuffing a folder into her briefcase. He stood up and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I'll give you a ride home. Same parking spot. I'll meet you there in ten."
She nodded gratefully at him. Reclaiming her coat from where she threw it before leaving on that night's mission, she stopped in mid-stride; someone was eyeing her carefully. Continuing on, she donned the coat and took up her briefcase. When she turned around, Shadow leaned against the desk behind Sydney's.
"You knew I was watching you," Shadow said guardedly, "yet you did nothing. Why?"
Sydney shrugged. "I don't know. I don't deem you a threat."
"That's where you're wrong," she contradicted, pushing off the desk and circling to the front of Sydney's. "Everyone is a threat. Strangers are threats. Your co-workers are threats. Your friends are threats. Your lover is a threat. Your husband, wife, next-door neighbour is a threat. Hell, even you are a threat to yourself. The only true friends are dead people and memories." She lifted her chin imperceptibly and looked at Sydney out of the corner of her eye. Sydney immediately felt uncomfortable on the level of seeing Vaughn and Lauren... She barely stopped herself from shuddering. Suddenly, the strange agent's face broke into a large, genuine smile as she extended her hand over the desk. "I can't wait to finally work with the famous Sydney Bristow. I'm sure we'll learn a lot from each other."
They shook hands, and Shadow sashayed away towards Vaughn, her large boots clunking on the granite floor. Sydney merely stared after her confusedly, her jaw slightly slackened.
'Well. This should be fun.'TBC...
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Winter angst! This is a PIP, so I'll (hopefully) be on a set posting schedule. Thanks for reading, and hope you enjoyed!
:D Becky, the Dream Writer 4 Life