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

By Akane-Rei

Chapter Seven: Strength of Mind and Will

Siann took a deep breath as she walked slowly towards her destination. She can feel the goose bumps rise in her arms as they sway with her stride. She can feel her heart beat pounding it merry little way. She wondered if anyone can hear it too. The shortness of her breath was duly noted by Luc when she left the car and entered the building.

She was nervous and it showed. She, who hated being in the spotlight, is deliberately walking to a room full of people whose attentions will be focused on her.

Damn sharks, she thought uncharitably.

Angry at herself for letting the impending event get to her at this late a date, she silently berated her body for betraying the signs of her agitated mind. This whole fiasco was partly her fault, anyway. She should have told Jean-Luc that she couldn't do it. That the whole thing was too much for her. But nooo. Pride had to come to into play. No way was she going to let a bunch of critics get the better of her. Pierre and Zechariah had taught her better than that.

She stopped abruptly when she saw the door leading to the room of torture.

She gulped.

"You can do this," she whispered to herself. "Just don't let them see your fear."

Putting on a mask of self-assurance, she forced her legs to take the final steps towards the door.

Right, left, right, left.

She opened the door.

Wishing she were a million miles away, Siann pasted a smile on her face as she walked towards the podium. She had felt the stares that she received when she walked into the room and she knew that it had nothing to do with the fact that they recognized her and her work. No, it had more to do with her striking red hair and the fact that she walked like she owned the place. Pierre and Zechariah had taught her to hold her head high no matter what and that was exactly how she approached life and its occasional unpleasantness. Like today.

Confident at the outward appearance she projected, she grinned at her audience and waited for them to come to the realization that she was, in fact, the one and only Siann.

She met each of their gazes unwaveringly, the way Zechariah and Pierre had taught her, and spoke after the initial silence.

"I believe you have several question about me and my work," she stated calmly, belying the inner turmoil inside her. "Perhaps we should begin now."

She waited for her words to sink in. She saw the realization dawn into their eyes seconds before her vision was assaulted by the flash of lights from the various cameras.

Questions started from all directions.

The game has begun.

Thrust. Parry. Thrust. Thrust. Parry. Thrust.

Luc watched the subtle dance of words which Siann has catalyzed with her arrival. Despite all his misgivings, Siann was handling herself quite well. Relatively speaking, ofcourse.

To those who don't know Siann, the signs were nonexistent. A slight tightening of the jaw, a delicate, but momentary crease in the forehead, the tossing of her hair . . . all these were too subtle to be noticed by those whose attention is focused on gathering info instead of observing the little hints their prey is giving away. At least he hoped they were too subtle. If he hadn't been looking for them, would he have noticed them?

Perhaps not. Siann's nervous gestures usually constitute common movements which could be interpreted different ways. In hiding her emotions from those who might hurt her, Siann had bee taught well by Pierre and Zechariah.

He frowned as one particularly eager journalist commented on the speculated relationship between him and Siann, not to mention their similar last names. He watched as Siann coolly stared the man down before stating the fact that the rumors of a marriage between them are purely fictional. She left it at that. She didn't bother to explain that he was her brother- in-law or the fact that she was a widow.

She firmly directed the discussion back to her work.

He smiled. He appearance of arrogance would grate some of these critics, he knew. Yet, it also intimidated most of them which allowed her to have control of the whole conference.

'Ingenious,' he thought. 'A strong offensive is always the best defense.'

For the first time since she refused his escort to this event, he felt the beginnings of a lighter burden in his chest. She can handle this and she will handle this.

She was right when she said that this was her fight. Her problem. Hers to deal with.

It seemed as if their questions were fired at such a rapid rate. Sometimes she wondered how she can keep up with them.

'Impudent wretch,' she thought, thinking of a particular previous question asked by a small weasel of a man.

Turning her mind back to the situation at hand, she glanced at the clock at the corner of her eye and almost sighed with relief when she noticed the passage of time.

Just a little more, she thought.

"Mademoiselle Renard!" shouted someone at the back.

She looked at him directly and took note of his abrasiveness.

Americain, she thought, amused. Not bothering to mention that Renard was her married name, not maiden name, she answered, "Oui, monsieur?"

You'll get through this, she thought as she listened to his question and answered more. You'll see. You'll get through with this.

She began anticipating the treat she would give herself for the suffocation and invasion she was experiencing at this moment.

"Mademoiselle!" said the American again. "Many critics have commented that art such as yours must stem from some sort of tragedy. What say you to these observations?"

She hated personal questions. She expected them, ofcourse, but she still hated them. She was also beginning to hate the little peacock of an American who is so insistent with his quest for something . . . what was that word? . . . something 'juicy' to report about her in his uncultured country.

Mentally castigating herself to the depths of hell for letting the little man reduce her to insulting a whole country, she looked at him with what Luc called her 'piercing stare' and replied, "It's a gift."

Seeing the confused expression enter the man's eyes, she waited for his next question.

"The tragedy?" he asked. "Your art? What's a gift?"

"Both," she said quietly as she brought the whole thing to a close by thanking everyone for their attendance.

I opened my eyes, feeling the ground I laid upon. I can smell the cement and the dirt that rubbed against my cheek. That's one thing about living in darkness was the fact that your other senses become more acute, as if to make up for the lost of your sight. Spitting the dirt from my mouth, I looked up at the only opening in this damp prison.

There seemed to be an unusual amount of activity going on outside . . .

The outside . . .

Something I've dreamed of becoming a part of again. It's been so long since I've interacted with someone from the outside . . . so long.

I stand up and slowly stagger towards that opening. I saw the sea of faces before me, staring at me, staring through me.

"Let me go!" I shouted. Trying to rattle the bars to make enough noise so that they would look at me, I shouted again, "Let me go!"

They ignored me, just as the people outside have always had. They were no different.

Slumping against the door, I stared unseeingly in front of me. I stared at the blackness that reflected my anguish, my hate. For I had begun to hate.

The years of being trapped and unable to even wage a successful escape were taking its toll. I had begun to hate my ineffectuality, my inability to fight what they did to me. Sometimes, in my darkest days -- or is it nights? I can never tell the difference anymore -- I find myself calling out his name, their name, for help.

That's one of the things I hate the most about my situation. The fact that I am reduced to this occasional damsel-in-distress mode grates me the most. I don't know what's worse: the fact that I am a damsel in distress or the fact that no knight has come charging to my rescue.

Dammit!

I just knew that this was going to be one of those self-pitying days . . .

My fingers dug into the ground from where I was sitting.

The perpetrators will pay.

Someday.

I promise.

I suddenly laugh hysterically. How can I even think about getting my revenge when the truth of the matter is, I can't get out of this mess? There were days when I've resigned myself to being here forever.

I wonder. Maybe I can have my revenge from the grave. It's only a matter of time before I die, right? But then, there is that philosophical interpretation that I might already be dead.

Wouldn't that be funny? Wouldn't that be just soo FUNNY! Wouldn't that be just the ultimate triumph of my enemies? For me to be dead and not know it? For me to be dead and still feel all this frustration, all this pain . . .

I thought death was a release from all that.

That's what's keeping me going. That's probably why, deep inside, I welcome every feeling I experience, whether good or bad. It tells me that I'm alive.

And while I'm alive, there's still a chance . . .

I'll fight this.

I'll fight this, dammit.

I won't let them win. I want this victory so much, I can taste it. I want it even more than some stupid victory against a certain egotistical . . .

I sigh. No use dwelling on the past now. I've got to find another way to make my presence felt . . . to make them look at me and see me . . .

I know who I am and won't ever forget.

I start pounding on my prison walls again.

Siann walked out of the conference room the same way she walked in: with the appearance of a self-assuredness she most certainly does not feel. A pounding headache began to make itself felt at her temples. Putting it down to stress, she escaped further questions by ducking in the ladies room and hiding from the crowd for a few minutes.

Glad that she was alone in her hiding place, she looked at her face in the mirror. The familiar green eyes stared back at her, the tiredness clear in their depths. With her mask out of place, she can see the lines of exhaustion dominate her face and she cringed.

Luc would not be happy. He's always telling her to take care of herself more and to watch that she doesn't overdo things.

Sighing, she shrugged her shoulders. It had been quite a long day and it had left its marks on her.

Looking at herself again in the mirror, she wasn't prepared for the blinding pain that suddenly developed from the controllable twinge she felt in her head earlier. She let out a small whimper as her hands held tightly on the counter top.

'Not now,' she thought. 'Dammit, not now!'

She took deep even breaths, looking at her clenched fingers as her nails strained against the surface of the sink.

'Control,' she thought. 'I must have control.'

Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate on something pleasant, something to take her mind off where she is and what she's feeling.

She didn't know how long she spent trying to fight the assault of pain, but eventually, she felt nothing. Opening her eyes, she looked around her.

Taking another deep breath, she stood up straight, and headed home.

The Quests' jet landed smoothly at the Charles de Gaulle airport. Its occupants were a little tired from their flight, but all in all in good humor. They seemed determined to enjoy their stay in Paris and are looking forward to see the sights. They gave no indication of coming to Paris for the purpose of searching for a particular someone.

Zechariah crumpled the note in his hand and threw it in the fireplace.

A coincidence, he thought angrily. A damn coincidence!

Cursing the fates that brought them here, he stalked towards his bedroom and stared at the painting in his wall.

"It had better be a coincidence," he whispered furiously.

Revised October 09, 2004