REMOTE CONTROL
by Rach

Summary: Sark on limitations, lessons and list-making.

PG-13 (for language)
Spoilers: Through "Cipher"
Feedback: aliasrlm@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, blah blah blah.
AN: I started on this a few weeks ago after being inspired by some RL drama. Thanks to Rhien Elleth for the beta and reminding me that I should finally finish this ficlet.


Today I made a list.

I don't consider myself much of a traditional pen-and-paper list maker; it leaves behind evidence and takes far too much time. My memory is extraordinary, and I usually don't have need for reminders. However, some things are too important to rely solely on my mind, and so for those important dates, reminders and instructions, I make use of my state-of-the-art PDA. List-making is for soccer moms and grocery shopping - I usually don't have much of a use for the process. But then again, it also reminds me of summer Sundays when I sat at the kitchen table with my Mum, helping her make a list of the week's chores as the midday sun beat down in stripes on the worn wood floor around us.

"Andrew, dear, on Friday you'll need to stop after school at the chemist's and pick up my medication. The doctor promised he'd have enough to last the entire month this time."

Her writing was neat and tight, no exaggerated loops or fat, swirling cursive. She printed each letter separately like the character deserved special attention - as if each letter was completely independent of the others, not needing support from the word as a whole. It was an early indication, perhaps, of what she would eventually teach me.

Her lists were relatively short, comprised of abbreviations that we both understood - a simple code, if you will, exclusive to a sickly mother and her young, loyal son. It was her attempt at trying to make the weekly chores a bit more interesting for me, I assume. And her harmless games did help me - they exercised my mind and prepared me for what would come later in life. It's odd, really, how everything has seemingly led me here. How the smallest things - knowing the appropriate dosage to keep a person free of pain, how to fend for myself, how to be brave, stonefaced and appear fearless - were taught to me at such a young age and still remain tools that I use on a daily basis.

"Darling, you know those children are taunting you only because they are not sure of themselves. You exude confidence - and that, I've learned, is the key to everything. Even if you're intimidated, don't show it. They will realize soon enough to leave you well enough alone, dear. Come here and give your Mum a hug, now. Heaven help those that stand in your way."

And today, looking back, I am grateful. People are so quick to blame others for the way their lives turn out - crippling drug addictions, insecurities, fear - that they fail to take responsibility for their actions. A textbook example would be the majority of women with whom I have brief interludes. All of them have reached out for attention in one way or another, whether it's by shamelessly parading around in skimpy outfits, or bringing home an unsuitable man to meet the parents. Their excuses are predictably similar: abandonment or lack of love from a parental figure. Rubbish, all of it. I'm inherently disgusted by such pathetic attempts at justification. I refused, even in my younger years, to use such crutches to excuse my behavior or lifestyle. No. It's all been my doing, my will, my way - no one else is at fault except me. Why? It's simple, really. As soon as you shuffle blame, you give control to others. And I'd be fucked if I were to flippantly hand over my life to anyone, let alone to someone who abandoned me without a single fucking thought. Like I said, it's clearly absurd when you think about it.

Not that I have much time to do such things. Think, that is, about anything besides work. And lately it's become much, much worse. If it weren't for the constant surge of adrenaline, I would be nothing more than a walking zombie in a designer suit. No time for sleep, I'm somehow managing by utilizing an ancient form of meditation that Irina once taught me. The woman, despite her tendency for the dramatic and manipulative, has her uses. And being the overconfident type, she's gone ahead and gambled her entire organization, including hundreds of millions of dollars and my life (thank you very much), on a complicated plan that could easily backfire. I'm sure she's still convinced she has the upper hand, although my sources claim she's nothing more than an animal pacing the cage of an elaborately protected CIA holding facility. In any case, I've ceased to attempt to figure her out; having not received the signal we previously discussed, I have taken matters into my own hands. It's only a matter of time before I have what I want.

"When you were a baby, before your father left, I would rock you to sleep. Those nights spent holding you were so precious -you would fight fatigue so valiantly, batting those little eyelids until you couldn't resist any longer. And every night, just as you drifted to sleep, I would promise you that one day you'd have the world. We were going to give you the world. We were - and then he left. It was all I could do just to keep a roof over our heads. And now, well, you know my time is limited. You have a whole lifetime stretched out in front you, though. You can do whatever you put your mind to, Andrew, you know that, right? You can have the world. You really can."

I honestly believed it would take longer than it has. I thought I'd be Irina's director of operations for a few decades - not a few mere years - before rising to this position. My current status had occurred to me only in the depths of drunkenness or momentary delusions of grandeur. Never, I thought, would this happen. Never would I be head of an organization this powerful, this ruthless, this ripe with potential - and now look at me, seated in a plush seat of a private jet, sipping a rare, expensive vintage, the world below me inching by, full of opportunity. This has exceeded every one of my expectations.

But then again, why even have expectations? They're limiting. The only way to make anything of yourself, I was once told, it to act, believe and live as if there are no limits.

Life in and of itself is limiting, yes. Death is our final limitation. But if you remain one step ahead of your enemy, one lie away from another alias, always keeping one eye focused on the nearest exit, your life will last a hell of a lot longer.

Long enough, perhaps, to afford time to construct a list. A list that is numbered, short and scribbled so only I can read it. It will be shredded, naturally, once I reach my destination, but for now, it offers a strange comfort as it rests in the breast pocket of my suit. It is solid proof of my convictions and that, soon enough, those in my way will suddenly realize their final limitations.

My mother would be proud of all I've accomplished to this point. I'm grateful to her for everything she taught me during our brief time together. I'm not going to lie and pretend that her death didn't change me, because it did. I smile less than a man of my age should. I also have a clear vision, an unlimited line of sight of what my life can be. Like I said, I don't kill because of my childhood issues. It's because I'm my own man - and in control of my own destiny. And if a gun and a bullet help me on my way, then so be it.

I make my own rules, my own path, and when the situation calls for it, a list to keep priorities straight. After all, I can have the world. And I've always known it.