You need not have seen the series to read and understand this story.
Warning: Spoilers abound! Also, I often work without a beta and I do have some dyslexic-type issues that may show up here and there. In addition to that, the prolog is a little wordy and convoluted, but if you forgive me this, I think you'll find the following chapters much more enjoyable.
Disclaimer: The concept, the characters, and even the plot of this story do not belong to me. In an attempt to work on various aspects of my writing and overcome a serious crush of writer's block—brought on by losing half a completed story to a crashed computer—I decided to convert an episode or two of Mission Impossible (1988 version) to story form. This episode "Killer" served as the 1988 pilot episode but was itself an adaptation of an episode with the same title and plot from the original series.
Show Information: Mission Impossible was a classic show—particularly inventive for the time in which it was made. It is often seen as the quintessential spy show. It was revived in 1988 during a writer's strike, and while many were of the opinion it was not up to par with the original series, the "re-make" met with moderate success. Had the circumstances of its revival been different, it may have done better (and been better done) but we will never know.
As most TV was back then, it was essentially a formula show. Not a lot of character background was given, very convenient plot devices were shamelessly employed, and plot holes abound (yet it remains extremely fun to watch and the characters/actors do "worried for each other" so amazingly well). While writing this I have, at times, attempted to fill in these plot holes or work around them but was not always able to do so (please grant me that leeway). I've also attempted to fill in some scenes and expand others to include a little character development in the story. Clearly whatever I have added or expanded upon is from my own conjecture and not meant to be canonical, if such a thing exists.
Pointless Notes: You need not have seen the series to follow this story; however, a basic familiarity with the Mission Impossible concept (TV—not movie) would likely be helpful—but again, not totally necessary. On that note I'll state that the biggest disappointment regarding the movie (and yes—spoilers will be following this statement) is that the creators alienated fans of the original show by trying to turn the show's icon—Jim Phelps—into a bad guy. They also (in my opinion) failed to recognize what the team concept did for the show—instead, killing off the team concept, and turning the movie into "Tom Cruise: The Movie" followed unfortunately by "Tom Cruise: The Sequel." The existence of both movies are denied and disavowed for the remainder of this inane adventure.
A fan once made the comment that Hollywood did do a beautiful re-make of Mission: Impossible, but for some reason chose to call it Sneakers. I'd have to agree with this statement. If you want a good movie that was truly in the spirit of the series, watch Sneakers. Save the movie version for when you want a pure action flick—or Tom Cruise (and hey, I'm not judging… much).
Now, should you still chose the option of reading the following story, I hope you enjoy it, and please let me know if you do.
MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE
Staring: Peter Graves as Jim Phelps
Thaao Penghlis as Nicholas Black
Tony Hamilton as Max Harte
Phil Morris as Grant Collier (That's right fans—Greg Morris's son)
Terry Markwell as Casey Randall
Episode One: Killer
Adaptation by Aja
Prologue
"The farther you think you are from danger—the closer it has come to you."
Tom Copperfield would be the first to admit that he didn't pause to ponder the fabric of life often. More often than not, life's fabric rolled itself right out in front of him. He knew all the patterns and colors, and could feel the changing texture of it under his fingers. It was vibrantly beautiful, and scary, and heavily laced with irony.
Blatant, subtle, cold, amusing, incidental, sarcastic—irony never ceased to entertain life's spectators because it never ceased to surprise them. For Tom Copperfield, the experience of it never ceased to give him pause. He was not a superstitious man, but he was a suspicious one, and he believed in irony. He believed in irony like some men believe in religion. More than that, he believed in irony the way some believed in paranormal activity, government conspiracies, or alien invasions.
While there were always a dozen or more people ready to stand with fire and contention to elucidate the believing man's lack of proof or truth, Tom knew the believers were not altogether wrong.
After all, he was a government conspiracy—an agent and team leader for the Impossible Missions Force. A world network of United States allied governments employing the elite of humanity against the world's nefarious actors. An association of the most talented and inscrutable spies. An agency so secret it destroyed all evidence of issued assignments and disavowed any knowledge of their sanctioned agents.
Working for IMF had made Tom realize that the religion of irony was a religion of give and take. It gave by putting him in a profession that ran through his blood, a profession he couldn't imagine not doing. It gave by seeing fit to ensure his teacher and mentor in that profession was the greatest team leader they'd ever had.
It took by damning Tom to the knowledge that he'd never be quite as good as Jim Phelps. It took by ensuring his trust in his own abilities would never match his trust in Jim's—or for that matter, Jim's trust in him.
He accepted these facts as truth because he also knew that while he couldn't match Jim as a leader, he would come exceptionally close.
And irony had helped with that as well.
On missions it was a wielded tool—it seemed always to shock people, discovering vulnerabilities where they'd thought there were none. In day to day life it became the glassy tint that filtered his world view. He found it in everything—saw it surrounding the lives of everyone he encountered and knew his belief was contributing to his already suspicious nature.
He constantly calculated vulnerabilities, strengths, motivations—anything and everything exploitable to irony's intervention—in every situation. A honed habit so well developed he rarely missed even the slightest detail.
It was because of this belief, this honed skill, this pervading sense of suspicion, that he'd made the discovery that sent him down another road of intrigue. But it was the take part of irony that prevented him from seeing the full picture sooner.
He was astounded at how long it had taken him to see what was right in front of his nose. But now that it was—now that he couldn't deny it…
His plan was simple. There was no extra effort required to get close to his target because he was close already, and getting closer all the time. He could feel it in the same achingly painful way his once-dislocated shoulder told him it was going to rain. The injury was old and violent, but left him the sensational instinct that had never failed him since.
The irony was that before the injury, Tom remembered liking rain.
The wealthy and philanthropic Alfred Chamber's penthouse party was in full swing when Mathew Drake stepped out of the elevator and smoothly showed his invite to the doorman.
Inwardly, Drake scoffed at calling the garish affair a party. He hated these things. The pointless yet pointed interactions that only added to the atmosphere of unreasoned extravagance, and the arrogant belief of being untouchable. All in attendance ignoring the grit forty stories below, ignoring the grit in the midst of them. This expensively catered event drew only those with expensive tastes in everything, and fingers in everything else.
They were altogether fools. Drake knew better than them. Everyone was touchable.
As he strolled casually but directly across the room to the balcony doors, he tuned out the insignificant conversations and focused on identifying the number of people Scorpio had set in attendance along with him. Drake recognized some but knew none would recognize him. That was how he worked. He didn't often associate with the others. He never stuck around long enough to do so.
In front of the balcony doors, Drake stopped. Down the stairs to his right was a blond-haired, blue-eyed man. His target. Tom Copperfield. Easily identifiable, even without the physical description. Though his serious face fit perfectly with the small group of tuxedoed gentlemen surrounding him, the confident and easy way he stood set him subtly apart.
Drake held back a grin when he realized Scorpio himself was among the men Copperfield mingled with. Drake was rarely given the opportunity to perform his skills right in front of his boss.
He would make this interesting, for Scorpio's sake.
He didn't acknowledge Scorpio and Scorpio didn't acknowledge him. Mathew Drake was the consummate professional, and anonymity was of value to both of them.
Watching Copperfield, Drake smiled slightly. If all went well he'd be free from this facade of a party in less than five minutes.
He tucked his invitation smoothly into his pocket and moved onto the balcony. It was empty and he was glad. He pulled a metallic cylinder from his left pocket, sliding the crystallized drug within onto his palm. From his other pocket he pulled the metal shaft the drug would shoot from. He felt an odd sense of pleasure as the pieces locked easily together. Smooth and soundless. There would be no glitches.
Fixing the device in his hand, Drake turned back toward the doors and the elite society enclosed behind them, not even glancing at the spectacular San Francisco skyline.
When he stepped back into the room, he tracked Copperfield, seeing that he'd moved away from the balcony doors. Casually, Drake lifted a glass of champagne from a strolling server and watched. Copperfield shifted nearer to the food table, seemingly also seeking a glass of champagne. Drake sipped carefully. As he lowered the glass from his lips, the drug was fired unceremoniously into Copperfield's neck. The aim was flawless. And no one noticed a thing. Not a ripple of disturbance buzzed through the other partygoers.
Copperfield's hand flew to his neck, groping. His eyes were wide, and the "oh no" that emerged from him was barely audible. Drake actually admired the intelligibility that swam through his victim's eyes as he searched the room for his assassin, comprehending and accepting his reality when most others would have spent their last seconds clinging to denial.
The clarity only lasted a moment, dissipating rapidly as the drug took over.
Drake's work was done.
Leaving his champagne on the table to his right he stepped up to the elevators, ignoring Copperfield clutching his neck less than two yards away.
The elevator welcomed him with a friendly ding as he entered demurely and pushed the button for the main lobby. He'd traveled only two floors down when he started to hear the screams. By the time he walked out the building's front doors, a small crowd was gathering around Tom Copperfield's body on the parking lot's hard pavement.
Sirens could already be heard ringing in the distance.
Drake bypassed the waiting cab drivers and they paid him no mind, too distracted by the gore of the scene to compete for a fare. He wanted to walk anyway.
The job had taken less time than he'd planned, and it was a beautiful night.
tbc