You Are So Afraid
Author: Keren Ziv
Spoilers: Almost Thirty Years
Disclaimer: Margaret Weiss and Tracey Hickman are credited. As
is our dear JJ. Let's face it if I had such interesting original
characters, I'd be like rich or something.
Author's Note: Bah. You know what? I totally felt like writing a
post-finale fic. I thought maybe I'd do a Dixon one. I mean, who can
resist doing a fic on a guy with a name like Dixon? I seriously thought
it was Dickson until maybe February. I'm sort of disappointed.
One foot in front of another. You keep that in your head. It is running through it as if you were on a racetrack and were a horse. Grand Black. Odds? Seven-to-one. You watch the ground, making certain that you don't trip on anything. Actually, you watch the ground so you don't have to look at the faces of the other men and women here in the dark park. LA at five in the morning should be terrifying to you, but it isn't. It is strangely silent and thundering-ly loud at the same time. Should LA sound like this at five? Should it be murmuring with life and stilling with death simultaneously? Is there actually any life or death anywhere?
You finger the keys in your pocket. Your vehicle is parked in the lot at the beginning of the park. It is securely locked. You would be an idiot not to do lock it. It is LA after all. You will probably end up with an attempted mugging by the end of the night; or the beginning of the morning. You don't care. You can take care of yourself.
Your shoes are filthy. You don't remember going through any mud to get on the jogging trail, but apparently you did. The edges of your sneakers, so out of place in comparison to your heavy work suit, are dirty with half-dried mud. Your feet pound the pavement. It's a calming sound. The air is chilly but you aren't quite cold. Its' more of a chill in the air than a chill of the air. Or would it be the other way around? You aren't sure anymore.
You aren't sure of anything other than the beating of your heart and the slapping of your feet on the hard pavement. You breathe deeply, enjoying the feel of the air in your lungs. If you take in just a little more air it will begin to hurt, to sing, and so you do just that, letting your lungs fill until it feels like they will burst. You like this feeling.
You have made a complete circle in the park. There is your vehicle. Standard big and black G-man machine. It looks odd in the strengthening rays of the early morning sun. Almost surreal. You wonder of it's tangibility.
You think about everything and nothing. You focus on anything but your doubts. Because that betrayal of your mind keeps making you wander into thoughts about your best friend betraying her country. When had she become your best friend? When, in hundreds of months of working, did you start to think instinctively of her for all the important things in your life?
Was that changing? If Sydney was a . . . a double agent . . . would you be able to face her? You don't think you would be able to. You are a loyal citizen and true to your country. Nothing will ever get in the way of that and convince you to work against the CIA. You remember Syd's vehement declaration only hours (only hours?) before. Would her heart be swelling with pride at the thought of what she did? Or shame?
You almost run right over him, so lost you are in your thoughts. He gives out a surprised yelp and you stop. You stare at him. He is what you imagine Rip Van Wrinkle to look like. His white beard is long and dirty, almost to the point of giving it another color. There are bits of food and unidentifiable things scattered all in it. His face is brown from the sun and mud. His clothes are in tatters and he smells a good deal like a public toilet.
"Money?" he asks you plaintively. Yo look at him askew. Does he ask all the joggers for money. You repeat the question aloud. "No. They usually come in sweat pants. No pockets," he continues sadly. "I don't even try." He looks you up and down and you are suddenly very grateful for the gun you have . . . until you realize that it is locked in your SUV. "Who's the girl?" he asks. He gets up from the ground where he has been stretched out.
You look behind you but there is no one there. "I don't understand," you say. You look forward and beyond the old man. Still no one. He must be on drugs. Are his pupils dilated? You can't see in the dim light that is cast through the trees.
"I mean that when a man in a nice suit and wearin' a good watch out this time of night is joggin' in this neighba'hood, he has girl troubles," the old man says. He sticks a grubby paw toward you and to your horror introduces himself. You will have to touch this man. "Zifnab," he says, grinning. You know you've heard the name before, you just can't recall where.
You grasp his hand firmly and introduce yourself in a small voice, adding, "My wife and I aren't having any problems." You drop his hand quickly and try not to look so obvious when you wipe your own hand on your pants. He is cleaning out his long fingernails and doesn't seem to notice. The dirt in them is disgusting; you are oddly drawn to watching him. Pocketknife. Nail. Dirt. Gone. Repeat.
"Your mistress, then," Zifnab says. You snort. "You're about the right age," he continues on his in all-knowing tone of his. When did you learn to identify his tones? This is getting creepy for you. "Let me guess. You met her through work. Pretty little secretary. Cute. Flirtatious." You don't like this man.
"Syd and I are partners," you say carefully through clenched teeth. He nods once in oblivious agreement to your statement. You start stretching, getting ready for to begin jogging once more.
"And your boyfriend has found someone new," he says with finality. He places an old claw on you. "I know it hurts, but sometimes people just look for a younger version. Why don't you do that yourself? You could even tell your wife. I'm sure some sort of agreement could be arrange." He gives you a cocky smile and you notice that he's missing all of his back teeth.
"Sydney and I are in law enforcement and she and I are partners in our job!" you exclaim. It was the closest you could come to telling this crazy old loon the truth. "Not that I think that it is any of your business," you add condescendingly.
He doesn't take the hint. "No, no, none of my business at all. Just glad to help you," he says jovially. He reaches down and starts to retie your laces. You watch him in disbelief. He leans over to you and whispers urgently into your ear, his foul smelling breath wafting down on you. "Have you slept with her?"
"No!" you say. "Syd is like a sister to me! That's the problem. I just can't believe . . ." you trail off, having said too much. What would this old man say to your odd statements?
"Ah. So this Syd. She's maybe getting something on the side and you don't think it's legal?" he says in a sudden burst of wisdom. He leans back, but still keeps the whisper. "Do you think she's getting payoffs from some of the street gangs here?"
This seems like a safe topic for you, so you nod. "I do. And . . . she's so loyal. I could never imagine her doing that. But," you stop, at a loss for words. "I just keep noticing things while we're working. Little things. But they all add up. And today, I caught her doing something dangerous, which I know that our boss doesn't know about. She said it was classified and that she couldn't tell me."
"So is it the FBI you're worried about then?" Zifnab says excited, throwing his hands in the air. He looks comical there, dancing his own little dance, and you want to laugh. But you don't, out of respect. "Are you worried she's taking bribes for the FBI? She's advancing her career by helping line the pockets of the men above her?"
You take in a swift breath. "That's exactly it." How had this man done that? You eye his prancing form suspiciously. You don't usually believe in reading minds, but after seeing some of the things that Milo Rambaldi had created years ago, you are feeling as if it is possible in this dirty hobo.
Zifnab stops and looks at you with a sudden clarity in his eyes that is slightly frightening. He reaches over and strokes your cheek with a wizened finger and you are awed at the sadness in his eyes. "It is not Bristow who is betraying her country, but rather you." You look at him in horror.
"Who are you?" you manage to whisper. It is all you can do not to reach over and bodily take this man and shake the words out of him. What is he playing? You wait with baited breath for his answer.
The old man turns to you and smiles. "Bond," he says quietly and regally. "James Bond." He walks slowly away, dignity in his every step, insanity and sageness his only company in the weary trek of life.
Has anyone caught the Death Gate Cycle reference with a crazy wise-man named Zifnab?