Chapter Seven - Mission GHJ985
Sydney buttons up her blazer and changes the frequency in her earpiece under the blonde bobbed wig. She didn't know why she was doing this, she signed up for a field agent and now she was an operations officer. The only reason was because of her mother and the Academy. No matter what her mother did to her country, her daughter would be there to tarnish it. That was the reason of some of Sydney's reasons for everything. Because her mother would have been ashamed to call her family, which was one of the things she wanted most. Not to be Laura Bristow's daughter.
"Boot Camp this is Freelancer, do you read me?" She whispers in her sleeve where her golden cuff link was.
"We hear you Freelancer. Are you in position?"
She glances around the niche and finds herself outside of the building on a very desolate area in Berlin. She checks that she is equipped, and ready catch this bitch for the last time. She puts a hand on her stomach, only feeling the heavy Kevlar. She had her guns, her ammunition, everything in perfect position.
"Yes, Boot Camp. Waiting for Nightingale."
She takes one deep breath and sights Nightingale with his armored guards escorting him out of the building.
"I see him, he's with two men and he carrying a briefcase." She moans into her cuff.
"Approach with caution, grab the suitcase, and met up in rendezvous at checkpoint."
"What about Nightingale?" She asks.
"You have permission to terminate, going radio silent."
"Now they say it." She rolls her eyes and walks with a movement of caution as she comes up to Nightingale. His bodyguards hold suspicion and look almost seductively at her.
"I don't suppose you have the time?" She speaks in German. She pulls out her gun and before the two can react she shoots them both, and then shooting Nightingale last. She crawls over his dead body to take the suitcase from his hand and notices the metal chain to the suitcase and his hand. She raises an eyebrow and laughs as she points her gun and shoots at the chain. Ironically, it doesn't break. "Damn it, Nightingale, you can never make it easy can you?"
She pulls out her knife and flips it open. She squints her eyes and then looks back at his face, eyes open, and blood running down his open mouth.
"You killed innocent children, you made my teenage years so terrible," She bits her lip as the knife cuts cracks the bone. "My Father created a home for unloved children and slowly brought them up into intelligence. You…you took everything we had left of our lives, you took everything away. But, yes, dead men can't talk." She looked away as she cut through the last inch of flesh and dried her hands with his shirt, blood dripping everywhere, her hands covered. She took the suitcase, without the hand of course, and walked her way to rendezvous.
"I got the suitcase." She met with the African American middle-aged suit and a very pale skinned young male. She held up the suitcase, realizing that her appearance was not too clean. "It was handcuffed." She sighs.
They exchange glances and then she falls to her back from a tranquilizer shot in her left arm.
"Damn it." She whispers as it fades to black.
*
The taste of metal fills her mouth, the familiar feelings of once being drugged to take out her tonsils when she was twelve was remembered. She tossed her head around and looked at the green walls and the dim light that was more comfortable than future questions. She looks back down at the restraints at her arms on the bed, the itchy wool at her open spots where her office wear didn't cover.
She turns her heavy head to the sides of her arms; seeing that the cuffs were missing and feeling that her earpiece was taken out. She sighs again and looks up into the lighting, blinding her eyes through her blonde strands. Blood seemed to dry everywhere on her body, tainted in her white shirt that was almost fully unbuttoned, on her hands, and on her blonde wig.
"Why don't we start by names, shall we?" The voice was heard though the doorway and sounded bitterly familiar. She stares over at the man, smugly comfortable in the bleak appearance. She never been caught before, it was kind of a scare deal. She was actually frighten, and looking at the other man coming in with a couple of needles and god knows what else, she knew this was going to be painful.
"Bite me." She spits out at her captor. He just shook his head as he let the other man advance with a very long sharp needle. He pressed over her left arm and punctures her skin just enough to draw blood. She squints her eyes and moves her body away trying to fight of the restraints.
"We can go deeper if you like?" It wasn't a question though. She looked away in agony. How could a needle so small could hurt so much? It must have been coated with acid. Because that is what it felt like, it felt like it was ripping and eating at her skin at the same time. "Just tell us your name."
"Go to hell." She moans. He pushes further into her arm and she screamed out loud from the torture. She began to almost have a tantrum under the restraints, pushing the blankets off the bed and racketing the bedposts.
"Now, now. Don't get grumpy, I would hate to see all that passion burn out before we get to the real torture."
He peers almost admiringly at her pain. He takes a moment to realize that blonde isn't her natural color as far as it has been. He steps closer to find the bobby pins and then pulls the wig off to let hazelnut locks cascade out of the cap. He is taken back as she flips her hair out of her face to see eye to eye with this peculiar man.
"Laura?" A deep breath is caught in his throat. Her eyes are filled with surprise and shock. Either he was mistaking her, or mistaking her for Mom. He blinks and shakes his head as pulls out the needle from her arm and cups her face by her chin. "It can't be…Sydney?"
"How did you know my name?" She asks him feeling his burning eyes in her face.
"You have to be an imposter, I've mistaken you." His brow lands in a fury as he walks backwards. "Sydney Bristow died from an wound infection when she was eight…it can't be you. It can't possibly be you, Sydney."
"Who are you?"
The more the man became mad at the likeness the more Sydney questions his identification. He didn't say anything when she asks, but it was almost he was only paying attention to his thoughts than Sydney's orders.
"Sydney would have a scar on her right shoulder."
He stood and pulled the shirt over her right shoulder, and then pulling the bra-strap over catching the soft white scar over the delicate blue veins. He became a codfish to her, mouth wide open as if lyrics of Othello were going to burst straight after him.
"You must be Sydney, you look so much like your mother." He whispers in awe.
"My mother? How…who are you?"
"I knew you since you were born. I was almost a second father to you."
"I don't remember you."
"I'm your Uncle Arvin."
He looks at her for a brief moment, he doesn't remember a girl in her prime age into becoming a woman, he doesn't remember blood dripping from her buttons and under her fingernails, and he certainly not remember his young niece questioning his identity. He remembers a laughing bright girl who would frolic in the garden and try to catch frogs, wherever they came from. He remembers a girl who would run to her lovely deceitful mother as if the two were attracting magnets always separating easily and brought back forcefully.
She is the spitting image of her dead mother. She talks almost as eloquently as her. She gazes just like her, out of those dark cat eyes that were covered in thick eyelashes. And she probably is just as deceitful as her as well.
But he never in million years thought her employers and her father would punish her for the crimes of her mother. It had to be the only answer to how she survived the infection.
A/N: Love it? I thought we get more characters in there!
Sydney buttons up her blazer and changes the frequency in her earpiece under the blonde bobbed wig. She didn't know why she was doing this, she signed up for a field agent and now she was an operations officer. The only reason was because of her mother and the Academy. No matter what her mother did to her country, her daughter would be there to tarnish it. That was the reason of some of Sydney's reasons for everything. Because her mother would have been ashamed to call her family, which was one of the things she wanted most. Not to be Laura Bristow's daughter.
"Boot Camp this is Freelancer, do you read me?" She whispers in her sleeve where her golden cuff link was.
"We hear you Freelancer. Are you in position?"
She glances around the niche and finds herself outside of the building on a very desolate area in Berlin. She checks that she is equipped, and ready catch this bitch for the last time. She puts a hand on her stomach, only feeling the heavy Kevlar. She had her guns, her ammunition, everything in perfect position.
"Yes, Boot Camp. Waiting for Nightingale."
She takes one deep breath and sights Nightingale with his armored guards escorting him out of the building.
"I see him, he's with two men and he carrying a briefcase." She moans into her cuff.
"Approach with caution, grab the suitcase, and met up in rendezvous at checkpoint."
"What about Nightingale?" She asks.
"You have permission to terminate, going radio silent."
"Now they say it." She rolls her eyes and walks with a movement of caution as she comes up to Nightingale. His bodyguards hold suspicion and look almost seductively at her.
"I don't suppose you have the time?" She speaks in German. She pulls out her gun and before the two can react she shoots them both, and then shooting Nightingale last. She crawls over his dead body to take the suitcase from his hand and notices the metal chain to the suitcase and his hand. She raises an eyebrow and laughs as she points her gun and shoots at the chain. Ironically, it doesn't break. "Damn it, Nightingale, you can never make it easy can you?"
She pulls out her knife and flips it open. She squints her eyes and then looks back at his face, eyes open, and blood running down his open mouth.
"You killed innocent children, you made my teenage years so terrible," She bits her lip as the knife cuts cracks the bone. "My Father created a home for unloved children and slowly brought them up into intelligence. You…you took everything we had left of our lives, you took everything away. But, yes, dead men can't talk." She looked away as she cut through the last inch of flesh and dried her hands with his shirt, blood dripping everywhere, her hands covered. She took the suitcase, without the hand of course, and walked her way to rendezvous.
"I got the suitcase." She met with the African American middle-aged suit and a very pale skinned young male. She held up the suitcase, realizing that her appearance was not too clean. "It was handcuffed." She sighs.
They exchange glances and then she falls to her back from a tranquilizer shot in her left arm.
"Damn it." She whispers as it fades to black.
*
The taste of metal fills her mouth, the familiar feelings of once being drugged to take out her tonsils when she was twelve was remembered. She tossed her head around and looked at the green walls and the dim light that was more comfortable than future questions. She looks back down at the restraints at her arms on the bed, the itchy wool at her open spots where her office wear didn't cover.
She turns her heavy head to the sides of her arms; seeing that the cuffs were missing and feeling that her earpiece was taken out. She sighs again and looks up into the lighting, blinding her eyes through her blonde strands. Blood seemed to dry everywhere on her body, tainted in her white shirt that was almost fully unbuttoned, on her hands, and on her blonde wig.
"Why don't we start by names, shall we?" The voice was heard though the doorway and sounded bitterly familiar. She stares over at the man, smugly comfortable in the bleak appearance. She never been caught before, it was kind of a scare deal. She was actually frighten, and looking at the other man coming in with a couple of needles and god knows what else, she knew this was going to be painful.
"Bite me." She spits out at her captor. He just shook his head as he let the other man advance with a very long sharp needle. He pressed over her left arm and punctures her skin just enough to draw blood. She squints her eyes and moves her body away trying to fight of the restraints.
"We can go deeper if you like?" It wasn't a question though. She looked away in agony. How could a needle so small could hurt so much? It must have been coated with acid. Because that is what it felt like, it felt like it was ripping and eating at her skin at the same time. "Just tell us your name."
"Go to hell." She moans. He pushes further into her arm and she screamed out loud from the torture. She began to almost have a tantrum under the restraints, pushing the blankets off the bed and racketing the bedposts.
"Now, now. Don't get grumpy, I would hate to see all that passion burn out before we get to the real torture."
He peers almost admiringly at her pain. He takes a moment to realize that blonde isn't her natural color as far as it has been. He steps closer to find the bobby pins and then pulls the wig off to let hazelnut locks cascade out of the cap. He is taken back as she flips her hair out of her face to see eye to eye with this peculiar man.
"Laura?" A deep breath is caught in his throat. Her eyes are filled with surprise and shock. Either he was mistaking her, or mistaking her for Mom. He blinks and shakes his head as pulls out the needle from her arm and cups her face by her chin. "It can't be…Sydney?"
"How did you know my name?" She asks him feeling his burning eyes in her face.
"You have to be an imposter, I've mistaken you." His brow lands in a fury as he walks backwards. "Sydney Bristow died from an wound infection when she was eight…it can't be you. It can't possibly be you, Sydney."
"Who are you?"
The more the man became mad at the likeness the more Sydney questions his identification. He didn't say anything when she asks, but it was almost he was only paying attention to his thoughts than Sydney's orders.
"Sydney would have a scar on her right shoulder."
He stood and pulled the shirt over her right shoulder, and then pulling the bra-strap over catching the soft white scar over the delicate blue veins. He became a codfish to her, mouth wide open as if lyrics of Othello were going to burst straight after him.
"You must be Sydney, you look so much like your mother." He whispers in awe.
"My mother? How…who are you?"
"I knew you since you were born. I was almost a second father to you."
"I don't remember you."
"I'm your Uncle Arvin."
He looks at her for a brief moment, he doesn't remember a girl in her prime age into becoming a woman, he doesn't remember blood dripping from her buttons and under her fingernails, and he certainly not remember his young niece questioning his identity. He remembers a laughing bright girl who would frolic in the garden and try to catch frogs, wherever they came from. He remembers a girl who would run to her lovely deceitful mother as if the two were attracting magnets always separating easily and brought back forcefully.
She is the spitting image of her dead mother. She talks almost as eloquently as her. She gazes just like her, out of those dark cat eyes that were covered in thick eyelashes. And she probably is just as deceitful as her as well.
But he never in million years thought her employers and her father would punish her for the crimes of her mother. It had to be the only answer to how she survived the infection.
A/N: Love it? I thought we get more characters in there!