Amontillado
Elyse
Disclaimer: I wish. I wish. I owned Vaughn. But I don't. So I'm just borrowing from JJ and his gang! Ooooh, and the general idea came from Edgar Allan Poe's story The Cask of Amontillado, which is excellent!
Feedback: Tell me how much you hated it at, umm, anyone know Britney Spears' e-mail address? LOL! Nah. tell me what you thought of it either here or kdirectorate@hotmail.com
Archiving: I wish. But if you want to use it, hey, tell me first and it'll be all good!
Yeah another one parter, deal with it!
Amontillado
If you asked Michael Vaughn what was the first thing that came to mind about the date of March 2nd, you wouldn't receive a smart aleck 'I don't know' or a gleeful 'That's Dr. Seuss's birthday!' You would probably receive an answer that would make your mind spin in wonderment of that date. Screaming. That's what Michael Vaughn heard. That's what Michael Vaughn remembers.
It wasn't as if that day he had woken up and thought to himself, 'How can I have the worst day possible' or anything. It just turned out to be that way. In fact, he was pretty sure it would be a hell of a good day. The night before firmly planted in his head he made his way into the shower. He could remember every thought that had gone through his head as Sydney had described, at great length, Francie's wedding. And he could remember every emotion from when he brought his lips down to meet hers. And he could remember the way Sydney laughed when an hour her cell phone rang, Will on the other line, wondering where she had gone, and why it had taken her so long. He had watched her walk away, the feathery touch of her lips, the tickling sensation of her hands firmly planted in his mind.
Of course, Francie's wedding and making out for an hour weren't the original plan. They had met to discuss Sydney's next mission, a mission Vaughn couldn't get out of his head. He was going along with her. He wasn't going to be inside kicking ass with her, but he got to be right outside, listening to her every breath through the comm-link. Since there weren't any other CIA agents going, and Dixon would be in his own station, listening through the SD-6 comm-link, he was pretty sure that Sydney and he were going to be having a conversation that didn't stick to the protocol the CIA had set up.
The mission was simple, if nothing. Go to Ochamchira, Georgia, grab the laptop and codes, and get the hell out. Of course, she'd have to give the CIA the real laptop and codes and give SD-6 a fraud. That was why Vaughn was there, because lugging around two laptops was slightly suspicious in this field of occupation. Sydney was to make it to him first, give him the originals and receive the fakes. An in and out procedure. Or so they thought.
Vaughn and Sydney were deeply immersed in a risqué conversation when he first noticed something was wrong. Sydney paused in the middle of her sentence, then starting up again. That's when he heard it. A muffled scream, a loud shot, and yelling in an incomprehensible language. And then he heard the worst thing of all. He heard Sydney shout his name and then fall to the ground, her earpiece banging against the ground.
Vaughn didn't want to make a scene out of it. He new Dixon had surveillance, and a man hopping out of a parked van and walking into the house would draw suspicion, if Dixon didn't draw his gun first. Vaughn knew SD-6's motto was 'Shoot now, ask questions later.' Vaughn had faith in Sydney; she had worked her way out of every tangible hindrance, made her way out of the most inevitable situations. He knew he would just have to give it time. And that's what he did.
Four hours later was when Vaughn first realized it. The black van, so coyly parked against the curb had disappeared. Doing a perimeter scan he found out there were no other vehicles in the area. Knowing that if Sydney had managed to escape she would come to him first, he had no choice but to go in. SD-6 had obviously given up. But he wasn't about to. No, he was going to find her, if it meant killing every person in the building.
Mazes of stairwells and corridors left Vaughn feeling helpless. He realized why he hadn't crossed the path of a guard yet. The area was so expansive they let their prey wander aimlessly until they made their way into the wrong area, and then they pounced. Vaughn realized he had obviously made a wrong turn when he hit a dark, unlit, musty area. The dust was so thick in places he thought it was snow, saved for a cool day. And that's when he heard it.
The screaming was loud, panicked, and was coming from the very back of the basement. Struggling to make his way past antique assortments, furniture and books, mirrors and beds. When he found Syd, he was going to make sure the owner didn't charge admission. the basement was a history museum in its self! Finally he made his way to the back wall, where he thought the screaming was coming from. Disappointed in finding a dead end, he turned around knocking a stack of books to the ground. The dust rising in plumes made him sneeze uncontrollably. He was taken aback when the screaming resumed, this time pounding tagged along with it.
Running his hand along the wall, looking for a passageway, he was surprised to find no door, no window, not even a hole in the wall.
"Syd? Is that you?"
A muffled yes answered his question.
"I'm gonna find the entrance, you just wait sweetie. Everything will be all right."
He heard a pitiful cry resound from behind the wall and he began to search again. Pulling his hand away from the wall he was shocked at the sight of them. They were covered with cement. And that's when it hit him. There was no entrance. They had built a wall in front of her. And depending on the size of it, she could die of suffocation within the day. Trying not to panic, he thought over a plan to get her out.
"Sydney baby, how big is the room your in? Are you comfortable in there? I'm gonna get you out, you just have to be patient, okay sweetheart?"
"It's not very big Vaughn, but I don't see a door or an entrance at all. I'm scared; I don't like it in here. It's so dark, so cold. Get me out," her voice came, slightly distorted, cracking when she reached the end. And he knew, he was going to act quickly. Thinking over what he planned to do, he suddenly was aware of the walkie-talkie attached to his belt loop. After calling the CIA and asking for immediate attention, he turned back to the job at hand.
Four hours, and three bricks had been whittled out. Sydney was no longer talking, the air becoming steadily harder to breath. It was like climbing Mount Everest without a gas mask. The less oxygen with each breath, the harder it is to think, to see, even to perform vital tasks. He heard her gasp, he heard her wheeze, he heard her cough. But when he thought back about it, the thing he remembered most was the scream. And it wasn't her scream. It was his own scream, when thirty-seven hours later they finally succeeded in getting her out. The blue lips, painted in his mind forever, was what made him scream.
They had had her on life support for two days, her breath being forced into her. The blue of her lips never receded, and on that day, in that hour, he felt her hand go limp. And he felt the world shatter. He gave the blue lips a final kiss, and he felt the cold of her seep through to him. And he would never be warm again.
The End
Disclaimer: I wish. I wish. I owned Vaughn. But I don't. So I'm just borrowing from JJ and his gang! Ooooh, and the general idea came from Edgar Allan Poe's story The Cask of Amontillado, which is excellent!
Feedback: Tell me how much you hated it at, umm, anyone know Britney Spears' e-mail address? LOL! Nah. tell me what you thought of it either here or kdirectorate@hotmail.com
Archiving: I wish. But if you want to use it, hey, tell me first and it'll be all good!
Yeah another one parter, deal with it!
Amontillado
If you asked Michael Vaughn what was the first thing that came to mind about the date of March 2nd, you wouldn't receive a smart aleck 'I don't know' or a gleeful 'That's Dr. Seuss's birthday!' You would probably receive an answer that would make your mind spin in wonderment of that date. Screaming. That's what Michael Vaughn heard. That's what Michael Vaughn remembers.
It wasn't as if that day he had woken up and thought to himself, 'How can I have the worst day possible' or anything. It just turned out to be that way. In fact, he was pretty sure it would be a hell of a good day. The night before firmly planted in his head he made his way into the shower. He could remember every thought that had gone through his head as Sydney had described, at great length, Francie's wedding. And he could remember every emotion from when he brought his lips down to meet hers. And he could remember the way Sydney laughed when an hour her cell phone rang, Will on the other line, wondering where she had gone, and why it had taken her so long. He had watched her walk away, the feathery touch of her lips, the tickling sensation of her hands firmly planted in his mind.
Of course, Francie's wedding and making out for an hour weren't the original plan. They had met to discuss Sydney's next mission, a mission Vaughn couldn't get out of his head. He was going along with her. He wasn't going to be inside kicking ass with her, but he got to be right outside, listening to her every breath through the comm-link. Since there weren't any other CIA agents going, and Dixon would be in his own station, listening through the SD-6 comm-link, he was pretty sure that Sydney and he were going to be having a conversation that didn't stick to the protocol the CIA had set up.
The mission was simple, if nothing. Go to Ochamchira, Georgia, grab the laptop and codes, and get the hell out. Of course, she'd have to give the CIA the real laptop and codes and give SD-6 a fraud. That was why Vaughn was there, because lugging around two laptops was slightly suspicious in this field of occupation. Sydney was to make it to him first, give him the originals and receive the fakes. An in and out procedure. Or so they thought.
Vaughn and Sydney were deeply immersed in a risqué conversation when he first noticed something was wrong. Sydney paused in the middle of her sentence, then starting up again. That's when he heard it. A muffled scream, a loud shot, and yelling in an incomprehensible language. And then he heard the worst thing of all. He heard Sydney shout his name and then fall to the ground, her earpiece banging against the ground.
Vaughn didn't want to make a scene out of it. He new Dixon had surveillance, and a man hopping out of a parked van and walking into the house would draw suspicion, if Dixon didn't draw his gun first. Vaughn knew SD-6's motto was 'Shoot now, ask questions later.' Vaughn had faith in Sydney; she had worked her way out of every tangible hindrance, made her way out of the most inevitable situations. He knew he would just have to give it time. And that's what he did.
Four hours later was when Vaughn first realized it. The black van, so coyly parked against the curb had disappeared. Doing a perimeter scan he found out there were no other vehicles in the area. Knowing that if Sydney had managed to escape she would come to him first, he had no choice but to go in. SD-6 had obviously given up. But he wasn't about to. No, he was going to find her, if it meant killing every person in the building.
Mazes of stairwells and corridors left Vaughn feeling helpless. He realized why he hadn't crossed the path of a guard yet. The area was so expansive they let their prey wander aimlessly until they made their way into the wrong area, and then they pounced. Vaughn realized he had obviously made a wrong turn when he hit a dark, unlit, musty area. The dust was so thick in places he thought it was snow, saved for a cool day. And that's when he heard it.
The screaming was loud, panicked, and was coming from the very back of the basement. Struggling to make his way past antique assortments, furniture and books, mirrors and beds. When he found Syd, he was going to make sure the owner didn't charge admission. the basement was a history museum in its self! Finally he made his way to the back wall, where he thought the screaming was coming from. Disappointed in finding a dead end, he turned around knocking a stack of books to the ground. The dust rising in plumes made him sneeze uncontrollably. He was taken aback when the screaming resumed, this time pounding tagged along with it.
Running his hand along the wall, looking for a passageway, he was surprised to find no door, no window, not even a hole in the wall.
"Syd? Is that you?"
A muffled yes answered his question.
"I'm gonna find the entrance, you just wait sweetie. Everything will be all right."
He heard a pitiful cry resound from behind the wall and he began to search again. Pulling his hand away from the wall he was shocked at the sight of them. They were covered with cement. And that's when it hit him. There was no entrance. They had built a wall in front of her. And depending on the size of it, she could die of suffocation within the day. Trying not to panic, he thought over a plan to get her out.
"Sydney baby, how big is the room your in? Are you comfortable in there? I'm gonna get you out, you just have to be patient, okay sweetheart?"
"It's not very big Vaughn, but I don't see a door or an entrance at all. I'm scared; I don't like it in here. It's so dark, so cold. Get me out," her voice came, slightly distorted, cracking when she reached the end. And he knew, he was going to act quickly. Thinking over what he planned to do, he suddenly was aware of the walkie-talkie attached to his belt loop. After calling the CIA and asking for immediate attention, he turned back to the job at hand.
Four hours, and three bricks had been whittled out. Sydney was no longer talking, the air becoming steadily harder to breath. It was like climbing Mount Everest without a gas mask. The less oxygen with each breath, the harder it is to think, to see, even to perform vital tasks. He heard her gasp, he heard her wheeze, he heard her cough. But when he thought back about it, the thing he remembered most was the scream. And it wasn't her scream. It was his own scream, when thirty-seven hours later they finally succeeded in getting her out. The blue lips, painted in his mind forever, was what made him scream.
They had had her on life support for two days, her breath being forced into her. The blue of her lips never receded, and on that day, in that hour, he felt her hand go limp. And he felt the world shatter. He gave the blue lips a final kiss, and he felt the cold of her seep through to him. And he would never be warm again.
The End