|
Technicolor Splendor by Rach PG-13 * * * * * * * * * Boarding the plane is a blur. With his hand gripping the black steel handle of his small (although undeniably well-made and expensive) carry-on bag, he only sees a continuum of flat color. Black to gray to muted shades of red, yellow and blue - faces and tickets and passports - it's all redundant and unimportant. Tweaking his accent (today he's Brendan O'Riley from Dublin), he smiles and exchanges pleasantries with the airline employee (hook nose and heavy eyeliner - unarguably a transvestite) before boarding and settling in his cushy first class seat. He's exhausted and finds himself sighing as his tense back curves into the leather of the wide chair. He nods a semi-friendly greeting to the woman (a young brunette with a confident grin and deplorable fashion sense) who claims the seat next to him. Once the plane takes off, he finally allows himself to close his eyes. Yes, he's tired as hell. Flying around the world and back, carrying out unexpected missions and being held captive - all in the matter of a week and a half. It's definitely not your typical workweek of basic research and straightforward operations. Ah, and let's not forget that insufferable blood transfusion -- what a pain in the ass that turned out to be. But he'd rather forget work (Irina and blue-haired long-lost daughters) for the moment and catch up on some much-needed sleep. Tired as hell but unable to sleep -- the story of his life. He knows exactly what will help him doze off -- in-flight reading. He manages to hold in a snort as he examines the cover of the airline's magazine -- "Istanbul by Night" -- what a riveting cover story. He flips to page 57 to see an attractive if not completely predictable photo of the city and its infamous Blue Mosque at sunset. The corners of his mouth curve into a smirk as his eyes dance over the page, taking in the stale, trite advice on the city's so-called hotspots. "To taste rock n' roll at its Istanbul best, stop by Kemanci, Hayal Kavhesi and Mojo Blues Bar -" he reads, shaking his head. No, no, no, he wants to chastise the author of this horrific piece, you are so sadly mistaken. Those bars are shit - watered-down "Istanbul for tourists" establishments. Even I know that. "I take it you disagree with that article, eh?" an amused voice breaks into his thoughts. "I'm sorry?" he replies, keeping his eyes on the article in an attempt to mask his annoyance. He is not the kind of man who likes (nor can easily tolerate) such unnecessary interruptions. "You've been to Istanbul before?" the woman to his left presses on. "Ohhh, that's a lovely picture." "Hmmm," is all he manages through pursed lips. He feels her edge closer as she reaches across the armrests and points a stubby fingernail at something in the story. "The Cemberlitas Hamami, I've been there." As have I, he thinks, shifting his weight closer to the window, away from this stranger. Would it be asking too much for this woman to actually interpret body language properly? Crossing legs, away from you, yes, that means I do not want to interact with you. No conversation, no small talk, no mention of the weather in Los Angeles, nothing to do with you at all. "Those are Turkish baths, y'know," she continues excitedly. "Yes, I know," he says quietly. He had been there after hours, at two in the morning, cornering a Turkish diplomat who had information vital to Khasinau's operations. The diplomat pleaded ignorance until persuaded to come clean, so to speak. And then with a pull of the trigger, his blood and bits of brain and skull marred the smooth, clean marble of the baths. "You've been there too?" the girl asks, her voice a tad too enthusiastic to be pleasing to the ears. "Wasn't the experience amazing?" Sark bites his lip, keeping his eyes on the magazine. "Amazing is not the word I'd use." Vile, disgusting, necessary - those are words I'd use to express my feelings regarding that particular visit to the baths. "Oh," the girl replies quietly and for a brief, oh-so-lovely moment, he thinks she's finally giving up. Until she takes another breath and presses on with, "Well, then, what word would you use? I mean, I've never met anyone who didn't like the baths --" "Adequate," he interrupts abruptly, not attempting to hide an annoyed, ragged sigh. "Merely adequate." With that, he holds a page until it is completely taut, letting his gaze take in the confused and stupidly expectant expression on the woman's young face. His eyes lock with hers (green with flecks of gold, not entirely displeasing) and he flips the page with a loud snap. She jumps at the action, startled. Her eyebrows (dark and interestingly elegant) rise and she edges slowly back into a relaxed position, her shoulders lowering. "Sheesh," she mumbles, looking away from Sark and down the aisle. "No need to get so worked up." His level of irritation skyrockets, but he also wants to laugh. This is not worked up, he thinks. Worked up is discovering your co-worker fucked up orders and was the prime reason for your capture, torture and subsequent lack of a baby toe on your right foot. Worked up is watching a dozen men being outpunched, outkicked and outmaneuvered by a bit of a woman wearing a dog collar and a bad blue wig. Worked up is being assigned to fly to Los Angeles on zero hours of sleep and wait for word on said woman. So, no, this isn't worked up. Not even fucking close. He remains quiet, hoping his silence will serve as an additional deterrent to the woman. It works for exactly three minutes. "So you didn't like the bathswhat exactly did you enjoy about Istanbul?" she broaches calmly, her voice definitely less excited. Leaving, he answers silently. Completing a mission and getting the hell out of that city. "Nothing that you'd find in this article," he sneers, sliding the cover shut. "OK, so you're an expert on -" she leans toward him, squinting at the cover, "-Istanbul night spots?" When she looks at him next, she's smiling, displaying two rows of brilliantly white (and straight) teeth. He's taken aback for a few seconds, but eventually replies, "No, I'm afraid I'm not." He pauses, surprised when the right corner of his mouth perks up. "But this person, this Susan Youngblood, is most definitely in my company. She, in fact, knows less than I." "Hmmm, alright," the woman allows teasingly, cocking her head to one side. "But how in the world is it possible that she's a travel writerand you aren't?" Because somehow I've become a twisted cross between a mercenary and an intelligence agent, not anything quite as happy and fluffy as a travel writer. Because locations are mere backdrops to more important matters - missions, assassinations, reconnaissance, blackmail. I don't bother with popular nightclubs, bustling shopping areas or the nearest cinema, no, I only concern myself with the fastest route out of any city, the best angle at which to aim my sniper rifle and at least two hundred necessary words in the local language. "Because she's lucky," he says slowly, averting his gaze and focusing instead on the black nothingness of night out his window. "I see," the woman murmurs thoughtfully. No, you don't. You don't see a single thing. You don't comprehend that the man sitting two rows in front of us is a known criminal in Taiwan, wanted by authorities for robbery and extortion. You can't presume to know me by attempting a one-sided, superficial conversation. And you most definitely can't tell navy from black, judging from your pathetically mismatched socks. "Maybe she's not as lucky as you think," she comments, sounding extremely pleased with herself, as if she just stated the key to world peace instead of some half-assed vague remark. "Perhaps," Sark forces himself to say, hoping his concession will put an end to the excruciating conversation. He hears the woman's seat belt click, but refuses to look in her direction. He'd much rather stare out the window into pitch-black nothingness. "And perhaps she's just as unhappy and bitter as you are," the woman says in a velvety soft voice the second before she rises and walks away. He falls asleep exactly two minutes later. * * * Dreams are a rare occurrence for him, happening only once or twice every month. He has had great success in programming himself to avoid dreams, mostly for the fact that they are always, without exception, disturbingly vivid and exceptionally gruesome. On this flight to LA, however, the nightmares return. The translucent, contorted faces of former allies, lovers and enemies swirl above him as he swims in a thick maroon substance, his fingers slippery with a burning, foaming green muck. The heavy scent of iron suffocates him as reaches for a nearby log, hoping for a momentary rest. As his fingers, now just red stringy stumps of flesh, make contact with the log, it turns.and is actually a bloated, purple corpse, eyes open and jaundiced. He lets out a scream and his mouth fills with the maroon liquid (exceptionally gruesome, oh-so-sticky tar), weighing him down and pulling him underAnd he is suddenly in a bright yellow bedroom. "Little Red Corvette" is playing as he explores the room (I guess I shoulda closed my eyes when you drove me to the place where your horses run free), which extends forever into the orange and yellow striped horizon. He is alone, finding nothing but old, broken toys - a rusty fire engine, a headless GI Joe, a crying plastic baby doll with a slit throat - and a letter written in Sanskrit. Just as he's about to attempt a translation of the note (I started to worry, I wondered if I had enough class), the floor opens up and he falls again, seeing the walls of a cavernous canyon zoom by on every side (you got to slow down, you got to slow down). The color becomes so brilliant it sears his retinas and he's forced to shut his eyes - nausea building as his stomach lodges in his throat and he plummets endlessly, arms flailing and legs kicking. His scream is stolen by the rushing air and all is soundless until he sees through closed eyes that there is a bottom to the canyon fast approaching. It is closer and closer and closer until it is a mere few feet away and he's convinced he'll die in a splatter of Technicolor splendorand then it all stops in a mind-jarring snap, like he's attached to the world's longest rope. And the world stops for a second. And he floats. Then he gasps and gulps air like water, trying to quell the rapid pounding of his heart. "Oh God," he breathes, his eyes flying open and focusing on the dry (but orange, oh-so-disturbingly-vivid orange) ground. He sees a pair of feet, elegantly poised on tiptoes, toenails painted like the pearly pink inside of a seashell. He can't look up, can't see to whom they belong. His neck is bent, head dipped as if in prayer, and he can't move it. He can only see the orange dust, a few cerulean tinted wildflowers and those perfectly still feet. He tries to reach for the porcelain skin, but finds himself paralyzed, his arms hanging limply at his sides. His heart jumps as he tries again -- over and over -- to move. A frustrated growl rolls out of his mouth like a delicate purr but rumbles like a thundering battle cry off the canyon walls. He can only stare as the heels slowly move toward the ground, bleaching the surrounding area in a stark white glow. He's about
to ask who she is - but his hand is suddenly touched by warm fingers of
cashmere. Her fingers lace through his and her thumb brushes his palm
ever so lightly. Starting in his stomach and clawing its way up to his
chest is something he's never felt before - an all-encompassing warmth
so intense it makes tears (so foreign for so long) spring to his eyes.
His lips move, but no words emerge. Her fingers move against his linen
shirt, her short nails flicking across his chest as she slowly works the
buttons free. His breath catches when her full lips sweep across his cheek, then move upward along his jaw. She takes his earlobe between her lips (his heart pounds like a steel drum) and breathes, her voice oddly familiar, "You know." And with her words, darkness descends in the canyon and all those brilliant colors fade to dull shades of gray. Her feet turn pastythen translucentand eventually disappear altogether. The wind picks up and he's unable to fight, flail or forget as he's swept away like an errant leaf. And at the moment his back slams against jagged gray rocks, he sees her face. * * * He wakes with a muted gasp, managing some sort of physical control even though his subconscious cannot. He quickly notices his white-knuckled grip on the armrests, the sweat dancing on his forehead and remedies both issues. Sitting upright in his seat, he tugs at his cuffs to adjust his semi-wrinkled dress shirt. After a brief moment, he is breathing normally again. "You talk in your sleep, y'know," the annoying voice of his neighbor returns with a shrill vengeance. She is leafing through a British Cosmopolitan, three of its seven headlines boasting sex-related advice in bold, fluorescent blue type. If there's a girl who probably needs to study all three articles, it's this one. He doesn't respond, faintly irritated that one of his few weaknesses had to be pointed out by the most insipid woman he'd ever encountered. "Oh, don't worry, you only said one word," she continues, a light smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. His curiosity piqued, he turns to face her full-on. There's an obvious glint in her eye as she realizes she actually has his full attention. "You do know that this plane is headed for the States, not Australia?" * * * Dreams can be tricky as hell. They can wake you up in the middle of the night, convince you the world is ending and you're the sole reason behind its dark demise. They can make you think you've accomplished things you haven't, seen places you never could've imagined, loved complete strangers with distant faces and tired eyes. They can also change your outlook. Not on broad, sweeping things like morality and happiness, but rather on small things - a person, a scent, a situation. In a matter of a subdued, sleepy hour, you could feel more connected with someone, understood even. For Sark, dreams have always been synonymous with nightmares. Even in his younger days, he was plagued by them - at first they were of the run-of-the-mill variety. Freezing up when a chase ensues. Falling. The death of a loved one (a short list, that one - Mum and a shaggy mutt of a dog). Expectedly, the dreams worsened as he matured and chose a career path (or rather it chose him). In any case, he knew better than to let the dreams affect him - he was beyond that kind of easy coercion and obvious trickery. But his initial reaction to his most recent dream is different, though. Admitting it to himself, however, is not something he's ready to do until he's safe in an off-site airport parking structure. A phone call to Khasinau. Her current location is known - directions to said location are provided. Then a warning to remain in the city until next contact. "We are not sure what our next step will be," Khasinau's lightly accented voice accosts Sark's ears. "Irina and I will be discussing our options and contacting you with the details." Then, a pause. "In the meantime, take some time for relaxation, perhaps?" A quiet chuckle over a static-filled connection, then, a subtle joke, "Maybe we could set up that meeting with our LA counterparts like we discussed earlier this week? I know you are most adept at the power of persuasion." "I try," Sark manages with a forced laugh. He allows a brief pause of an appreciative length (at least four seconds) before adding, "I will await word from you, then." "Good, very good," Khasinau replies. "Enjoy Los Angeles." Hanging up, Sark surveys the automotive selection. The requisite Toyotas and Hondas ('00 and '01 Camrys, Corollas and Accords for the most part), a few of those nicely redesigned Nissan Altimas (black and silver, of course), SUVs (foreign-made, for the most part - this is LA, after all), even a yellow Hummer (nothing like drawing attention to oneself). He's drawn to a Cadillac Escalade for work-related reasons (the Lincoln Navigator is so very passé) - tinted windows, a large, more than adequate engine, all-around luxury. As he approaches the vehicle, though, a nearby mass of curvaceous metal catches his eye. It's not the kind of car he'd select normally - a sleek, undeniably sexy color, too showy, too mid-life crisis, too American. But forty seconds later, it's his (you got to slow down). And as soon as he hits the highway, shifting hard and fast with satisfied grunts, he lets the car speak for itself (little red Corvette) its V8 purring madly as he drives out of the city ('cause if you don't, 'cause if you don't). He stops an hour later to purchase a map of Nevada (you gonna run your body right into the ground). |
Technicolor Splendor
By: Rach3
prequel to "Fourteen Days" -- Sark on his way to L.A.
Rated: Fiction T - English - Words: 3,221 - Reviews: 14 - Favs: 6 - Published: 9/4/2002 - id: 951272
+ -
Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten
|
||||||