TITLE: "Appellation" ("Like This" part two of ?)
AUTHOR: Maycen Dicksen
RATING: PG
FEEDBACK: Please. maycendicksen@aol.com
SPOILERS: "The Telling"
DISTRIBUTION: Fanfiction.net, SD-1, Allies. If you'd like to post it
anywhere else, I'd be honored. Just drop me an e-mail.
SUMMARY: She doesn't have a name.
WARNING: This isn't exactly a happy story.
DISCLAIMER: Oh yeah. Almost forgot. I don't own the show or the characters.
If I did, there'd be no RONG. Or Connie Vaughn. Or Mac Smith.
NOTES: I really don't know what possessed me to continue this. Thank you
all for your kind words regarding "Like This." I hope you enjoy it.
Although, again.Kind of all over the place.
She doesn't have a name.
As odd as it is, that's the first thought assaulting your brain as you become aware of your surroundings. It's not, "Where the hell am I?" or "How did I get here?" or "Why do I smell like rotten noodles?" Those come later, sometime after "Ohmygod, Vaughn," "Dad," and "Francie's not Francie."
But first, it's "She doesn't have a name." And the thought fills you with an unidentifiable and profound anguish.
Who doesn't have a name, you don't exactly know. So, you push the thought to the back of your mind and try to make sense of what has happened. As an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency, that's what you're programmed to do. Agents are not programmed to curl up in a dirty alley and ponder their thoughts. You stand up, and despite the pounding headache, manage to make your way through the brightly lit streets of wherever. Wherever just happens to be Hong Kong, so you make the call-you're programmed to do it, of course--and take your place at the safe house and wait for your "contact" to arrive.
The waiting is excruciating. Waiting on so much more than a ride back home.waiting on answers. You try to busy yourself by taking in the environment of the room. It amuses you how the lamp shade looks like a big hat. The print on the wall seems to be a reproduction (likely made in Hong Kong, or maybe Taiwan.), but-if your translation is correct-says something about honesty.
Honesty.
She doesn't have a name. And it makes you want to cry. And you do.
It's likely the fatigue and confusion playing tricks on your mind. You don't know anyone without a name, especially a female. Even whoever Francie was had a name. Your mother has a name. You have a name.
But she doesn't.
The walls in there could use another coat of paint. You think that perhaps an antique white might be a little more soothing. You pass some time by examining the scratchy messages amateurly engraved into the arm rests and seats of your chair. There are probably twenty different languages represented, most of which you know. "God help me" in Russian. "Pigs" in Swedish. But the thing that stands out the most are the names. Anastasia. David. Malik. Mason.
The names. Something she doesn't have. Names that likely mean a great deal to their inscriber. Perhaps her name would mean a great deal to you, too. If she had one, that is.
You braid your hair. And then you unbraid it because it's lumpy. Why not? You have the time. You braid it again, and on the fifth try, you finally get it right and give up. You examine the scar on your abdomen, miraculously healed in a matter of hours or days.
The door opens. Even as he walks in the room and holds you, even as he tells you what you never thought you'd hear, and even as he explains the foreign object on his finger, still one thought remains.
She doesn't have a name.
And oddly enough, that's the only thing that matters.
She doesn't have a name.
As odd as it is, that's the first thought assaulting your brain as you become aware of your surroundings. It's not, "Where the hell am I?" or "How did I get here?" or "Why do I smell like rotten noodles?" Those come later, sometime after "Ohmygod, Vaughn," "Dad," and "Francie's not Francie."
But first, it's "She doesn't have a name." And the thought fills you with an unidentifiable and profound anguish.
Who doesn't have a name, you don't exactly know. So, you push the thought to the back of your mind and try to make sense of what has happened. As an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency, that's what you're programmed to do. Agents are not programmed to curl up in a dirty alley and ponder their thoughts. You stand up, and despite the pounding headache, manage to make your way through the brightly lit streets of wherever. Wherever just happens to be Hong Kong, so you make the call-you're programmed to do it, of course--and take your place at the safe house and wait for your "contact" to arrive.
The waiting is excruciating. Waiting on so much more than a ride back home.waiting on answers. You try to busy yourself by taking in the environment of the room. It amuses you how the lamp shade looks like a big hat. The print on the wall seems to be a reproduction (likely made in Hong Kong, or maybe Taiwan.), but-if your translation is correct-says something about honesty.
Honesty.
She doesn't have a name. And it makes you want to cry. And you do.
It's likely the fatigue and confusion playing tricks on your mind. You don't know anyone without a name, especially a female. Even whoever Francie was had a name. Your mother has a name. You have a name.
But she doesn't.
The walls in there could use another coat of paint. You think that perhaps an antique white might be a little more soothing. You pass some time by examining the scratchy messages amateurly engraved into the arm rests and seats of your chair. There are probably twenty different languages represented, most of which you know. "God help me" in Russian. "Pigs" in Swedish. But the thing that stands out the most are the names. Anastasia. David. Malik. Mason.
The names. Something she doesn't have. Names that likely mean a great deal to their inscriber. Perhaps her name would mean a great deal to you, too. If she had one, that is.
You braid your hair. And then you unbraid it because it's lumpy. Why not? You have the time. You braid it again, and on the fifth try, you finally get it right and give up. You examine the scar on your abdomen, miraculously healed in a matter of hours or days.
The door opens. Even as he walks in the room and holds you, even as he tells you what you never thought you'd hear, and even as he explains the foreign object on his finger, still one thought remains.
She doesn't have a name.
And oddly enough, that's the only thing that matters.