[A/N: "Alias" and everything in it does not belong to me, sadly, it belongs to J.J. Abrams, Bad Robot, etc. I'd also like to thank the brilliant Joyce Millman for an extremely insightful article that helped inspire this story in the first place.]
"Running in Place"
She had always loved to run.
The sharp, fast slap of her shoes on the ground, the acrid sizzle of the sun on the asphalt. The strong, fierce surge of power that came with sleek, even strides. The motion of her arms, slicing crisply up and down, hands pressed thin as knives.
She loved the sweet, harsh pleasure as she sucked in air to her oxygen-starved lungs, the slow burn filling her chest.
But somewhere, in the back of her mind, came the timeworn assurance: She still didn't know.
She forced herself to move faster, and she could feel the hot trickle of sweat slipping down between her shoulder blades, and the way her snug top clung to her skin.
She thought she had found it, but here she was again. Back at the beginning, after all these years.
She was gaining momentum, almost flying now, the track rising to meet her, and her feet barely seemed to touch the ground as muscle, sinew, and bone worked together in exquisite harmony. But no matter how hard or fast she ran it didn't make a difference. The answer was always just ahead of her. Just out of her reach.
She gritted her teeth and pushed herself, hoping that maybe, just maybe, she could catch some kind of hint, an echo of truth this time. Her hair streamed behind her, self-created wind rushing through the thick brunette flow.
Her lips twisted in a self-deprecating smile. Her hair had been so many colors and styles now that she had almost lost track of them all-- a cascade of yellow, loose orange ringlets, and even a searing flush of red. Each time she put on a wig, let the artificial veil of hair surround her, and examined herself in the mirror, she immediately felt a rush. The same unexpected surge of power that came from running laps around the track could also be had in a disguise-- but it was more then that.
She could feel her body subtly tiring now, the leaden weight of fatigue slowly oozing down her arms, spiraling through taut muscles. The pound of her sneakers hitting the track softened, but continued its relentless rhythm.
When she had joined SD-6 as a freshman in college, she thought she could finally answer the question that had plagued her since adolescence, finally fill that desperate hunger and relentless desire she had felt inside. But after all those years of difficult training, dangerous missions, and glittering costumes, she had found out the truth, bringing with it the bitter feeling of betrayal and the knowledge that her the sense of belonging had only been a façade. And, deep inside, she was all the way back to being that scared and lonely girl she'd been years ago.
The tired feeling was slowly being replaced by exhaustion, creeping in like a thief. Sweat glistened all over her, she knew, sweltering diamonds, and her hair escaped its restraints to fall in crooked, haphazard wisps around her face. She swallowed, her throat dry, dusty, and seemingly thick with gravel and sand.
She hid her feelings well. Years of espionage gave could give one an amazing poker face. It was easy, really. The exciting missions and flashy, stylish outfits were more then just that to her. They were tools, really, ways for her to adopt and explore all sorts of personas. When she was in character, the aching uncertainty went away, and she was free to play the part to the fullest. Free to try on these different and varied roles, fit them around her like a second skin. She could keep what was useful and discard what wasn't. A way for her to finally uncover who she really was.
She had slowed her pace to a gentle jog, but doggedly kept moving, unwilling to succumb to runner's cramps, although she could feel streaks of pain weaving their way through her abdomen, and she steeled herself for more.
The question only became more insistent with time. She thought that by now she would have been able to figure it out. Thought that maybe the CIA would help her find herself, forge an identity that was truly and uniquely her own. But being a double agent was even more confusing then just being a spy, and sometimes she worried it was stealing any chance she had at discovering herself as she struggled to maintain the dual roles. There was one thing she knew, though, and it haunted her always, in secret, whispering in the back of her mind.
The pain was beginning to subside now. Until the next time she went to run laps, that was. She never went long without them.
Until she would figure out who she was, and where she truly belonged, she would always be just running in circles.
Just running in place.