Title: With a Twist

Author: The Raven Herself

Summary: Not entirely sure how to summarise this.  Basically, Sydney goes on a mission to retrieve an ancient and valuable artefact, but things just aren't going her way. 

Disclaimer: Don't own a thing.  Well, I own some things, but not much that's used in this story.  I don't own Alias or the characters involved (unfortunately).  I do own the inter-mafia relations operative of negotiable importance however.  Go me.

When this story is going to start: Right about… now.

It was a dark and stormy night.

Well, it would have been if the weather would just co-operate with the plot.  It really was just another clear (or as clear as it gets in Los Angeles, which isn't much), slightly warm evening.  The same as the one the night before… or the night before… or the night before.  Perhaps not the night before that though, as a hurricane of unrivalled strength had ripped through the city then, wreaking devastation of the like that hadn't been seen since the week earlier.  In fact, there was little to distinguish this night from any other myriad of inconsequential nights except for one thing.  On this particular night, a meeting took place.

*

"Have you got the merchandise?" asked a sinister voice from the shadows.  The expendable middleman (or, as he preferred to be called, the "inter-mafia relations operative of negotiable importance") took a hesitant step forward, proffering a dark briefcase in front of him.  He opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by the unmistakeable cock of a gun.

"Good."  The gun fired, and the expendable middleman (sorry, inter-mafia relations operative of negotiable importance) knew no more.

*

While that meeting was very important to some people, it wasn't the meeting that we're interested in.  We're interested in another meeting, taking place in a dark, dank, rusty, leaky, unappealing, ugly, negative energy charged Warehouse (note the capital, Warehouse not warehouse.  This was a Warehouse of some importance) on the other side of town. 

*

Agent Michael Vaughn leaned self-consciously against a pile of precariously stacked cartons, trying valiantly (and failing dismally) to express an air of suavity.  The best he managed was he once projected an air of uncomfortable stiffness.  But he only did that once.  One would think, after the amount of practice he'd had, he would be slightly better at it but there you go.  He was still leaning, somewhat awkwardly when the sound of clacking footsteps echoed throughout the warehouse.

One would also think that, in order to be a spy (or intelligence operative… or whatever they're actually called) one should at least be able to walk quietly.  In my opinion it would be a highly valuable skill, right up there with being able to run fast to techno music and look good in neon wigs.  Perhaps Special Agent Sydney Bristow did in fact know how to walk quietly but, given the opportunity, she enjoyed a good stomp.  That would explain a lot.  Anyway, Sydney Bristow walked into the warehouse, coming to a halt in front of Vaughn. 

The pair exchanged Meaningful Looks for several minutes.  They probably thought that their feelings for each other were subtle, which they were in the way that being hit in the head with a brick is subtle.  I could go on for several pages about the feeling underlaying those stares, but it can be summed up with a few simple words: they wanted each other.  Bad.  Now that's been cleared up, can we move along?  Good.

"Sloane wants me to go to Cyprus," said Sydney bluntly, (had the weather been co-operating there would have just been an ominous peal of thunder).  She pushed her hair back behind her ear in a patented gesture and settled herself onto a box of crates opposite that which Vaughn was currently leaning on.  She managed the right stance effortlessly, thus proving that while Vaughn could out frown her any day there was no competition in the looking-cool-while-leaning-on-discarded-boxes stakes. 

Any normal person would have been slightly put out by the lack of greeting, but we must remember the exchange of Meaningful Looks.  After that, this was more like a footnote to a long, intensely romantic conversation (Awww…). Vaughn certainly didn't seem to mind.

"Why?" he asked, proving that while Sydney can be blunt, he can be blunter.   Sydney shifted slightly.

"To retrieve some Rambaldi artefact, why else?" she replied, sounding slightly sarcastic.  All right, more than slightly.  The only missions Sydney went on were to retrieve some Rambaldi artefact.  Oh, and the ones where she went to rescue someone…but they only needed rescuing due to the consequences of retrieving some Rambaldi artefact.  Vaughn frowned, but that was no different to his normal expression.

"What kind of artefact?" he asked, crossing his right leg over his left.  Sydney straightened her jacket.

"Apparent Rambaldi made a spinning wheel," she began to explain.  Vaughn listened intently.  "Sloane wants me to try and obtain it.  Failing that, he wants me to get a sample of the thread it produces."  Vaughn leaned back, looking contemplative.  He could have been pondering a possible counter mission, or he could have been deciding what to make for dinner that night.  You choose.

"We'll contact you with your counter-mission," he said stoically, pretending to be oblivious to the fact that counter-missions were always variations on the theme of "attach this doohickey to stuff".  Sometimes she had to perform a switch, but only of information obtained by… you guessed it, attaching a doohickey to stuff.  Subtle.

"Right," Sydney trailed off.  More Meaningful Looks were exchanged.  "Well…"

"Yes…" said Vaughn, shifting uncomfortably.  "Er…"

"Um… bye then," Sydney offered tentatively.  Vaughn smiled brightly.  This was familiar ground.

"Bye," he said, sounding slightly relieved.  Sydney shot him yet another Meaningful Look (this one proclaiming her tragedy that they couldn't be together despite the fact that they were clearly made for each other) and stomped back to her car.  Vaughn straightened up, taking a few steps away from the crates and stretching his back.

"Damn that's uncomfortable…" he murmured, staggering over to his car (what's that?  Government car?  Oh, my neck…) and climbing into the front seat.  He stared at his hands for a minute, then started the engine and drove off.

*

"This is the Contrivance building," began Arvin Sloane the following morning, kicking off the meeting with all the usual formality and idle chit-chat.  A picture of a bland grey building filled the handy-dandy little screen in front of Sydney's chair, and she studied it intently.  "Their security is very tight, however it relies too much on video surveillance.  Sydney, you are going to incapacitate those cameras," he said, directing the last at Sydney.  Sydney frowned.

"How?" she asked simply, still examining her little screen intently.  The faint sounds of the Young and the Restless could be heard emanating from her screen if one strained their ears.  Luckily, no one would suspect Sydney of watching soap operas during a briefing.  She had gotten away with the act for years.

"That's for Marshall to explain.  Marshall?" he said, turning and facing an empty chair.  There was a pregnant pause, then…

"Where's Marshall?!" Sloane exploded, showing all the patience and dignity of a petulant two year old.  Sydney shrugged.

"Perhaps he forgot?" mused Sark; oblivious to the glare Sloane shot him.  The room fell silent, the only sound being the noises of someone in a great hurry clanking down the hallway outside.

Marshall, the lovable socially inept gadget dude, bounded into the conference room, practically wetting himself with excitement.  Had he been a dog, he would have been one of those little puppies with more energy than sense.  You know, the ones that run all through the house, peeing on the drop of a hat and jumping up all over you so they can lick your face.  Those puppies.  That was Marshall.  He skidded to a halt in front of his chair and smiled manically at the assembled people. 

Sloane gave him a Look (one that said he knew exactly what kind of puppy he was, and that if he wasn't careful he was going to be sent to obedience school).  Marshall wilted a little, dropping something on the table.  He made a few ta-da gestures for good measure.  Sydney, Jack, Sloane and Sark (Hey, Jack's the only one whose name doesn't start with an 's'… interesting…).  

"What is it?" Sark asked after a few minutes.  Marshall's face fell.

"Can't you tell?" he asked reproachfully.  Sark stared at the object a little longer.

"Is it some new kitchen appliance?" he ventured finally.  Marshall shook his head.  Sark frowned.  "Then I have no idea what it could possibly be."  Marshall took a deep breath, and all present prepared themselves (readied themselves for some heavy duty filtering of the babble to find the actual point).

"I was watching this show about weather- you know, because I can have some really good ideas when watching those- anyway, so I was watching it and I figured out how to make this- it's a filter for the cameras," he explained.  "Basically you just stick it over the camera like so," he held the device up over his eyes, "and ta-da!  I can't see any of you!"  He put the filter back down again.  "You know how they make weather people wear a certain colour so they don't blend into the screen?  This is like that, only in reverse."

Sark picked up the device gingerly between his thumb and forefinger, looking at it from every angle.  "Interesting…" he commented, placing it gently back on the table.  Marshall grinned enthusiastically.

"I could make you one too," he started; faltering at the look on Sloane's face, "Though maybe I'd better not…" he finished inanely.  Sydney examined the filter gingerly.

"You'll fit the filter over the security cameras," Sloane continued, fiddling with his little PowerPoint display thing.  A giant message box opened on all the little screens reading "This program has performed an illegal operation."  Sloane hissed under his breath.

"Goddamn windows," Jack spat vehemently at his screen, smashing it with his clenched fist for good measure.  Needless to say, (though I'll say it anyway), it didn't help.  The little screens shut down completely.  Sloane sighed in exasperation.

"So, yeah, you'll retrieve the spinning wheel.  You leave tonight," he finished hurriedly.  Sydney nodded and left.

Author's Notes:

I can explain where this all came from- I was reading a Terry Pratchett book (I can't remember which one), when I thought "wouldn't it be fun to write an Alias story in this style?"  Knowing that I could never emulate Terry Pratchett's masterful writing style, I decided to give it a go anyway.  So here it is.  Please tell me whether this has prospects, or is such a load of tripe that there are several government orders demanding that I never be allowed near a computer again.  It would be much appreciated.