Conséquence-Alias, PG13-Vaughn
Peregrine
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.
******
Chapter Two: Afterburn
The morning sun blazes through the fog that hugs the ground, misty tendrils dragging at my feet as I duck my head into a taxi. The humorless driver with a wad of gum in his cheek plays Indonesian rap at a deafening volume while he drives at top speed, tossing me around the back seat like a bag of trash.
By the time we get to the airport, I am a mass of bruises and bile. A disgusted jerk of my hand and I am out the door, throwing a crumpled twenty at him as I ignore his curses and sprint for the main entrance. Pushing my way through the crowds that wait to get their luggage checked, joining the very short line at the metal detectors. Nothing in my pockets but seawater and spit. Borrowed clothes do not make the man. Brooks Brothers this is not. Dockers with holes at the knees, gapping waist held in check by a length of rope. Billowing tropical shirt that hangs to my knees. Cheap sunglasses that I filched from a corner kiosk. Fishing hat that I swiped from Smythe's personal collection. Incognito and indefatigable. I could waltz by my own mother and she wouldn't know me. Past security and their gauntlets. Moving through the drug-sniffing dogs and their frumpy handlers. Gate 21A. Red-eye flight to LA. Home free. Or so I thought. I parked my ass on the end of an empty bank of chairs and found someone's abandoned magazine. Rolling Stone with Chinese characters. Better than nothing.
Twenty minutes to boarding time. I look up at the oversized clock on the wall and that's when I see him. Jack Bristow. Moving quickly and quietly. Unfolding a newspaper and sitting directly behind me. As I scan the pictures of some hot young babes, he hisses, "Leaving so soon?"
The man has always been cool toward me, but the ice dripping from his words freezes me. Immutable and glacial. His face unmoving, never smiling or dropping his mask for a moment.
With an airy tone that is far from what I feel, I turn another page and reply, "How did you find me?"
An irritated snap of his paper is the only indication that I am annoying him. "Agent Weiss is quite thorough. For instance, the first question he asked was whether Sydney got out all right. Imagine my surprise when he told me that you never once asked about her."
So Weiss had been briefed….word had gotten out, but it hadn't been from me. No details. Just a destination and the authorization for a pick-up. I closed my eyes as the ghost of my old self reared its spineless head and roared in protest. I ignored its feeble mewling and felt my expanding vertebrae toss me into another dimension. "She can take care of herself," I offer tightly, noting that the flight attendant was getting ready to board passengers.
A pathetic excuse, but the best I could offer at this juncture. Bristow was so close I could hear his breath accelerating into something approaching rage. "You're her handler. You have a responsibility…."
"This was a private op. Off the book. I volunteered to come along….." With a shrug, I toss the magazine on the seat and start to get to my feet, but he is too fast for me. His hand snakes out and snares my wrist, enclosing it with the manacle of his fingers. Dragging me back to my seat like a disobedient child.
"You disgust me," he mutters. Sotto voce. Ominous and as threatening as he intends it to be. "But I need your help to get her out. Devlin won't support an extraction and you're my last hope."
"Your last hope," I repeat mockingly, wincing as he tightens his grip. Poor guy. Relying on someone like me is a crapshoot. I can't even get out of my own way in a pinch. How am I supposed to back him on an op like this? "Do I have a choice?"
I hear the release of his safety and wonder how he got the gun through security. Yeah, compliance is definitely the better choice. "All right. I'll help you. But when this is over…..I'm done with the two of you."
And with that, I find the strength to slip from his fingers and stand on my own two feet.
******
We make quite a sight as we parade through the airport. People stare at the sober man in the gray suit and the clown in the oversized clothes that traipses behind him. A reluctant passenger on this journey. But we have one thing in common. As we pass the highly reflective surface of the concourse under glass, I recognize the same grim line on each of our faces, his mouth pulled down into a tight frown, my forehead puckered into its usual configuration. And as much as I want to forget who I am and what I represent, it is part of my blood, etched and ingrained into my very soul. I am part of this, whether I like it or not. Here for the duration. But one thing has changed forever. I will not let them control me. They will not dictate how it has to be. Not anymore. I may have survived the flood, but a part of me was washed away with Rambaldi's battery. My innocence is lost to the watershed, replaced by the darkness I always warn Sydney about. The part that doesn't care what happens. To hell with whatever consequences arise with this operation. I am not a party to it. And if I take them down with me, then so be it.
******
Have you seen Taipei from the sky? The light pollution alone must outshine the sun. One huge megalopolis spanning the northern end of Taiwan. Sin city. Really, you can do anything and be anyone you want. Like that fetish club. The beginning of the end. Weirdly coiffed creatures in bizarre clothes and me in my leathers. Angel meets Matrix. Diamond earring and garish streaks in my hair. The feeling of power as I shove that guy on the make. The smile of gratification on Syd's face….and the way she takes charge of the mission…..total head rush. For a moment, I forgot who and what we are and played along with the fantasy. How easy it would be to lose myself in this dream, dancing the night away with a blue-haired babe who just happened to be a spy.
The fantasies make it easier to pretend I am anywhere but here, riding shotgun to Spy Daddy, his mouth flattened into a grim line as we drive through the business district. Traffic is practically at a standstill, and it does nothing for his already fractious mood. We are deep in the heart of the city, buried in its nether regions, the underworld that overlays every passing transaction, every piece of business is routed through the kingpins that rule this empire. The mile high towers of the financial district give way to the squalid structures on the waterfront. And through it all, I dream the dreams of the wandering fool, stifled by the simmering anger of Jack Bristow.
I have nothing to offer, nothing to say that hasn't already been said. What can you do to a man who has seen it all and done it all? Jack Bristow has experienced every atrocity that the spy trade has tossed his way. Dealt with it. Delegated it. The trigger man in many an operation and not someone I would want as my enemy. But it's already too late for me. The sliver of respect that once existed between us has flown the coop, along with my honor and the desire to do what is right.
The traffic snarl eases and I start to recognize the area where the lab once stood. In its place is a cavalcade of police cars and security tape around the perimeter. A crater that swallows the equivalent of ten city blocks. If my mouth opens any further, I am sure a few flies will wander in. Bristow throws me a look and seems satisfied that I am finally feeling something other than the numbness that has set in.
"How do we find her?" I ask as we leave the crater behind and head even further into the maze of alleys and rats' warrens that make up the waterfront.
Jack seems to weigh his words before he answers. "I persuaded one of Khasinau's men to spill his guts."
I swallow hard at his choice of words and decide that the details are best left in Jack's mind. With a weak smile, I finger the newly stolen Glock that rests in its holster on my back. Two against an army. And Sydney Bristow. Weiss once said she could take down the world, but sometimes the world is not enough. Two sighs later, we come to a dead stop and I know that it's show time.
*******
Jack uncorks a bottle of wine and sloshes it against me. "Take a few swigs," he orders curtly and I comply without argument.
The red wine is worse than any poison he could have slipped me. It burns its way down my throat and I gasp as it torches my stomach. When he smiles, it chills me with its withering frost, only slightly thawed by the amusement in his eyes. Rank amateur. Easily led and easily read. Put a ring in my nose and lead me around like your daughter always has. Or so he thinks. "Watch my back," Jack warns as he hands me an earpiece and fades into the shadows.
Time passes and while I swat at the growing army of gnats and mosquitoes, I start to wonder what I am doing here. Jack is the point man and I'm the lookout. But what am I watching for? Vagrants and street people that barely spare me a glance as they dig through the mounds of garbage? Winos like the bum I am supposed to be, shambling about alleys, zigging and zagging as they guzzle their go-go juice, hands outstretched for any NT coin that falls their way.
I grow bored, and boredom is a bad thing for someone with my state of mind. So I decide to check out the warehouse that stretches the length of two football fields. With shuffling feet, it's easy to pretend that I'm looking for a place to crash. Easy to forget the real reason I am here. So when I stumble against the doorframe and catch my barred, reflection in the grimy window, I see a sleek back Mercedes pull into the alley. It stops and a woman gets out. I open my mouth to warn Jack, but my words die in my throat as she turns to speak to the driver. Overconfident in her bearing. The proud swing of her shoulders as she starts heading my way.
Irina Derevko, aka Laura Bristow.
Sleek dark hair that just brushes her shoulders.
She killed Dad.
Navy blue suit and sensible pumps. The way that she walks….my God, it's just like Sydney.
She killed all those other agents.
A few more seconds and she'll see me. It'll be all over. That's when it hits me. Why I am here. He would do anything for his daughter. Kill. Maim. Destroy. And I am a convenient target. An even trade.
With one last glance in her direction, I slip through the door and dive behind some crates at the moment she arrives. One hand plucks the earpiece from my ear and drops it while my other hand finds my Glock. Radio silence. Ensuring that I buy myself at least a little time. But I can't say what will happen to the others. And I can't find it in myself to care.
Because retribution is the only thing that drives me now.
******
Peregrine
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.
******
Chapter Two: Afterburn
The morning sun blazes through the fog that hugs the ground, misty tendrils dragging at my feet as I duck my head into a taxi. The humorless driver with a wad of gum in his cheek plays Indonesian rap at a deafening volume while he drives at top speed, tossing me around the back seat like a bag of trash.
By the time we get to the airport, I am a mass of bruises and bile. A disgusted jerk of my hand and I am out the door, throwing a crumpled twenty at him as I ignore his curses and sprint for the main entrance. Pushing my way through the crowds that wait to get their luggage checked, joining the very short line at the metal detectors. Nothing in my pockets but seawater and spit. Borrowed clothes do not make the man. Brooks Brothers this is not. Dockers with holes at the knees, gapping waist held in check by a length of rope. Billowing tropical shirt that hangs to my knees. Cheap sunglasses that I filched from a corner kiosk. Fishing hat that I swiped from Smythe's personal collection. Incognito and indefatigable. I could waltz by my own mother and she wouldn't know me. Past security and their gauntlets. Moving through the drug-sniffing dogs and their frumpy handlers. Gate 21A. Red-eye flight to LA. Home free. Or so I thought. I parked my ass on the end of an empty bank of chairs and found someone's abandoned magazine. Rolling Stone with Chinese characters. Better than nothing.
Twenty minutes to boarding time. I look up at the oversized clock on the wall and that's when I see him. Jack Bristow. Moving quickly and quietly. Unfolding a newspaper and sitting directly behind me. As I scan the pictures of some hot young babes, he hisses, "Leaving so soon?"
The man has always been cool toward me, but the ice dripping from his words freezes me. Immutable and glacial. His face unmoving, never smiling or dropping his mask for a moment.
With an airy tone that is far from what I feel, I turn another page and reply, "How did you find me?"
An irritated snap of his paper is the only indication that I am annoying him. "Agent Weiss is quite thorough. For instance, the first question he asked was whether Sydney got out all right. Imagine my surprise when he told me that you never once asked about her."
So Weiss had been briefed….word had gotten out, but it hadn't been from me. No details. Just a destination and the authorization for a pick-up. I closed my eyes as the ghost of my old self reared its spineless head and roared in protest. I ignored its feeble mewling and felt my expanding vertebrae toss me into another dimension. "She can take care of herself," I offer tightly, noting that the flight attendant was getting ready to board passengers.
A pathetic excuse, but the best I could offer at this juncture. Bristow was so close I could hear his breath accelerating into something approaching rage. "You're her handler. You have a responsibility…."
"This was a private op. Off the book. I volunteered to come along….." With a shrug, I toss the magazine on the seat and start to get to my feet, but he is too fast for me. His hand snakes out and snares my wrist, enclosing it with the manacle of his fingers. Dragging me back to my seat like a disobedient child.
"You disgust me," he mutters. Sotto voce. Ominous and as threatening as he intends it to be. "But I need your help to get her out. Devlin won't support an extraction and you're my last hope."
"Your last hope," I repeat mockingly, wincing as he tightens his grip. Poor guy. Relying on someone like me is a crapshoot. I can't even get out of my own way in a pinch. How am I supposed to back him on an op like this? "Do I have a choice?"
I hear the release of his safety and wonder how he got the gun through security. Yeah, compliance is definitely the better choice. "All right. I'll help you. But when this is over…..I'm done with the two of you."
And with that, I find the strength to slip from his fingers and stand on my own two feet.
******
We make quite a sight as we parade through the airport. People stare at the sober man in the gray suit and the clown in the oversized clothes that traipses behind him. A reluctant passenger on this journey. But we have one thing in common. As we pass the highly reflective surface of the concourse under glass, I recognize the same grim line on each of our faces, his mouth pulled down into a tight frown, my forehead puckered into its usual configuration. And as much as I want to forget who I am and what I represent, it is part of my blood, etched and ingrained into my very soul. I am part of this, whether I like it or not. Here for the duration. But one thing has changed forever. I will not let them control me. They will not dictate how it has to be. Not anymore. I may have survived the flood, but a part of me was washed away with Rambaldi's battery. My innocence is lost to the watershed, replaced by the darkness I always warn Sydney about. The part that doesn't care what happens. To hell with whatever consequences arise with this operation. I am not a party to it. And if I take them down with me, then so be it.
******
Have you seen Taipei from the sky? The light pollution alone must outshine the sun. One huge megalopolis spanning the northern end of Taiwan. Sin city. Really, you can do anything and be anyone you want. Like that fetish club. The beginning of the end. Weirdly coiffed creatures in bizarre clothes and me in my leathers. Angel meets Matrix. Diamond earring and garish streaks in my hair. The feeling of power as I shove that guy on the make. The smile of gratification on Syd's face….and the way she takes charge of the mission…..total head rush. For a moment, I forgot who and what we are and played along with the fantasy. How easy it would be to lose myself in this dream, dancing the night away with a blue-haired babe who just happened to be a spy.
The fantasies make it easier to pretend I am anywhere but here, riding shotgun to Spy Daddy, his mouth flattened into a grim line as we drive through the business district. Traffic is practically at a standstill, and it does nothing for his already fractious mood. We are deep in the heart of the city, buried in its nether regions, the underworld that overlays every passing transaction, every piece of business is routed through the kingpins that rule this empire. The mile high towers of the financial district give way to the squalid structures on the waterfront. And through it all, I dream the dreams of the wandering fool, stifled by the simmering anger of Jack Bristow.
I have nothing to offer, nothing to say that hasn't already been said. What can you do to a man who has seen it all and done it all? Jack Bristow has experienced every atrocity that the spy trade has tossed his way. Dealt with it. Delegated it. The trigger man in many an operation and not someone I would want as my enemy. But it's already too late for me. The sliver of respect that once existed between us has flown the coop, along with my honor and the desire to do what is right.
The traffic snarl eases and I start to recognize the area where the lab once stood. In its place is a cavalcade of police cars and security tape around the perimeter. A crater that swallows the equivalent of ten city blocks. If my mouth opens any further, I am sure a few flies will wander in. Bristow throws me a look and seems satisfied that I am finally feeling something other than the numbness that has set in.
"How do we find her?" I ask as we leave the crater behind and head even further into the maze of alleys and rats' warrens that make up the waterfront.
Jack seems to weigh his words before he answers. "I persuaded one of Khasinau's men to spill his guts."
I swallow hard at his choice of words and decide that the details are best left in Jack's mind. With a weak smile, I finger the newly stolen Glock that rests in its holster on my back. Two against an army. And Sydney Bristow. Weiss once said she could take down the world, but sometimes the world is not enough. Two sighs later, we come to a dead stop and I know that it's show time.
*******
Jack uncorks a bottle of wine and sloshes it against me. "Take a few swigs," he orders curtly and I comply without argument.
The red wine is worse than any poison he could have slipped me. It burns its way down my throat and I gasp as it torches my stomach. When he smiles, it chills me with its withering frost, only slightly thawed by the amusement in his eyes. Rank amateur. Easily led and easily read. Put a ring in my nose and lead me around like your daughter always has. Or so he thinks. "Watch my back," Jack warns as he hands me an earpiece and fades into the shadows.
Time passes and while I swat at the growing army of gnats and mosquitoes, I start to wonder what I am doing here. Jack is the point man and I'm the lookout. But what am I watching for? Vagrants and street people that barely spare me a glance as they dig through the mounds of garbage? Winos like the bum I am supposed to be, shambling about alleys, zigging and zagging as they guzzle their go-go juice, hands outstretched for any NT coin that falls their way.
I grow bored, and boredom is a bad thing for someone with my state of mind. So I decide to check out the warehouse that stretches the length of two football fields. With shuffling feet, it's easy to pretend that I'm looking for a place to crash. Easy to forget the real reason I am here. So when I stumble against the doorframe and catch my barred, reflection in the grimy window, I see a sleek back Mercedes pull into the alley. It stops and a woman gets out. I open my mouth to warn Jack, but my words die in my throat as she turns to speak to the driver. Overconfident in her bearing. The proud swing of her shoulders as she starts heading my way.
Irina Derevko, aka Laura Bristow.
Sleek dark hair that just brushes her shoulders.
She killed Dad.
Navy blue suit and sensible pumps. The way that she walks….my God, it's just like Sydney.
She killed all those other agents.
A few more seconds and she'll see me. It'll be all over. That's when it hits me. Why I am here. He would do anything for his daughter. Kill. Maim. Destroy. And I am a convenient target. An even trade.
With one last glance in her direction, I slip through the door and dive behind some crates at the moment she arrives. One hand plucks the earpiece from my ear and drops it while my other hand finds my Glock. Radio silence. Ensuring that I buy myself at least a little time. But I can't say what will happen to the others. And I can't find it in myself to care.
Because retribution is the only thing that drives me now.
******
