Author : Amelie (user Iselia)
Email: amelia_aurora(AT)hotmail.com
Disclaimer: Anything Alias is not mine, never will be.
Distribution: Want it? Take it! Just let me know! (
Rating: PG13
Arvin Sloane had found that having a gun pressed into the flesh at the side of your neck was not a calming experience. Today especially, he wished he wasn't on the receiving end of the barrel.
"Sydney. Care to explain what is going on?"
His favourite agent. The agent he entrusted with the most sensitive operations had played him for a fool. Or so it appeared. Despite his cold exterior, he prided himself on the fact that he still had a heart, that he cared for his agents. If she explained herself and put the gun down, maybe, just maybe he could still find a place for her. Pulling a gun on your superiors was frowned upon in the Organisation, but hey, at least it showed you had courage.
He heard the safety click off.
Maybe she was experiencing temporary insanity.
Maybe she'd suffered a brain aneurysm.
"CIA! Everybody freeze!"
Maybe she was the mole. He looked up from the corner of his eye. "You bitch," he muttered. White hot humiliation and anger flooded his body. If he could just move an inch, maybe..four more agents spilled into the room and aimed their weapons at him. Maybe not.
"Agent Bristow, keep your weapon still," the agents swept through the room. What were they doing, he didn't know. Bugs, guns, hell, maybe they even wanted his tax statement.
"Nice people don't ransack someone's office while they're sitting here," he said between gritted teeth.
"Nice people don't commit countless acts of treason and break international law," Sydney twisted the gun slightly and pushed harder, "Do they?"
Barely metres away, Jack Bristow had his gun trained on the very people he'd worked beside for twenty years. He kept his eyes moving, not lingering long enough on anyone to let the expression of utter bewilderment and betrayal make an impact.
Around him, CIA officers and agents moved. They made their way through the office like warm honey, oozing around corners and filling gaps. Like molasses, thick, black and stifling; once touched, it's stuck to you, tacky and unescapable.
"Mr Bristow," someone said. It was a pleading, desperate whisper. It was full of terror and longing. The longing, he couldn't understand; was it for safety, for knowledge or for a lover never to be seen again.
He looked down. Peeking from beneath a desk was Stacey. Stacey was barely past twenty. Somehow, she'd been recruited as a typist. She'd worked close by him, often typing his reports given on Dictaphone. He looked down at her. "Be quiet," he snapped. Tears sprung into her eyes and fell down her cheeks.
"Am I going to die?"
He stared straight ahead, gun sweeping across the room. The door was guarded, the room full of agents. For a split second, he wondered what he would do now; was he to stand around, to watch, to wait? He lowered his weapon and kept his eyes up.
"Now listen to me," he hissed under his breath. "These people aren't going to hurt you. Trust me. Do whatever they say and tell them whatever you know. Will you do that?"
The girl nodded. She was cowering now. Absently, he moved his gun to point at Sloane's office. Had he been pointing it at her, he wondered. It didn't matter. He watched as Sydney opened the door and stepped out. A roomful of guns were trained on her in an instant.
"She's with us," he barked. They lowered their weapons. "Agent Bristow, Agent Vaughn is waiting outside," Sydney nodded and smiled slightly. Fighting his spy training (you never showed emotion during an op) he allowed himself to return it. Maybe now things could start to resemble normal between them.
-o-0-o-
"What is your name?"
"Arvin Sloane."
"Are you aware of an organisation called SD-6?"
"Yes."
"How highly were you involved in the organisation?"
"I was a mid-level director. Nothing more."
"Please repeat."
"I was a director."
"Describe the position."
Lie detector tests. Like every other agent, he was taught to fool it. It was somewhat harder when it was your own life on the line. He wriggled his wrists. The handcuffs were too tight and pinched his skin. The custodial outfit, a grey jumpsuit, was significantly less comforting then a tailored suit.
The tester, a middle aged woman dressed in a plain black suit watched him carefully. She pushed her rimless glasses higher onto her nose and looked at the readout again. One of the readouts, anyway; they had him hooked up to at least four different machines, and were monitoring everything about him.
He shuffled his feet. Cheap canvas shoes. He wasn't even permitted the dignity of his own footwear.
"Mr Sloane, describe your position,"
"Director."
Again, he pulled against his restraints. If he could just see her badge, learn her name, he had some hope of gaining an upper hand, maybe pushing her buttons until the interrogation was delayed. Luck, it seemed, was not on his side. The badge was clipped beneath the hem of her jacket.
"What's your name?" he grunted.
"Describe the duties the position of director entailed."
"No,"
The tester sighed and placed the pen on the table. "Arvin," Oh, he thought, she was getting frustrated. Using a captives first name usually got them riled up. It was a standard trick, a way of invading their personal space. He was better then that. "We will do this until you answer my questions. It doesn't matter whether that takes forty minutes or forty years. You will answer the question,"
"Describe your role as director,"
"No,"
"Describe your role as director."
"No,"
"Describe your role as director."
"Never, you stupid woman,"
She made a mark on the sheet. Sloane shifted again against the handcuffs. The ones at his ankles didn't bother him as much. They were lighter and looser. In the heavy cuffs, his hands looked like those of a very old man. How many litres of blood had these hands spilled? He didn't know. More importantly, he didn't care.
"Explain your role as director,"
Five minutes and he was feeling stressed. Forty years of questioning would grow tiresome. He opened his mouth and began to speak.
Arvin Sloane had found that having a gun pressed into the flesh at the side of your neck was not a calming experience. Today especially, he wished he wasn't on the receiving end of the barrel.
"Sydney. Care to explain what is going on?"
His favourite agent. The agent he entrusted with the most sensitive operations had played him for a fool. Or so it appeared. Despite his cold exterior, he prided himself on the fact that he still had a heart, that he cared for his agents. If she explained herself and put the gun down, maybe, just maybe he could still find a place for her. Pulling a gun on your superiors was frowned upon in the Organisation, but hey, at least it showed you had courage.
He heard the safety click off.
Maybe she was experiencing temporary insanity.
Maybe she'd suffered a brain aneurysm.
"CIA! Everybody freeze!"
Maybe she was the mole. He looked up from the corner of his eye. "You bitch," he muttered. White hot humiliation and anger flooded his body. If he could just move an inch, maybe..four more agents spilled into the room and aimed their weapons at him. Maybe not.
"Agent Bristow, keep your weapon still," the agents swept through the room. What were they doing, he didn't know. Bugs, guns, hell, maybe they even wanted his tax statement.
"Nice people don't ransack someone's office while they're sitting here," he said between gritted teeth.
"Nice people don't commit countless acts of treason and break international law," Sydney twisted the gun slightly and pushed harder, "Do they?"
Barely metres away, Jack Bristow had his gun trained on the very people he'd worked beside for twenty years. He kept his eyes moving, not lingering long enough on anyone to let the expression of utter bewilderment and betrayal make an impact.
Around him, CIA officers and agents moved. They made their way through the office like warm honey, oozing around corners and filling gaps. Like molasses, thick, black and stifling; once touched, it's stuck to you, tacky and unescapable.
"Mr Bristow," someone said. It was a pleading, desperate whisper. It was full of terror and longing. The longing, he couldn't understand; was it for safety, for knowledge or for a lover never to be seen again.
He looked down. Peeking from beneath a desk was Stacey. Stacey was barely past twenty. Somehow, she'd been recruited as a typist. She'd worked close by him, often typing his reports given on Dictaphone. He looked down at her. "Be quiet," he snapped. Tears sprung into her eyes and fell down her cheeks.
"Am I going to die?"
He stared straight ahead, gun sweeping across the room. The door was guarded, the room full of agents. For a split second, he wondered what he would do now; was he to stand around, to watch, to wait? He lowered his weapon and kept his eyes up.
"Now listen to me," he hissed under his breath. "These people aren't going to hurt you. Trust me. Do whatever they say and tell them whatever you know. Will you do that?"
The girl nodded. She was cowering now. Absently, he moved his gun to point at Sloane's office. Had he been pointing it at her, he wondered. It didn't matter. He watched as Sydney opened the door and stepped out. A roomful of guns were trained on her in an instant.
"She's with us," he barked. They lowered their weapons. "Agent Bristow, Agent Vaughn is waiting outside," Sydney nodded and smiled slightly. Fighting his spy training (you never showed emotion during an op) he allowed himself to return it. Maybe now things could start to resemble normal between them.
-o-0-o-
"What is your name?"
"Arvin Sloane."
"Are you aware of an organisation called SD-6?"
"Yes."
"How highly were you involved in the organisation?"
"I was a mid-level director. Nothing more."
"Please repeat."
"I was a director."
"Describe the position."
Lie detector tests. Like every other agent, he was taught to fool it. It was somewhat harder when it was your own life on the line. He wriggled his wrists. The handcuffs were too tight and pinched his skin. The custodial outfit, a grey jumpsuit, was significantly less comforting then a tailored suit.
The tester, a middle aged woman dressed in a plain black suit watched him carefully. She pushed her rimless glasses higher onto her nose and looked at the readout again. One of the readouts, anyway; they had him hooked up to at least four different machines, and were monitoring everything about him.
He shuffled his feet. Cheap canvas shoes. He wasn't even permitted the dignity of his own footwear.
"Mr Sloane, describe your position,"
"Director."
Again, he pulled against his restraints. If he could just see her badge, learn her name, he had some hope of gaining an upper hand, maybe pushing her buttons until the interrogation was delayed. Luck, it seemed, was not on his side. The badge was clipped beneath the hem of her jacket.
"What's your name?" he grunted.
"Describe the duties the position of director entailed."
"No,"
The tester sighed and placed the pen on the table. "Arvin," Oh, he thought, she was getting frustrated. Using a captives first name usually got them riled up. It was a standard trick, a way of invading their personal space. He was better then that. "We will do this until you answer my questions. It doesn't matter whether that takes forty minutes or forty years. You will answer the question,"
"Describe your role as director,"
"No,"
"Describe your role as director."
"No,"
"Describe your role as director."
"Never, you stupid woman,"
She made a mark on the sheet. Sloane shifted again against the handcuffs. The ones at his ankles didn't bother him as much. They were lighter and looser. In the heavy cuffs, his hands looked like those of a very old man. How many litres of blood had these hands spilled? He didn't know. More importantly, he didn't care.
"Explain your role as director,"
Five minutes and he was feeling stressed. Forty years of questioning would grow tiresome. He opened his mouth and began to speak.