DISCLAIMER: The OC's in this fic are mine. James Clayton and any other references to the original movie are the property ofTouchstone Pictures, and are being used without permission, for a non commercial venture.
Ladies and Gentlemen, the Dreamer is back...
With the biggest Gary-Stew ever created!
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You can't trust anything, and nothing is as it seems.
Two lessons that James Douglas Clayton had learned the hard way. But he had learnt them. Learned from the best. Learned from Walter Burke, the man who had recruited him into the CIA. Recruited him, trained him, and almost turned him. Almost turned him into a scapegoat for a dozen or so bullets to hit.
Only James was smarter than Walter. He would never have realised it if he hadn't been so confused about his role, but he was the man to fool the sharpest pair of eyes in the CIA. 25 years of CIA service, and Burke had been fooled by the newest kid on the block. The agent so new, the CIA were ready to shoot him on sight. NOC? Nah, he was a recruiter now. He had active mission status on occassion, but he was still learning too. Still learning a lot.
Like, how a twenty-one year old kid from Seattle was graduating top of this year's Information Tech and Engineering class at MIT, with a secondary degree in Mathematics and Encryptology to partner his top of the class degree. How this kid, Richard Sharpe, spoke English, French, German, Spanish, Urdu, and South African like a native. How he was apparently the perfect student. Straight A's, perfect punctuality, 100 per cent attendance. The perfect basis for a CIA agent.
James Clayton's name was on the alumni list at MIT. Not the famous one, but he was listed as an alumni nonetheless. The CIA didn't get you fame. Burke had told everyone that. You didn't join the CIA for cash, it wouldn't get you laid, and if you saved the world doing your job then you never got to take the medal home. You were a secret agent. Emphasis on the secret.
Richard Sharpe was born in California. Lived in the States til he was three, then Pakistan, India, South Africa and Germany. He'd never lived in France, but apparently his mother, a Spaniard, had taught him French and Spanish as a child. That was a lot of languages.
So, a multilingual, punctual, straight A student. There had to be something the kid couldn't do, right?
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If there was, it wasn't mixing drinks. Apparently, Richard had taken James' job at the union bar. And when it came to mixing cocktails, the kid was on fire. If he ever got his hands on any kind of weapon, he'd be deadly.
Richard Sharpe, intellectual extraordinaire, was a born agent if ever James saw one. He had a way with people that meant he looked at home in any company, and a way with words and cards, amongst other things that made him the perfect conman. An actor of the highest degree. He was earning extra cash by playing card tricks with the customers behind his boss's back. Or, possibly, giving the boss a cut.
Then there was his physique. If there was such a thing as a perfect quarterback figure, Richard Sharpe probably had it. He was broad across the shoulders, but slim at the waist. His muscles were well toned, but not overly so. All of his muscles. He gave the impression that he worked out whenever he had a free second, but if he worked out it wasn't at the on-campus gym, or in his student flat. James knew that much. Sharpe didn't have gym membership anywhere.
And to finish off, the face. Recogniseable, but easy to pass by, unless you know what you were looking for. His blonde hair was so light as to be almost white, crowning his head like a halo when illuminated from behind. In contrast, his eyes were a deep blue, the colour of a stormy sea, and extremly observent. They appeared to flicker from person to person, while still looking at the customer he happened to be serving. He had a winning smile, and James was already deciding how to recruit him. Richard had no family; he was an orphan now, his parents having died soon after thirteen year old Richard had moved back to the States with them. An open and closed case, Richard didn't know about the CIA links to Matthew and Jessica Sharpe, and wasn't the conspiracy theorist James was. Yet.
So, how to bait the best thing the CIA had seen all year? That was the question...
Ladies and Gentlemen, the Dreamer is back...
With the biggest Gary-Stew ever created!
-----------------------------------------------------------
You can't trust anything, and nothing is as it seems.
Two lessons that James Douglas Clayton had learned the hard way. But he had learnt them. Learned from the best. Learned from Walter Burke, the man who had recruited him into the CIA. Recruited him, trained him, and almost turned him. Almost turned him into a scapegoat for a dozen or so bullets to hit.
Only James was smarter than Walter. He would never have realised it if he hadn't been so confused about his role, but he was the man to fool the sharpest pair of eyes in the CIA. 25 years of CIA service, and Burke had been fooled by the newest kid on the block. The agent so new, the CIA were ready to shoot him on sight. NOC? Nah, he was a recruiter now. He had active mission status on occassion, but he was still learning too. Still learning a lot.
Like, how a twenty-one year old kid from Seattle was graduating top of this year's Information Tech and Engineering class at MIT, with a secondary degree in Mathematics and Encryptology to partner his top of the class degree. How this kid, Richard Sharpe, spoke English, French, German, Spanish, Urdu, and South African like a native. How he was apparently the perfect student. Straight A's, perfect punctuality, 100 per cent attendance. The perfect basis for a CIA agent.
James Clayton's name was on the alumni list at MIT. Not the famous one, but he was listed as an alumni nonetheless. The CIA didn't get you fame. Burke had told everyone that. You didn't join the CIA for cash, it wouldn't get you laid, and if you saved the world doing your job then you never got to take the medal home. You were a secret agent. Emphasis on the secret.
Richard Sharpe was born in California. Lived in the States til he was three, then Pakistan, India, South Africa and Germany. He'd never lived in France, but apparently his mother, a Spaniard, had taught him French and Spanish as a child. That was a lot of languages.
So, a multilingual, punctual, straight A student. There had to be something the kid couldn't do, right?
-----------------------------------------------------------------
If there was, it wasn't mixing drinks. Apparently, Richard had taken James' job at the union bar. And when it came to mixing cocktails, the kid was on fire. If he ever got his hands on any kind of weapon, he'd be deadly.
Richard Sharpe, intellectual extraordinaire, was a born agent if ever James saw one. He had a way with people that meant he looked at home in any company, and a way with words and cards, amongst other things that made him the perfect conman. An actor of the highest degree. He was earning extra cash by playing card tricks with the customers behind his boss's back. Or, possibly, giving the boss a cut.
Then there was his physique. If there was such a thing as a perfect quarterback figure, Richard Sharpe probably had it. He was broad across the shoulders, but slim at the waist. His muscles were well toned, but not overly so. All of his muscles. He gave the impression that he worked out whenever he had a free second, but if he worked out it wasn't at the on-campus gym, or in his student flat. James knew that much. Sharpe didn't have gym membership anywhere.
And to finish off, the face. Recogniseable, but easy to pass by, unless you know what you were looking for. His blonde hair was so light as to be almost white, crowning his head like a halo when illuminated from behind. In contrast, his eyes were a deep blue, the colour of a stormy sea, and extremly observent. They appeared to flicker from person to person, while still looking at the customer he happened to be serving. He had a winning smile, and James was already deciding how to recruit him. Richard had no family; he was an orphan now, his parents having died soon after thirteen year old Richard had moved back to the States with them. An open and closed case, Richard didn't know about the CIA links to Matthew and Jessica Sharpe, and wasn't the conspiracy theorist James was. Yet.
So, how to bait the best thing the CIA had seen all year? That was the question...