Title: Definition: Prolepsis
Series: Definition
Author: Dream Writer 4 Life
Genre: Just angst this time
Rating: PG-13 for language
Archived: SD-1, FanFiction.Net, and Cover Me. Anywhere else, just ask and you shall receive!
'Shippers' Paradise: S/V
Spoilers/Timeline: This has taken a turn for the AU: my version of the Mole Finding. Major spoilers if you haven't seen Season Three: up to 3.17 "The Frame".
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Period. End of story. Wait, no it's not! Keep reading!
Summary: Vaughn on the plane to Mexico...and his wife's capture. Third in the Definition Series. A Dream Writer Experience.
Author's Note: Even though I wanted to kill myself after just two of the billions of tests I have to take, I wrote this. Told you I write under pressure.
Definition: Prolepsis
Pro·lep·sis: (pro'lepsis), noun: [poetic/literary] anticipation
"Ladies and gentlemen, as many of you may be aware, the CIA has recently received intel indicating the identity of the mole. She is NSC Agent Lauren Reed—"
She betrayed you.
The bitch fucking betrayed you.
You may not be the best with words, but you know 'betrayed' is pretty damn bad. It's up there with 'secret', 'protocol', and the newly condemned 'wife'.
And the fucking bitch betrayed you more than once! She slept with Sark! You don't know how much lower she could get, but you'd bet good money she would have to work really hard to get there, and if you weren't so preoccupied with the fact that she betrayed you, your ego would be hurting right about now. God! After she accuses you of still harbouring feeling for Syd, she hops a plane to some dirty foreign country and then hops right onto Sark's dick. Wonderful. Just absolutely fucking wonderful.
Wow. When did you get a vocabulary like a sailor?
Does it matter?
No.
Nothing matters anymore. Hell, nothing's concrete long enough to qualify for mattering anymore. Everything you knew — everything you thought you knew is just wrong. Well, every thing but one.
Your connection with Syd.
You guess your connection has grown stronger because of Lauren; you are more in tune and sensitive to her feelings than ever before. Unfortunately, most of the time those Super-Sensitive Spy Skills are used to detect when you have hurt her incalculably.
As much as Lauren's duplicity has stabbed you in the back, it has stabbed Syd in the heart. You know she only wants you to be happy, and was ready to give you up to another woman, as long as she made you happy. But instead of Suzie Homemaker you chose a lying, thieving, whore, and not only did your misjudgment hurt you (and induce an untold number of complications for the government), but caused the one thing you swore would never happen again: you caused her pain. You jiggled and twisted and cranked that metaphorical knife you plunged into her heart that day in Hong Kong, one that she had probably learned to deal with. But because of your poor discretion — your longing for a distraction — you hurt the woman you love the most.
Lauren's not the only one who could be described with a b-word.
"We have reason to believe she is collaborating with Mister Julian Sark, and both of them are rumoured to be in Mexico City at the Covenant's North American cell headquarters. A tactical team will surround the building and secure the perimeter by disabling all security systems—"
It starts with the rapid escalation of every bodily function.
Your pulse is thundering in your chest, your neck, your wrist, your thumb. It convulses expeditiously enough to send any lie-detector needle careening off the chart — a needle which, on any other day you weren't betrayed by your wife, you could easily fool without a second thought. The pounding in your neck converges with its siblings and moves to block your throat, effectively restricting your capacity to swallow. It feels as if someone has shoved a boulder down your throat, and every time you try to force it to your stomach, it merely lodges in your esophagus even tighter.
But you don't believe you would want that boulder in your stomach, anyway: you've got enough going on down there, and you definitely don't need to add any more. The proverbial butterflies flit around, frantically trying to avoid the herd of rampant zoo animals turning your stomach into a mosh pit worse than Woodstock '99. No butter churn Simon and Garfunkel action for you; it's hard rock/heavy metal, bass so loud you feel your organs vibrating, screeching electric guitar riffs, and lead singers screaming unintelligible lyrics all the way. Add about forty-seven pounds of pure, solid lead, and that would equal the chemical composition of your stomach. Give or take a meal or two.
In other words, you feel kinda sick.
"Then we move in."
You've never sweated so much in your life.
Including hockey games.
You've always been an underarm and brow sweater, but now everything's coated in at least one layer of slick perspiration. Thank God this operation has you clad completely in black, because otherwise it would be painfully obvious how anxious you are. The clothes stick to you like a second, uncomfortable, hot, scratchy skin tight enough to restrict your already laboured breathing.
You fear to move lest several small tsunamis exit through your pant legs and sleeves, drowning the entire team. You fear to walk lest your shoes squish as if you've been wading in a river for hours. You fear to touch or lean on anything lest it slip out of your grasp or you yourself slide off and tumble to the floor. You are mildly surprised your fingers aren't wrinkled like a prune. As inconspicuously as possible, you rub your soaked palms on the sides of your thighs.
A drop of perspiration from your forehead slips down and curls into your right eye, causing you to blink furiously, most likely garnering more than one agent's attention. You smile reassuringly to disperse them.
"Take no prisoners. If you deem someone a threat to yourself or the mission do not hesitate to strike them down by any means necessary. The Agency wants both Sark and Reed delivered into federal custody unharmed. But both Director Dixon and I are prepared to face the consequences should they be delivered in body bags instead."
'Thanks Jack,' you think.
"Once we arrive, form units of two and search the building—"
Your entire body burns with an unscratchable itch like millions of insects are crawling over every inch of you, and they each have little scraps of sandpaper glued to their feet. You know actually scratching won't do any good, so the best you can do is hope that somehow the plane lands in either a giant vat of oatmeal or the largest acid bath in the world.
"Partitioned maps are being distributed now. Thoroughly search your sector before securing it. We will meet at the designated area and destroy the building once all of our agents are out safely."
Your internal fidgeting transfers to your external body parts.
Your left foot begins to tap the floor to an imagined, ever-shifting beat, almost seeming to change meters of its own accord. Even over the din of more than twenty agents and the two engines of the cargo plane, you can hear the hollow clapping sounds the rubber makes as it inconsistently slaps the metal underneath. Your fingers begin to drill out random letters in Morse code against your damp pants, composing an entirely different score than your foot. You're surprised your centre of gravity isn't slightly off and you're not falling to the floor every five seconds.
Your eyes buzz about the small, overcrowded space like a pair of bumblebees, anxious to gather more nectar before the first frost of the year.
Suddenly they find the last two flowers — the most beautiful of the whole field.
They lock with Syd's equally frantic gaze.
Each of you offers the other half a smile and a reassuring nod.
"That's all. Does anyone have anything to say?"
Your grin engulfs your entire mouth as you straighten your spine, all of your previous symptoms melting into oblivion.
Your eyes stay locked with Syd's as she silently feeds you strength. You state loud and clear over any and all noise:
"Let's go."
END