The Art of Insanity
It takes skill to be an agent, but only an artist can manage the true properties of Insanity.
If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle. "The Art of War" by Sabaton
The BAU was quiet. It was odd really; normally seeing as telephones were ringing until they fell off their hooks and agents stationed among the place were bickering with co-workers over nonchalant things and making casual death threats and insults often caused the loud noises that littered the place.
But maybe its quietness came from the fact it was nearly midnight.
At least, one person was still enjoying the silence. This person was David Rossi. He was in his office, stuck with the idea for a new book he had to write down. He knew he wasn't supposed to be writing much any more but he just had to. It was in his blood. Once a writer steps down that path, they cannot go back. They are literally trapped in a world of imagination for the rest of their lives. For writers, there is no difference between fact and fiction.
"Rossi."
The voice came from the shadows, as if they were the shadows themselves. The voice was quiet, but he knew immediately who it was. He would always remember that voice. It was a voice that could haunt anyone's nightmares for years on end.
He opened his mouth to speak but a soft giggle shushed him. They stepped from the shadows, the usual smile spread wide and the odd coloured eyes narrowed with fake glee. The beige scarf was missing.
"I hear Alfred has gone missing, yes?"
Rossi looked back down at this laptop, the white screen looking back tauntingly at him, before looking back up at the other.
"Your scarf if missing."
The man looked down and touched tenderly at his neck as if noticing for the first time that his normal beige scarf was not there. "You are right, but you did not answer my question."
When Rossi opened his mouth, the man lifted a finger as to silence him. "I have noticed this a lot in people, yes? When questions are asked, people often reply with answers that do not answer the question. They reply with their thoughts instead. Someone could ask "How is the Weather?" and the other person could answer what the temperature was. That was not the question. They wanted to know the weather, not the degrees of it was. I find this odd, yes? Normal human behaviour, is it not? If someone wanted to know what the other was thinking, wouldn't they ask for their thoughts? But really, humans are silly. Humans are very, very silly."
That was another quirk he had noticed. He spoke like he was a being from another planet; like he was above the human race and their silly ways. He spoke as he himself was not human.
"So, yes, Rossi." The man giggled , immediately returning to his train of original though. "Alfred is missing, yes?"
There was a mad giggle bathed with fake happiness and Rossi finally got to see what the man had been twirling in his gloved fingers as he stepped closer and into the light.
It was a metal pipe.
Stained with blood.
Well, that was lovely.
Rossi interlaced his fingers and stared at the other, who only smiled that odd, cold smile.
"Yes, he is."
The air went cold.
"Ah. Do you know what happened?"
"No."
"Lezhit!"
"What do you mean 'lies'? I'm telling you the truth, Braginsky!"
That's who this was. Ivan Braginsky [Иван Брагински] – Notorious Russian Mafia member. Or at least, that's who he said he was. There was nothing about him. And by nothing, he meant nothing. It was as if the man wasn't even a molecule on the extensive plain of reality. No fingerprints, no files, no pictures, no crimes, no history or facts or any proof that he even existed in the first place. The only proof of existence was himself and his ties to the Russian Government – who as well denied his existence. He lived in the shadows and worked by night. He was unable to be captured, but he had murdered hundreds as the rumours said. A true mass aura of evil exerted from this creature of the dark in Rossi's opinion. Ivan though looked innocent though most of the time – with his platinum blond hair and oddly coloured violet eyes that were rarely seen in humans. Though, looks were known to be deceiving, seeing as all he did was strike fear into the hearts of others and he seemed completely content with that.
A dangerous 'kol' slipped from the heathen's mouth. "...Oh da? The truth, you say? Tell me, Rossi, tell me what your version of this truth is." Ivan purred. "What exactly is the truth." Purple eyes narrowed and the grin dropped. "Tell me. What has happened to my little Alfred? Do not tell me that I have no right to know. I do wish to know. And well...You're well aware of what happens when I'm not told the things I want, aren't you?"
David did not allow himself to be fazed by the secret threat. "It's private business."
"Alfred's business has always been my business."
"When did you decide that?"
Ivan looked up at the ceiling, as if thinking hard. "Hmm...There is no date as if I remember correctly because neither of us could exactly agree on one... But I would estimate...September 2nd, 1945."
The agent only stared at the Russian, as if daring him to repeat that. That date was years ago, some sixty-seventy to be exact. And if anyone knew their facts, it was the end of World War II and considered to be the beginning of the Cold War.
"Alfred F. Jones is a nineteen year old junior agent from New York, New York. Not some old agent from World War II."
Ivan giggled. Rossi couldn't get used to that. Ivan was a grown man and grown men did not giggle, smile like a child and only the weird ones carried around bloodied pipes. Speaking of the bloodied pipe, it twirled in Ivan's hands like a baton.
"Silly, silly Идиот." The pipe bounced up and down within the others gloved fingers. "Alfred is much, much older than that. I tell him time and time again not to lie about his age, but the malchik never listens!"
"Oh then, pray tell. How old is he?"
"I suppose that July 4th, 1776 could be used as the date, but so can the date of somewhere in 896 as well. Though, I believe the phrase is 'Do the math, da?'. He is much, much older than you claim him as."
"Even though, the Human body is built for life sustaining up to just about one-hundred ninety-six years, I doubt the missing agent is as old as you claim him to be! That is two-hundred and thirty-five years of age or One-thousand one-hundred and fifteen years we are talking about here. Those ages are not humanly possible!"
When Rossi said that, Ivan's smile went dark and the amethyst eyes glazed over with a certain edge of madness. "Well..." His voice was deep and saturated with anger. "Who said we were human?"
"What do you mean–"
"Assumption!"
"Ivan–"
"Look at your facts Mr. Rossi," Ivan murmured strangely before laughing rather violently. "Look at your precious history books that records the short, but rather lucky past of your oh-so precious Godforsaken country! It will tell you all that is needed to be known. It shall tell you all you deserve to know! Tell me, Rossi! Haven't you thought about why a rather important organisation such as the F.B.I would spend so much time looking for a missing junior agent? Think, Rossi, think!" Ivan tapped his temple madly with a gloved hand in crazed state of madness. "The answer is right before you! It has always been right before you!"
The Russian suddenly moved in on him, grabbing his tie and pulling him half-way over the desk and towards his face. The man's grin widened with sadistic glee, the amethyst eyes brightening up the semi-dark room. "Now, Rossi, you will find me my precious Alfred won't you?"
"Missing Agents are not in my depart–"
"You're not seeing anything are you?" The mad-man sneered, pushing the agent away. "You see, Alfred had stolen something very important from me before he had disappeared." Seemingly unconsciously, a gloved hand went up to Ivan's jugular, curling sensibly around the neck. "Something very important. If I do not get it back soon, there will be terror. Heaps upon heaps of cruel terror that will tear this proud country back down to the third-world country it was before the Revolution! Mass pandemonium shall be spread, one could say!"
The agent scowled angrily. "What's this important thing of yours?"
The glove left Ivan's neck and the Russian slammed his hands on the desk. "My scarf. Now, your silly little brain might not understand this, but that is my livelihood and is what keeps me, you and your 'precious' little country alive!" Ivan snarled.
"It's a scarf."
"Oh yes, just a scarf. Such a thing that has been with me through just about every war, for the destruction of my sanity and the birth of my madness, and the collapse of my House! It protects me from the claws of General Winter and keeps my secrets safe. The value of the scarf alone is more important than all the money in the world! Oh silly little human, it is far more important than you'd think.
Suddenly, he stepped back and held his head up high; revealing a rather thin, scarred neck marred over horribly with thick and jagged scars of all types and sizes. And if "If Alfred is not found soon, you soon shall all suffer."
"Just who do you think you are?" Rossi demanded and Ivan lowered his head and grinned.
"Da, comrade, just who am I? Well, I'll tell you!" Ivan's smile dropped completely and when he spoke, his voice sounded hollow. "I am Russia. People fear me and people hate me. I am the enemy of most countries, the source that strikes fear into my neighbours and some might say the demon that haunts the most darkest of souls. I strive for the light, but instead thrive in the darkness due to my incessant fear of what it beholds. Sunflowers are what I look forward to one day being spread all across my land, but instead there is nothing but ice and snow. It is a pleasure to meet you once again Rossi!"
Russia let out another laugh before turning around to leave. Before he faded once more back into the shadows, the pale-haired man gave one last farewell message.
"Pakah, David Rossi. Just remember that the answers you seek lie just before you! The truth is not for all men, but only for those who seek it!"
And with a final kolkolkolkol, the man was gone.
The moment he was sure the other was not there, David walked as calmly as he could to his office door and locked it and dead-bolted it before walking back to his desk and sitting down in the chair.
Humans, nations...Personified countries?
"I don't know what you're telling me, Ivan..." David frowned and sighed. "You're asking the impossible."
Sighing, he started to clear away the stuff on his desk when suddenly a book fell to the floor. When had that book been there? Had been his first thought before he shook his head. He leaned over his desk to grab it when he stopped.
The book had fallen open to a page. This page was dusty and yellowed with edge and ripped in the corner. Within the book was an old painted picture of the founding fathers. But something was wrong. There were eight people in the picture. Seven of the people were the founding fathers, everyone knew that. But in the photo, there was one more. They had an ageless face and bright blue eyes. He knew that face was familiar, as if he had seen it before.
On a whim, David grabbed the paperwork off of his table, flipping through the file quickly and gasped quietly when he finally found what was needed. He lifted the picture out of the file before bending down to pick up the book.
The severity dawned upon him like a house of bricks crumbling.
The person within the book and the person within the photo was one in the same: Junior Agent Alfred F. Jones.
David, early the next morning, was eventually found by Reid. Of course, David was sure he had dead-bolted the door last night, but the young genius said nothing about how he got in or how he got past the dead-bolt.
The profiler handed David his morning coffee and took a quick look at the messy state of the man's desk before sitting down. The desk was in an even worse state than usual The laptop was pushed off to the side, teetering dangerously off the side and thick stacks of badly-aged files were spread across the desk with heavy leather-bound books laying on top of them and on the floor.
"New case?"
The elder man ran a hand through his hair and noticed with a grimace that it was thinning again. "No, but Spencer...What do you know about a Mr. Alfred F. Jones?"
"From what I heard," The young genius started, " is that he's a missing FBI agent that not only has the entire FBI looking for him but also just about every other major American criminal organisation out there."
"Anything...else?"
Spencer shook his head "No, nothing. Why do you ask?"
There was some silence before Rossi spoke again. The man leaned back in his chair and sighed. "I was visited by Ivan Braginsky last night."
"H-How did he get in the building?" Reid had met Ivan. And just to say, Ivan gave him the creeps.
"I personally don't know...But he did tell me something. Something that I'm still finding hard to believe. And I researched it all night last night. And I'm horribly afraid to say that was Braginsky told me was correct and if Braginsky does not get what he wants within the time limit then what he predicted will most indefinitely occur."
"What did he tell you?"
Rossi grimaced again. "Can you keep a secret, Reid?"
"Well, I can, but considering the severity of my job and the people I deal with; there is not telling what will happen if I am forced under extreme interrogation again so I suppose–"
"Can you was my question, Spencer."
"Oh yeah...Yes, I can."
"Good," The profiler leaned back in his chair and picked up a nearby file. "Now, Alfred F. Jones is no ordinary FBI agent. And nor has he ever been. From the records, it says that Alfred has been enrolled as a junior agent since 1900–"
"But that was over–"
"–Which leads to the fact that I have discovered that Alfred is not a regular human. Alfred F. Jones is the living embodiment, or the human personification of the United States of America."
An awkward silence set over the room when suddenly, there was heavy sound of a gun being cocked and David and Spencer looked up to see a bushy-browed man with blond hair and green eyes step threateningly into the room.
"Sorry to ruin your morning tea, chaps," the blond said in a rather London-centric English accent, "but I'm afraid I'll have to put an end to this little party of yours!"
Russia felt himself smiling at the moon, who said nothing back to him as usual. The moon was such a quiet being and often said nothing! Oh what a horrible companion it was sometimes! And when it even did talk, it said nothing useless! On those rare nights when he swore that the moon talked back to him as he did to it, it only whispered words of deceitful meaning and talked of horrible things that could only end in bloodshed!
Oh, the moon was such a horrible companion, but he was bonded to it. He was bonded to it by a promise.
It was said by some that a person who made a promise to the moon was cursed.
Oh yes, he was cursed. He was cursed with insanity. He was cursed with the fact that there was no way to escape reality, but only continue on living in it. He was cursed with the madness of the moon.
"Don't worry, Alfred," Ivan purred. "I will find you. Oh yes, I will find you, my doll! Even if I have to use those silly little agents of yours!"
And with a frightful laugh, the Russian was gone once more.
Note:
Eventual three -shot. Hopefully, more comes to me.
And you will not believe the derp I had to go through with to post this!
And I really have to apologise if this offends anyone. I just wanted this posted and over with because if it did not get posted now - it would never be posted and would forever be succumbed to the fate of being lost in my archives forever.