The One and Only Jessie Bannon – A Jonny Quest: The Real Adventures Fanfiction

by Akane-Rei


Chapter Five: Looking Back at the Choices

Siann basked in the soft rays of sunlight that touched her skin as she stared, perplexed, at the canvas before her. Around her, the sounds and smells of the morning permeate the air. The chirping of the birds and the mysterious language of the insects can be heard below her in the gardens.

For the first time in days, she relaxed while she did what she loved most: paint. This spot, her balcony, had always been a favorite place of hers to finish her work. Good conditions for working outdoors, however, were rare and few in between. Parisian weather could be quite uncooperative most of the times. Which was why, upon seeing the bright sun when she opened her eyes that morning, Siann took the opportunity given to her and set up her materials. Ever since she decided to professionally paint, she took advantage of every inspiration that hit her.

In the corner of her eye, she noticed Luc enter her bedroom. She sighed. She had a very good guess of what he was there for.

"Are you sure this is alright with you?" Luc asked abruptly for what seemed like the hundredth time that week.

Siann dragged her eyes off her work and looked up at him with exasperation. He had been a nervous wreck since he scheduled the press conference four days ago and his constant need to reaffirm her consent has been slowly driving her up the walls.

Luc, upon seeing her glare at him, raised both hands up in a mock pose of surrender and said, "I know, I know. You would like to beat me with your paint brush. Really, Siann, these violent tendencies of yours must be curved."

She threw the said paintbrush at him, hitting him square in the chest. "You are enough to drive a saint insane!" she exclaimed. "If I did not like you so much I would have committed murder two days ago!"

"Hey!" he shouted, looking down at his white polo shirt. More specifically, he looked down at the emerging blue color that began to soak through it from the spot where he paint brush hit him. "This is one of my favorite shirts."

Siann grinned. "Really?"

He scowled at her, his dark brown eyes glinting. "Just for this, I'm going to make that press conference last two hours instead of the hour we planned," he threatened.

"Hah!" she said. "You wouldn't. You're even more apprehensive about this whole thing than I am." She looked at him strangely. "And I'm the one who has to go through with it."

She watched in surprise as he squirmed from where he stood. "Jean- Luc?" she queried softly. "What's going on?" She walked towards him and touched his arm, a look of concern placed in her face.

He took a deep breath and placed both his hands on her shoulders. She stared into the brown depths of his eyes and saw . . . something.

"Jean-Luc?" she asked again, more than a little edgy now.

"Siann," he said, "If you have any doubts . . . any doubts at all about all these, you would not hesitate to tell me, no? You know I will cancel the whole thing with one word from you."

She laughed nervously now. "Jean-Luc," she said haltingly, "you are scaring me. Now tell me what's wrong?" She searched his eyes.

As if an invisible shutter was placed between them, she watched as his eyes became suddenly unreadable.

"Nothing," he replied. He took his hands from her shoulders and started pacing the room.

Siann crossed her arms in front of her and stared at her long-time friend. "You never used to lie to me Jean-Luc," she said quietly.

Merde, he thought. If only you knew.

For the umpteenth time that day, he damned Zechariah Colère. If he had not talked to the man, he would not be this apprehensive. He sighed. That wasn't quite true. The tongue-lashing he received served nothing but to reinforce a fear that had started the moment the date for the conference was confirmed.

The truth was, they were all afraid of exposing Siann's face to the world. Afraid? In Zechariah's case, that was the understatement of the year. He could not recall ever seeing that look on his face before, and for a moment, Luc had feared for his life.

He was an idiot. No doubt about that one. He couldn't believe he actually encouraged Siann to do this. More like he couldn't believe he never thought about Zechariah's reaction in all this until Zechariah found out. Sometimes, he didn't know whether Zechariah was just being paranoid. After all, it's not like Siann looked anything like him . . . not that he knew what he looked like, of course. Still, there is a matter of those kidnappers. Zechariah had warned him enough about them.

There was, of course, a slight chance that the kidnappers might see the conference and recognize their victim. However, he studied their profiles, as given to him by Zechariah. They did not seem to be the type to be overly interested in the arts. They were all more into that computer junk.

He looked at Siann. She, of course, was, for some reason, also fascinated with those infernal machines. She's one of the few people he knew in their circle of friends who did not seem the least intimidated by a computer. Taking into account the company they keep, that's not exactly surprising.

He gave himself a mental shake. He knew he walked a fine line between doing what's best for Siann's growth and doing what's best for her safety. In the years that he had looked out for her, there had always been subtle conflicts between the two goals. He shrugged. He knew in the beginning that it was not going to be easy and he never regretted his decision to join Zechariah and Pierre in protecting her.

He looked at her again. She was still looking at him with disappointment in her eyes. The same look that she gave whenever he and Pierre did something she disapproved of. That same look that had them apologizing in three seconds flat.

"Siann," he said finally. He took another deep breath and thought up another reasonable excuse. "You know what a private man Monsieur Colère is, no?"

She nodded her head, still suspicious.

Smart girl. he thought.

"You will make sure not to mention his name at any time at all, yes?" he said. Well, that's not exactly a lie . . .

"But, why not?" she asked, confused. "He is the one who helped me through all these . . . well, him and you and Pierre, of course. But he is my patron--"

He shook his head. "I just talked to him," he said carefully. "He is, you might say, a little apprehensive about the whole publicity thing. He does not want his name in any quote 'media circus'."

Siann, looking concerned and suspicious at the same time, said, "Why did he not ask me this himself? Surely, he knew I would not have done anything to displease him."

He nodded. "He knew that, Siann," he said, choosing his words with care, "it is me who he had to warn," he lied.

He could see he mind thinking about that and he could tell the moment she decided not to pursue the matter. He gave a quiet sigh of relief and a quick prayer of thanks to whoever it was up there who decided to spare him. For today at least.

"Oh," he suddenly said. She turned to him and tilted her head. "Before I forget. They might ask for a last name. After all, you only sign your works as 'Siann.' Would you prefer to use your maiden or your married name?"

She thought about that. "I think I will use Renard instead of Jacobsen, in honor of Pierre," she said. "It has a much nicer ring, no?" She nodded her head, as if confirming it to herself. "I will use Renard for publicity and Jacobsen for personal matters."

He sighed. "They will speculate on the fact that we have the same last names, you know."

"Let them," she said defiantly. "I will make it clear in the beginning of that conference that my personal life is not up for discussion."

There are times when even he could not believe how naive she was. This is not the time to enlighten her, however, so he dropped the topic and steered them to another direction.

"Now," he said in what he hoped did not sound like a false, bright tone, "let us discuss what you will be wearing . . ."

He looked down on the embers as they slowly die. For a moment, he had been livid when he saw the flames dancing and consuming the logs in the fireplace. Ever since that night, he had developed an aversion to the crackling sound of a fire as it burns in its merry way. In fact, he hated anything that might remind him of that night. There is something about that memory . . . something capable of driving him to madness. He tries not to think about it, ofcourse. His memories of that night were, for some reason, blurry at best. But there was something there . . . an unopened door. A door that, if opened, contains something which he was sure will push him over that edge of . . . insanity.

And he could not let that happen. Would not let that happen. So sayeth the Book of --

He shook himself. Enough of that. Ever since he retrieved his daughter he'd had no desire to quote that particular book.

He wished Abby could see her right now. Carla's success would have made her weep with pride. But then, that's neither here nor there.

Sometimes he wondered where he would be now, had he not had his daughter with him throughout all these years, had he not seen through the trickery of those damn kidnappers, had he not succeeded in getting back his daughter.

He shuddered, knowing the threat of their taking her away still exists. He could have strangled Jean-Luc with his bare hands when he heard of that . . . meeting with the press. Fortunately for Luc, Zechariah had been talking to him on the phone, instead of face to face when he learned of that stunt.

It matters not. Precautions will be taken to ensure that Carla remains as safe as possible. And if, by some chance, the . . . Quest Team happens to interfere with his life again, he will ensure that this time, in this confrontation, none of them will survive to see the next day.

Siann looked back at her sketches. She didn't know when she decided on the subject of her new project, but now, she wasn't so sure she made the right choice. The series would have consisted of various paintings of the people in her life who influenced her the most. She would have depicted them in various poses, each one emphasizing a certain characteristic more so than others. It was then when she realized that the people who influenced her the most are all men.

Perhaps I should just call the whole thing 'The Men in My Life' she thought.

She laughed when she received a mental picture of Luc once he finds out she intends to put him in it also.

Then she frowned. Zechariah would not be happy. If Luc's actions awhile ago were any indication of Zechariah's publicity shyness, he would be even less pleased to know that he will be the subject of one or more of her works.

She looked at her sketch pad. Perhaps there is a way to hide Zechariah . . . She added a few strokes in the draft and looked at the result. She smiled with satisfaction. Not for the first time, she congratulated herself in venturing in her chosen profession.

Zechariah placed the phone back to its cradle. His minions are all in place. Any sign of trouble will be detected, and once it was detected, Ezekiel Rage will live once again.

Some people might think his precautions were unwarranted. After all, they had not had any incidents to indicate that Carla might be in danger. Her world remained untouched by the evil that drenches society as a whole. He, however, intended to make sure at all cost that it stays that way. He would not take any chances. Not with Carla. Not now.

Damn press! he thought as he walked towards his bedroom. There, he sat on the divan and stared at the wall in front of him. One of Carla's -- Siann's -- paintings hung in that place of prominence. He stared at it, examining the work and the overall impression it gives.

Her paintings have always had an odd effect on him. They made him feel at home, and yet uncomfortable. Maybe it's the underlying menace he interprets behind each of her work. Carla, for all her naiveté, paints with a darkness which many have found . . . disturbing. The subjects of her work are not even the issue. In fact, the subjects themselves are not the ones that caused shivers to run down the spine of more than one art critic. No, it is her style which did that. No matter what Carla painted, the observant will always be able to detect a hint of . . . wrongness. The impression that not all is quite what it seems. A subtle touch of danger.

She could be painting a bowl of fruit and that hint would still be there.

Zechariah released a sigh. Sometimes he wondered whether that part of Carla's paintings were a result of her recurring nightmares.

He stared at her painting again. It was the only one of hers which he has. It was the one which scared him, Zechariah Colère, the most. At first glance it looked like an ordinary scene from beneath the surface of the water. Upon closer observation, however, he noticed that the seaweed at the edges of the painting could also be seen as hair. Human hair. Red human hair. With that thought in mind, he looked at the painting with new light. The scene was no ordinary look at what the ocean world looked like. It was a scene that was seen through the eyes of a drowned woman. A drowned woman with red hair. The subtle strokes that showed the shadow of this woman were hidden by the multitude of other details Carla has placed on canvas, but it was there.

He had shuddered once he realized what he was looking at. Pierre had been standing beside him at that time and noticed his reaction.

"Not many people can see what you just saw Zechariah," he had said.

He nodded.

He purchased the painting the next day as an anonymous buyer for two reasons. One, he had not wanted anyone else to view the painting, and two, he had not wanted Carla to know that it was he who bought it.

He stared at the painting more and shivered.

What have I done? he thought.

It was said that the eyes are the windows to a person's soul. I wonder what people see when they look at my eyes. Do they see me? Do they see ME at all?

I choke.

No.

Ofcourse they don't. No one sees me anymore. No one knows I'm here.

And why should they? I can't even make my presence felt. I shout and no one hears. I cry for help and no one hears. I gasp in pain and no one cares.

Am I even real?

Sometimes even I wonder if I exist. If my memories are real. If my situation is real.

Because if they are, then I will have every reason to believe that I . . . that I'm . . . that I'm dead.

But I can't be. I'm here . . . aren't I?

Why can't anyone look at me? Look at me and see me?

God, it's been so long . . . so long since . . .

I start to sob.

Do they hear me? Do they notice me cry?

No.

Of course not.

No one does.

Not anymore.

A melancholy feeling overwhelms her. She shivers.

When did it get so cold all of a sudden? she thought.

Shrugging her shoulders -- and her feelings -- aside, she picked up her pen and resumed her work. She really wanted to get something done by sunset, at least.

Revised October 10, 2004