Title: Isabel's Song
Author: AlexJ
Summary: While I sort out my 'epic', I thought I'd try my hand at some not so typical angst, could sort of be considered a spin off to VUV but can be read separately.
Timeline: AU, but will stick pretty close to the show
Disclaimer: Don't own anything connected to Alias
Feedback Gratefully accepted feeling kind of down because I accidentally deleted my 'baby' so cheer me up =)
AN: A lot darker then my previous work simply because I wanted to try it. Contains references to Russian Orphanages. My dedication is to every child who suffers in this troubled world.
P.S. As always to my betas 'GG' and Ducks
***
Prologue
Poetic justice is nothing but a sentimental lie.
Russia: unknown location out Moscow, 1982
"Miss Acarlin?'
Dr. Nicholas Kiln had seen many mothers in his time. Quite a few of them resembled the composed woman in front of him, graceful with the tall silhouette of a born dancer. Nothing truly surprised him anymore; everyone who came through the doors was there for the same purpose, be it the shunted child of an official or the sagging mother of seven. Despite the massive gulf that had doubtlessly separated them all their lives, they were united in this.
Still, he felt the stirring of curiosity.
Regardless of their origin, they all looked more or less the same, or a variation of a common theme. All were tired, although nowadays that was countrywide. Some were pale and gaunt, while others, momentarily warmed by surging emotion, flushed. A few tried to appear chilling with disdainful relief, but Nicholas had become a reluctant expert at reading the emotion behind the malnourished features.
It was usual for them to be accompanied by a male to guarantee the offending woman wasn't gripped by a sudden sentiment.
The woman in front of him fit into none of his subconscious categories.
She was tall, effortlessly graceful. Her features lacked timeworn lines poorly concealed by cheap makeup. Under nondescript garments, his clinical training noted athletically toned limbs. The brown eyes were emotionless. The feelings weren't concealed; they weren't there.
The veteran doctor cleared a suddenly dry throat. "Kara Acarlin?" by way of classification. Receiving only a curt nod, he passed the flimsy clipboard across the desk.
"You are aware that you are terminating all rights in regarded to this matter?" he asked with monotonous formally. The rights were rarely heeded or wanted; a verbal agreement seemed to make it more real, but the last thing the under funded, cash strapped, barely legal facility needed was another lawsuit.
"Yes"
"Then you are free to go"
Long, distinctly feminine fingers didn't shake as they signed the form. Unlike the others, she made no noise as she left without looking back.
***
The sound of the side door to the exam room opening jerked the oddly dazed man out of reverie. Sister Angelina, the matron who was also the only nurse strolled in, her high heals clicking sharply on the chipped tiles.
"Looks healthy," she observed, her accent thick and heavy. "It's a good thing too, she'll go quickly. We can't afford more."
What she meant was that children without obvious health problems got adopted faster. The ones that didn't bang themselves against the wall, or scream when touched. If they had only enough 'orphan' qualities to be portrayed on "20/20" they stood a chance. Nicholas nodded briefly, scanning over her meticulous report as he did so.
Sex: Female
Weight: 6 pounds
Heart/Lungs: Good
Organs: Good
Abuse/ Drugs: None
Birth marks: none distinguished
"Did the mother leave anything?" he asked, brow still furrowed over the more specific medical details.
Angelina was stocking the round trolley and she did not look up from filling a syringe. "Yes, nothing much, it's in there with her." She bent down to the drugs cupboard, murmuring, "It's a shame"
Nicholas entered the exam room quietly. The only sound was the soft beep of the newly installed heart monitor. It was the only piece of technology in the room, proudly sponsored by some nameless senator wanting to increases his charity profile. The light was dim in accordance with the faulty generator, and the nearly permanent smell of antiseptic was heavy. Walking over to the cot in the centre of the room, the doctor peered inside.
For some reason, he had suddenly developed the notion that the child of the remarkable woman would look different somehow, special. The infant looked like all the hundreds he had treated. Small and wrinkled showing the earliest signs of hair. Around her tightly clenched fist was a plastic bracelet that showed the room she would be placed in: 2B, the ward for the healthy children who needed nothing but the normal tending.
He caught sight of a small pouch on the set of drawers. Picking it up carefully, the doctor tipped the contents onto his calloused palm. A sliver bracelet shone in the distorted sunlight. Angelina was wrong. Very few people he saw could afford something of such quality.
"Jacqueline" was engraved on the flipside.
So now the baby was special, at least to a certain extent.
She had name.
**
Laura wanted to cry.
That in its self wasn't unusual. Laura Bristow was the overly sentimental professor, fond of Shakespearean drama. If she existed anymore, Laura Bristow would be sobbing. If she existed anymore, Laura Bristow would never have left her child in a remote orphanage in Russia. If she existed anymore, Laura wouldn't be able think, her brilliant mind clouded by pointless emotion.
It was a good thing she didn't exist anymore.
Irina wasn't immune to crying. She had cried when Alexander forced her to learn seduction techniques at fifteen. She sobbed after killing her first innocent, a twelve-year old son of a diplomat. Most recently, she had experienced incapacitating pain after saying good night to her daughter for the very last time.
What was different about this situation was that, for the first time in her life, Irina's heart was breaking of its own accord.