Chapter 10

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

A/N

My little update broke the chapter numbering even more. I wish I could fix that. Meh.

Also, I probably will try to participate in NaNoWriMo this year (never have before), so may not get the climactic update to this chapter out until December.

I

The Oval Office was extravagantly adorned for Christmas. That Eve, as the snow piled on outside, multi-colored lights twinkled within. A large, mobile record player had been wheeled in and was quietly humming tunes from A Dave Brubeck Christmas. The red-and-green throws made the couch Beckman and Shaw shared clash a little less with the wallpaper, as a crackling fireplace brought the comfort and warmth of the room to its apex.

Martin uncorked a second bottle of Merlot and refilled both his and his partner's glass. Christmas day would be pivotal, and while most Cold-War-era spy stereotypes had long died out, drinking to calm the nerves would never fall out of fashion.

The occupants had thus far spent the evening in silence. But Martin was a chatty drunk. "So…" he whispered, slightly slurred, "do you… honestly, do you really think the plan will work?"

Diane was slow to process his words. Her eyelids had grown heavy; she thought about falling asleep in Martin's arms, but felt a vague sense of wariness. Finally, she answered, a little louder, a little more slurred: "All things considered, it's a… simple plan, Martin. I, I think… I'm confident."

"Me too, me too…." Shaw was trying to collect his whirlpool of thoughts, to find the follow-up question he had wanted to ask all day. Eventually, he got there. "Do you… do you think… if we kept with the, with the Chuck plan… do you think we'd be able to… to extract them?"

Beckman, trying to stay awake, sighed. "We've been over this, we've… we've talked about this Shaw. The risk… not for those two. It's not worth it, for those two.

"They'll… they'll die heroes. That's the way it has to be."

Shaw's voice rose to meet hers. "You, you know... Orion's got a lot of info we could – we could use. We could… we could find… Chuck, and… and the others."

"Orion's… he's, he's a hermit. His mind was half-melted twenty… twenty years ago. It's a miracle he can still function at all."

"Surely he… surely he still knows… knows where—"

"What, what does it matter what he knows? The Intersect project is… it's done." Beckman sloppily gestured outward with her arms at the word done. "We don't, we don't need Chuck… or anyone else."

"Not… for the Intersect, no. I just… just… really wish Betel – Betelgeuse were Chuck."

There was something determined in Shaw's plastered countenance, something that shook Beckman. She knew, after all, that he held a long-standing grudge against Chuck, ever since Daniel's imprisonment. Shaw never said it, but Beckman was afraid of how deep this grudge was. It was one of the reasons she didn't want Orion extracted: if Shaw used him for intel, Chuck would be in danger. And Beckman wouldn't have that.

Finally, her expression vaguely quizzical, the drunken Director fished: "What… what do you, do you want with Chuck?"

Shaw felt exposed. He looked at Beckman a moment, then finally spoke. "I… I think I'm just drunk." He attempted an awkward chuckle.

"It's… it's late. I think I'd… better head home."

II

It was seven A.M., Christmas day. The Director slept in her office that night (she would never be able to remember how she managed to hobble over there after her inebriated rendezvous), but was awoken by her secretary calling in to announce a meeting requested by Agent Miller. Reluctantly, she accepted the request.

Robin stepped in to meet the same office room she had seen the week prior, but with yellow lamplight replacing the unrisen sun and a much more exhausted-looking woman sitting behind the ornate cherry desk.

Beckman gestured Robin to sit. Robin's chair lurched forward as she did; looking down, she noticed floorboards dented and cracked. She moved her chair a bit to even the seat.

"Merry Christmas, Director," Robin greeted, not looking very merry.

"Agent," Beckman greeted back, wincing at the sound she made. "What was it you wanted to discuss?"

Beckman did a poor job hiding her condition. Robin, concerned at the Director's mindset, suppressed nerves while she lowered her voice. "I was thinking last night about the plan we discussed at the warehouse. I wanted to make sure I could properly protect my asset, so I was wondering if I could escort either Julia or Betelgeuse. I am a Guardian now, after all."

Beckman sighed. Relitigating the plan she had no interest in modifying – while hungover, no less – was quite unwelcome. "Robin, we can't risk the Guardians getting suspicious. I thought you understood this: they're paranoid. If they think something's up, they'll flee their base, destroying their intel in the process. Our mission will fail. The plan is the plan and that's final."

"Yes, I understand that, but I'm a Guardian; I don't think they'll abandon—"

Beckman's voice rose in frustration. Words she shouldn't have said just slipped out. "We can't afford to lose you right now!"

It took a moment for Robin to realize what the Director was saying. Her eyes widened. "You're… you're not going to even try to extract them, are you?"

"Dammit, Agent Miller, I—" she winced, took a few deep breaths, and lowered her voice to a grating near-whisper. "I am ordering you to stand down, Agent Miller. You are not to go near the asset, nor the prisoner, nor anyone else in the agency, for the rest of the day. Dismissed."

Astounded, Robin prepared a retort. In spite of the Director's superiority—

Wait.

Robin had a brazen idea. It would be difficult – treasonous? No, Robin couldn't do that. But the only way to avoid it… How would she even get a meeting?

These thoughts circled in her head as she walked out of Beckman's office. Fortuitously, the secretary called her over and answered her questions with a written notice: The President had requested a meeting.

III

Robin entered the festively-adorned office of the President of the United States, Martin Shaw. After the past eight days of constant drama and near-death experiences, however, being in this room felt no more special to Robin than touring a local post office.

The President sat behind the Resolute Desk, looking a little less hungover (but no less noticeably so) than the Director. The state of the two people supposedly holding the fate of the world in their hands was quite depressing. But at least they're sober now.

President Shaw beckoned Robin to sit opposite him, in a small but stately-looking hand-carved chair. After exchanging awkward, hushed pleasantries, Shaw addressed his guest: "I presume Director Beckman briefed you on the plan, correct?"

Robin nodded. She didn't know what Shaw knew about the warehouse meeting, so she kept things brief: "You're gonna lure Betelgeuse and Julia to the secret Guardian base and then blow everyone up." She casually raised her voice just enough to make Shaw wince at blow everyone up.

Shaw sighed. "It's more complicated than that. Let me explain." Shaw described the plan at hand – most of which Robin already knew: He mentioned the pen they would use to take over the secret base's network, expose their location, and guide the airstrike to them. He described the intel they'd be able to extract, and how they'd use it to identify, burn, and take down everyone in the clandestine organization. He even showed Robin the draft of the speech he would present later that day, addressing the American people, informing them of the domestic terror threat, and outing himself as a former conspirator.

"They'll never see it coming: an airstrike on U.S. soil."

"One that will kill two innocent people, no less," Robin shot back.

"Look, things are dire. What we're executing is complicated enough. We would much prefer Orion and Miss Howard extracted before the strike, but we can't risk giving a paranoid agency more to suspect."

"But you made me a Guardian. Why can't I—"

"Yes," Shaw interrupted, "I convinced the agency that you were dedicated to the same cause as the rest of us – for your own safety. They were going to kill you, remember? If I, the Chairman they suspect so much that they hid their own base from me, were to bring everyone I involved in this operation into that base together, don't you think they'd be a little concerned?"

Robin was quiet.

"I confess, I brought you here with the intention of setting up an extraction op. But the more I think about it, the harder it is to believe it could work.

"Unless you can think of anything?"

Robin had a feeling the President was testing her, trying to see if she could figure a plan out herself. She wasn't sure why that was necessary, but decided to go along with it.

She remained in deep thought for a while, before finally perking up: "When is the Guardian team picking Julia up for escort?"

"About two hours from now."

"How many?"

"Just one in the hospital wing; a black SUV with another waiting outside. Julia's not supposed to know she's a hostage, and after the whole Agent Ling thing, they want to keep things delicate."

"Any chance you can arrange that agent to match my basic features?"

"Already done. Convinced them it would be better for Julia's subconscious cooperation... or something. Some B.S. they seemed to eat up."

"Does that agent know where to take her?"

"Just to the SUV. Driver does the rest."

"Perfect." Robin stood up, grabbed the edge of the desk with her left hand and held it tight, picked up a heavy statuette with her right, and brought it down hard, breaking her left radius.

Shaw jumped back. Robin intended to reply with a smug "guess I'm going to hospital ward," but what came out sounded much more like "AAAGH SHIT THAT HURTS!"

"Jesus Christ! They're not watching the ward that closely, you could've just walked right in!"

"GREAT!" Robin shouted back. "JUST GREAT! You could've—" she winced and doubled over in pain. Her voice grew fainter and more pained. "Could've told me that sooner. Just sayin'."

"I'll call the White House physician. You better hope they administer the Catalyst quick; (Do you know about the Catalyst?) Whatever, doesn't matter; you're gonna need that arm if you want to extract the two." Shaw picked up the phone.

"Oh wait, a couple more things," he remembered before dialing, as Julia continued to writhe. "First, take this earwig," he managed to hand the device to the injured agent. "I'll let you know when the strike is coming in from there. That'll be your cue to get the hell out. Using the pen, we'll find and block the exits with U.S. military personnel, but they'll be informed to cease fire and anyone matching your descriptions into custody.

"Second, I figured even with your guts, this extraction would be too risky. Someone's gonna be helping you: some super-secret-stealth-master type. You'll know her when she disarms you without breaking your neck in the process. Just do what she says."

Robin, hardly able to follow what Shaw was saying anymore, tried to rise, but buckled. "Why… didn't… you just send HER?"

"Redundancy: I don't know if she alone could do the extraction either," he lied. "Anyway, we're running out of time, let me get that doctor."

Shaw finally dialed the phone, and watched as the physician briskly whisked Robin away.

Robin passed Shaw's test: she had the analytical skills and guts requisite of any good agent. But those theatrics: Something about her seemed almost dangerous. Best to keep her on his side, for sure.

He picked the phone back up after a moment's meditation. "Ms. Joosten," he addressed the secretary on the other line, "send in Ms. Stark."

An aged, athletic woman with dark hair walked in.

"Y'know, I had a teacher named Stark once," Shaw started.

The woman, eyes piercing, scowl fierce, swiftly drew a gun from the small of her back and trained it at the President's forehead. She was clearly not amused by his joke. "What do you want, Shaw?"

Shaw casually rose from his chair, unfazed. "Relax, Stark. We're on the same side. Just ask Director Beckman! Do you still keep in touch?"

Stark cocked her gun.

"Yeah, figured not." He got serious. "I called you in because I need your help on an extraction."

"Why the hell would I ever help you?"

"Hey, I'm not the one who tried to kill you.

"Put the gun away; you're not gonna shoot the President of the United States in his own office."

"I'd get away with it."

"I bet you would. Hell, if my polling's right, you'd be an American Hero. Until the world ends because I was too dead to stop an evil clandestine agency from taking over, at least."

Stark said nothing.

"Look, just take a peek at this file." He pulled one from a drawer and opened it on his desk. "Notice anyone?"

The file contained pictures of Betelgeuse, Julia, and Robin. Stark wanted to keep her eyes trained on Shaw, but eventually let herself look down. She tried to suppress a gasp.

"Orion…" she whispered. She struggled to contain the rage welling inside her at the sight.

Shaw was confused. "That's the only one you noticed? Not the black-haired woman below him?" Stark said nothing.

"That's your daughter, Sarah."

The sound of her old name shook her. Faster than Shaw could react, Sarah lowered her gun, leapt forward, and kicked the President in the chest, sending him into the wall between two of the Oval Office windows. Shaw whacked his head against the wall, but managed to remain conscious. He put his hands up apologetically, and Sarah composed herself. "Don't ever call me that name again."

"I'm sorry," Shaw breathed out, winded by the kick. He struggled to stand.

"So, what's the plan."

Shaw finally got up, took a few breaths, and continued. "Your daughter (we call her Julia) and Orion are being transported to a hostile base. We're using them to get the base's location, after which we're going to call in an airstrike. The other woman, Agent Robin Miller, is going to help you extract them. Follow her to the base. And try not to kill her – or Orion, for that matter."

"So what's the catch then; I mean, surely you don't expect me to turn these people over to you, do you?"

"Well, if you wanna try to haul two people across exits heavily guarded by military personnel, I guess you could do that. But I assure you, Betelgeuse isn't going to crack. Ally with me, on the other hand, and we can work together to find Chuck.

"Besides, Agent Miller might be a third wheel, but she's very strong-willed, and despite your own displays, I know you're not so rogue as to kill an innocent U.S. agent just to get Orion for yourself."

Sarah thought for a while. She wasn't sure she believed Shaw about her daughter's identity, and she really wanted Orion. But he had a point about Agent Miller. Not to mention, she had a lot of questions, and she wasn't sure she'd be able to answer them without a connection with the Government. Besides, despite the falling-out she had with the CIA so many years ago, the work she had done with them was much more exciting and rewarding than any of the freelance she had done since.

Finally, she made up her mind. "So when does this start?"

IV

Robin's arm was healed quite quickly in the medical wing of the Langley field office. Unlike the wound from the car crash, which festered for days in a shoddy makeshift cast, this break was clean and fresh. The Catalyst made quick work mending it.

She felt like a moron doing that to herself, but now wasn't the time for embarrassment: President Shaw said no one was watching the wing, so she quickly trotted over to Julia's room.

The guard stationed outside the door recognized Robin and let her in without question. Realizing what might happen, however, Robin paused halfway into the room and turned. "Hey," she briskly addressed the agent, "I'm gonna be watching her for the time being. Why don't you take a break. You look exhausted."

"I'm sorry, Agent," the man replied, "but I have to follow protocol. Strict orders from the Director herself dictate when I am allowed to leave my post."

"Talk to the President; he'll back me up. Here," Robin fished out her wallet and pulled a couple twenties out, "get yourself a snack. Relax; the world's not gonna end if you take a two-hour nap." Of course, it might end either way, Robin thought.

The agent stared at the twenties now in his hand. "The President?"

Robin nodded.

Eventually, the agent assented. "If I lose my job—"

"You won't," Robin reassured him, then entered the room.

Julia was, unsurprisingly, still shackled to her bed, although her leg was no longer bandaged and elevated. Additionally, the security camera had yet to be replaced.

The two stared at each other. Julia didn't look quite so pissed to see her handler this time, which Robin took as an encouraging sign.

The asset broke the silence. "What are you doing here?"

"Uhh, slight change of plans. Someone's gonna come in here soon to transport you. I'm here to replace them."

"Why?"

Robin thought for a minute, and answered honestly: "The Director wasn't planning on extracting you. But I am."

At that moment, she heard slow footsteps outside. Robin suspected the Guardian coming to extract Julia was suspicious of the Agent away from his post. She put her finger to her lips, and Julia, seemingly reading Robin's mind, laid flat on the bed, pretending to sleep.

The door crept slowly open. Robin stood behind it, waiting for the right time. The agent on the other side was clever – she kept pushing the door back an inch, using it as her own cover while she cleared the visible portion of the room, as well as to detect if any hostiles were hiding on the other side.

Robin waited for the right time: once she caught sight of the agent's gun, she pushed the door hard the other way. The agent, startled, dropped her gun and fell out of the room.

Robin wasn't the most experienced in hand-to-hand combat, having barely completed basic training just a month ago. The element of surprise was her only advantage, and she just used it up disarming her opponent. She thus made a split-second decision to avoid anything hand-to-hand, dove to the floor to recover the Guardian's gun, and, as the agent ran back into the room, shot her in the thigh.

Contrary to popular belief, silencers aren't actually that quiet. The "JESUS FUCK" Julia yelled after Robin fired, on the other hand, was a lot louder. Fortunately, none of that mattered, since anyone who could have heard was either sleeping in the food court two floors below or enjoying their Christmas at home.

Robin had to act fast: the agent was bleeding profusely – her femoral artery was almost certainly punctured by the shot – and Robin had to make sure the blood didn't get on the hostile's jacket. She tore it off as fast as she could and pulled it over herself. She also took the agent's bloody shoes, emptied her pockets to find a (thankfully dry) wallet and cell phone, and took her (extremely tacky) necklace and earrings too. Finally, she dragged the body into the bathroom, checked for a pulse (nothing), shoved it in the bathtub, and locked the bathroom door.

Julia was aghast. "I'm sorry," Robin started as she rushed over to unshackle her, "I didn't mean to kill her," her voice wobbled at the word kill, "I just didn't have a choice.

"We need to hurry, before someone finds us. Are you still on board with the plan?"

The sight of the gunshot wound had refreshed the images of Agent Ling in Julia's mind, but she tried to calm herself. She would have done the same thing, after all.

Robin got Julia uncuffed from the bed and stood her up. She was already dressed – in some oversized hospital donation clothes she'd received after she got her cast off earlier that morning – so they quickly left the room together. As they waited for the elevator, Robin fished the wallet out of her pocket and examined the ID.

"So if anyone asks, my name is 'Agent Rebecca Stanwood.'" I guess that's not as bad as 'Paris Colender,' Robin thought.

"Oh, damn," she uttered, examining the face in the photo. "There's no way I'm gonna be able to sell this disguise."

She wracked her brain for a moment before coming up with a brilliant idea. As the pair walked into the fortuitously empty elevator, she uncuffed Julia. "Hit me in the face a few times. Give me a black eye and a swollen lip."

Julia didn't need to be told twice. By the time the elevator opened on the ground floor, Robin looked like she had been pounded half-to-death by a professional boxer: both eyes were black, most of her face was bruised and swollen, and one of her upper incisors had been broken off halfway up. Still, she managed not to let on how much pain she was in.

Julia re-cuffed herself as the pair walked out. The upside was, at least she wasn't upset with her handler anymore.

Like the hospital wing, the lobby and parking lot were pretty much empty that Christmas day. The black SUV waiting for the pair was very conspicuous. Robin led Julia inside, then got in herself.

The driver turned around, eyes widened. "The hell happened to you?"

Robin stole his sunglasses and put them on herself. "This one's feisty," she said, gesturing her head to her asset.