Title: The Assassin

Author: Sarandipity

Relations – S/V with a little S/S in the future.

Distribution: FF.net and SD.1

Disclaimer: I don't own Alias, I'm just blindly obsessed.

A/N: This has been in my mind since the Indicator, but I haven't gotten around to it. Finally a month ago I started to write it. I'm half way done, and now finally I have writer's block. Also, if anyone wants to beta a 30,000 word story, that isn't even done yet, hell you be my god until I die.

Summery: The school was supposed to bring spies to the CIA after their education. It was a relvotionary plan that even the Russians wanted. Then it fell apart.

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Chapter One – Mission XJK835- Failed.

She ran across the roof, her heavy Kevlar and gear gave her more weight that she was keen on. She moved like a fast cougar, dark and fleeting around the steam of the air conditioner.

She held her gun in her sweaty palms gripped her gun in her hand, ready to shoot. The voices came like a large thunder in her ear telling her to retreat, to let him go, it was becoming too public to continue. She refused, this was her mission and she didn't fail.

"Freeze on behalf of the United States Government!" She shouted, thinking any statement would at least slow him down a tad. "Bitch!" She rebuked as the man began to climb the edges of the side vinyl of the building next to the roof with a courageous jump. She took a deep breath and jumped at his feet, but reaching for the edge of the windowsill.

She shifted her weight, getting her whole body on to the edge. He began climbing to the top, and she scolded by firing warning shots into the air. She reminded herself, how much he was a bitch to handle if they needed him alive.

Suddenly it began to get harder to bring herself onto the edge.

Sweaty palms made her loose her grip on the edge. She was just a few feet from the end and then suddenly her hands, raw and sore from the burns of the rope, she lost her grip sending her seven stories into the pavement below. In that brief second she shifted her weight in the air sending her to a nearby garbage can, and her breath became something that was omitted.

She could feel the pain shooting to her back, knocking the wind out of her. The pain of the sharp cut cans pierce her skin like a rash from the water; she could feel pain everywhere and the smell of rotting fish. The muted sounds of the world was so distant and far, when they came to help her, she stared out to the blue sky and the blistering sun unaware what they intended to do.

 Six months later…

The room was sterile, full of men gorged with greed and malevolence. She doesn't care what or who they worked for, she was a freelancer, barrowed to them for them exploit her intelligence and skill.

The name doesn't mean anything to her, each agency has different vices, and if she sits there and points them out surely she will find virtues for those vices also. Everything has a negative and a positive; she learned that as a child and keeps it in her mind for these types of briefings.

She sits uncomfortable at the least. She could describe many feelings in this ambiance, distant, imprudent, reckless, apprehension, iniquity, and narcissistic. Mostly the feeling of those around her, but the most that she is feeling was emptiness.

She does many of these briefings, a chance to catch up on how everything is going as successfully as it could. But she never saw as much dull men than a strip joint. She drew in a large breath and looked again at one of the senators who were going over Mission XJK835. She despises that mission because that was the first mission she failed.

"Many see that you got yourself personally involved in this, in your statement it describes that you were, and I quote 'In no way I was personally implicated but generally. It was only frustration that gave an image of dependence with the Mission, and not the broad exertion that I was possessing." She does not blink at this, those was her true words.

But the question was not if they were hers but how did it resolve the failed mission. "Quite a nice statement there, Miss Doe, can you tell us how that image was produced if it was at all produced?"

"I see how that is relevant with today's meeting." Miss Doe tells them all. They sit in disbelief that she does not answer, especially under oath. 

"It has all the relevance with today's meeting, Miss Doe." She swears under her breath and begins twiddling with her fingers.

"The reason of the image is personal, but not the mission itself." She says.

"So you lied?"

"No, you asked me of my personal attachments to the mission but not the reason behind it." They nod and waited for her words to speak again. She doesn't like this seat as much as she remembers last time she was here.

She doesn't want to be here as much as a child wants presents all year round. She wants as much as a child wants candy to get out of this chair now. At this moment she wants to leave, but she knows they weren't going to let her leave until she tells them.

"You know about my upbringing, this was what I aspired to work for." She rolls her eyes.

"The mission?" He clears his throat in misunderstanding.

"No, the CIA." She clears for him.

"Explain."

"I'm not suppose to exist, the only place where I have a name is here. Surly you understand the longing a woman would want for someone to call her real name than Jane Doe. The last person who knew my name was killed when I was ten. I lived in an illusion, Senator. I still live in an illusion, anyone would understand." She glares at her hands, knowing they want her to continue with those thoughts. "No one can know how I feel. I was secluded from the real world for ten years, then suddenly I was pulled out from the illusion and it was a large culture shock." Miss Doe tells them.

"You surely blame your father?" Senator McClain asks.

"My father wanted to protect me after my mother's death, he took away the world so I wouldn't get hurt. If he didn't do that I would be dead. I thank him for all that he has done. There has been times when I would liked of grew up in a normal setting, with friends with an IQ under 140, to grew up like a teenager. Surely I blame him for a unnatural childhood, but I was denied that right from the first day of my life." She tells them.

"Every human has a natural right for a life." One man tells her.

"There is so many lies in that statement. I have two natural rights in my life, to give life and destroy it. You wanted me to do that, than you tell me that I cannot terminate him. You cannot have it two ways, like myself."

"He was a enemy who had valuable information about the Rambaldi pieces." He counters.

"And very likely that you would get anything true from him. Peter Nightingale was a member of the revolutionary front, a valuable affiliate with B-rate training compared to mine. There was no chance in hell you were going to get anything but a few German curses." She tells him. With a brief pause to review her statement she continues. "Rambaldi is just a fraud, anyway I wouldn't even make him break with the training I had."

"And your education?" McClain probes.

"You know as well as I know where I was educated."

"This academy you went to, where was it?"

"Even to you that is classified." She tells him.

"In just a brief curiosity, at the academy, did they all call you by your number…Jane Doe 447?"

"Those numbers are just for CIA documents, we were called our names at school. But once we enter Intelligence, we don't exist anymore. We are given our full Alias after graduation which we must use."

"Your alias?"

"Catherine Helen Jones is my public alias, but for document briefing you must use Jane Doe."

"And the populace of Jane and John Does, made by this academy?"

"That's classified?" She returns. He settles down with the folder, bringing the glass of water to his lips and taking a long sip as he examines the stature of Jane Doe.

Her long chestnut hair, the built but feminine structure of her body, the slight curves of her waist, the porcelain skin of her hands, and the deep bone structure of her face that resembled the earlier pictures of her mother. They know about her childhood, her parents past, but not her adolescence. And they desperately want that knowledge.

The door creaks open and came inside an old man in a disgustingly green suit with reddish fading hair. She glimpses up in surprise; she thought the doors were locked. She could have just walked out when she wanted to.

"Excuse me, I need to see Miss Doe." He tells the men.

"Impossible, we are not finished." McClain says.

"It is in her contract that she cannot be exploited twice in the same affair, simple constitutional rights." He tells them. She knows that was true, but she knows they had the power of martial law. They could do what they want when they wanted.

"I have the power to override that right."

"But not her contract between ACI and CIA," He tells him, he moved for Miss Doe to come with him while McClain began to call the Director Board.

She gave a warn look around the room as she exited. "What is going on?" She asks. He did not reply but kept his hand on the middle of her back as he led her down the hallway. He had a frail look in his old age but one of the very familiar faces she knows though.

She asks him again but he did not respond, soon she was thinking that he did not speak English. "Why didn't I stay in the meeting?" She glances at him as he escorted her down the large hallways observing his intense eyebrow twitching with every question. "You worked there didn't you?" He stops her in the middle of the hallway, bringing her to the side. "After the accident." She tells him.

"It was a long time ago, that was no accident, you were only a child and I only worked with your father during that time. I owed your father a favor and this is it." He opens the door to his right and almost pushed her in.

The man sat up, buttoning his blazer and nodding for him to close the door behind her. She stares at the man in front of her, a real CIA patriot. CIA emblems all around, a mini flag in a coffee cup with his pencils, a yo-yo on his desk, a hockey puck next to it, many law texts piled behind him in a small stack.

She walks to his desk and extends her hand to shake with his, a nice tight grip he commented. She didn't smile but sat down in the chairs behind the desk.

"I remember you, you're Agent Vaughn."

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