Looking In

This is a brief scene from Tremayne's point of view. It's actually been a couple of years since I wrote any fan fiction, and I've never tried 'The Champions' before, so I have no idea where this came from. I'm going to blame it on watching six episodes back to back before bedtime.

Of course, I don't have any right to be using these characters, and I hope the copyright holders and those better versed in the characters don't mind me having a bit of fun.

Comments, reviews, suggestions for improvement, or honest critiques are always welcome.

This time they're both in my office when they realise something is wrong. I see it on their faces, in the stifled gasps and in the sudden rigidity of their bodies. I've seen this expression in them before, but never so immediate. So fresh. So raw.

A look like this presages death by freezing, poison, suffocation … terminal violence. It says that a man could … no, should, die.

Richard Barrett's blue eyes are alive with urgency. I watch him struggle for equanimity, for that oh-so-British stiff-upper lip.

Ice rattles against the glass in Sharon Macready's hand as her knuckles whiten. Her grip is tight enough that I can't be sure whether the sound is that of her trembling, or the glass itself protesting under the strain.

They exchange a look of utter determination shared, pushing back their individual fears.

And despite the illogic of it all, despite the absurdity, I know that somewhere far from here Craig Stirling is fighting for his life.

I answer the question before they ask it, keeping my own voice light and steady. "Craig should be back from his assignment any time now. He shouldn't have much trouble with a petty crime ring in London."

Barrett has won the fight against his emotions. His voice is as calm as mine as he pushes up from his chair. He leans forward over my desk, glancing for a fraction of a second at the file I've conveniently flipped open. "I think we'll go join him, just in case he needs a little backup."

Sharon stands too, her glass clattering for a moment against the tabletop as she lowers it. She manages a half-hearted smile for my benefit. "You know what Craig's like for finding trouble." Her voice hardly trembles at all on the words.

Finally Barrett remembers himself. "If you don't mind, sir?" he offers what we all know is false courtesy.

I wave a hand vaguely towards the door, using the other to activate its release mechanism. "Run along then," I say, sparing them the effort of having to disobey me. Sharon almost runs towards the door, Barrett striding along quickly behind her. I stop them in the doorway, unable to hold the words inside. "Bring him back." There's a momentary pause and I glance down at my papers, shuffling them as I desperately search for a way to take the words back. I scowl when I glance up. "For debriefing when you return," I explain.

Richard flashes me a brief smile, but his eyes are already focused elsewhere, working on the problem. "Yes, sir."

For a long time after the door slides closed, I stare at it. My hands are still sorting through the papers, and I realise with a frown that, after long minutes of nervous shuffling, the files on my desk are now hopelessly confused.

I push my chair back from my desk and stand. Two steps, and I'm lifting one of the decanters from its silver tray, and listening to the soft chiming as it trembles against the glass. I pour myself a healthy measure and swallow it in one gulp. Rotating the glass in my hand, I stare out through the window at the beauty of Lake Geneva.

They don't know I know. They know I suspect. After so many reports, so many displays that I've witnessed, let alone inferred, I could hardly do otherwise. But I maintain my sceptical façade, as much to defend my own sanity as to keep them on their toes.

I'm not sure there are words to articulate what I've come to believe. It conflicts with every scrap of common sense and reasoned thought on which I've built my view of the world. I tell myself that, as head of Nemesis, I'm merely exploiting the expertise of my agents. I tell myself almost as many lies as they do.

But I've stopped questioning how they know what they know. That farce of an inquisition taught me how unimportant it is for me to understand how they do what they do. What matters is that, time after time, they return successful from situations that should have killed them.

I'll wait up tonight, at least until the last flight lands from London. I'll wait until the three of them are standing safely in front of me, Richard teasing Stirling in that sardonic way of his as Craig tries to come up with a convincing explanation for his survival. Sharon will try to charm me into ignoring them, all the while throwing relieved looks at them both. I'll sign off the mission report and give them my best puzzled expression.

The three of them will stand before me, too good to be true. True nonetheless.

As they turn to leave, perhaps they'll hear me wonder whether they are the strangers looking out at our world, or I'm the stranger looking in on theirs. And realise that it doesn't matter in the least.

The End