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

By Akane-Rei

Chapter Eleven: A Darker Reflection

Second thoughts . . .

"What exactly did you mean when you said, 'Things did not go as planned'?" he bit out, trying to keep his anger in check from the idiot in the other line who had the gall to keep him waiting. He had been pacing the living room of the house ever since he had given the order to execute his plans while this good-for-nothing mercenary had the utter gall to stall him with the information he needed.

He took a deep breath and forcibly held himself in one place as he waited for the man's answer. He leaned against the wall, closing his eyes as the back of his head rested against the smooth cool surface.

Everything had to, just had to go as planned. He didn't think he was up to another round of what he just went through.

Second thoughts . . .

My God, what kind of man was he?

The moment, the very moment he had given the order to end the lives of Jonathon Quest and Hadji Singh, something inside him had twisted and revolted at the words he had just spoken. He was a protector. Above all else, he had dedicated his life to protecting another life from those who seek to harm her. What he did, what he had just ordered to be done, went against the very creed he had lived by and it had taken all his will power to actually deliver the words. It had taken even more than that not to retract his directive once he had given it.

Second thoughts . . .

But something, apparently, had gone wrong. He had heard his . . . 'hired gun's' string of expletives just a moment after he had given the fateful words to doom the lives of individuals he hardly met. He had vaguely heard the fact that his sniper had packed in quite a hurry several seconds later while muttering about lapses of judgments.

Something had definitely gone wrong.

"You will tell me NOW exactly what happened," he said hoarsely in his end of the line.

Still he heard no answer.

Second thoughts?

NO!

Clenching the fist of his free hand, he pounded it to the wall behind him as he tries to piece together what could have happened. First of all, he didn't have much to work with. Hell, he didn't even know where the damn sniper was when he found Quest and Singh; he didn't want to know, actually, which was why he hadn't asked. They were within the range and that was all that mattered. Until now. Because something, apparently, went wrong. He knew it.

"I missed," a voice roughly said in the other line.

Jerking from his reverie, he looked blindly in front of him.

"You missed?" he said tightly, almost disbelievingly. Missed? That had not been one of the options. Once the target is sighted, Luc had assumed that the man would have no trouble doing his job. His reputation for getting his assignments done had been one of the reasons Luc had hired him in the first place. And now, this extremely overpriced killer is stating that he missed?

"It wasn't a kill shot," his hired mercenary expanded.

"I gathered that," Luc replied, trying to reign in the temper he had been striving to control since his confrontation with Siann. He can feel the blood rush into his head as he pondered the implications of what this fiasco would result.

Zechariah would find out.

He always does.

"I believe," he said coolly to his incompetent assasinator, "that due to this failure, our business dealings will now have to be terminated. I'll-- "

"Wait!" shouted the man in the other line. "I can do this. I know I can. Just give me some time and I can make other arrangements--"

"No!" he interrupted. "No," he said more softly as he gently, but decisively, terminated the call.

Second thoughts.

The beautiful ray of sunshine that made its presence known through the large glass windows of the living room went unnoticed as he stood there in his position for a while, staring into the blackness that yawned in front of him out of nowhere. The chirping of the birds outside is the only sound that accompanied the clatter which the communicator made as it fell from his nerveless fingers.

His duty was to protect Siann at all costs. The elimination of Quest and Singh would have guaranteed her safety. This attempt failed and it scared him that he didn't know whether to be frustrated by this turn of events or . . . relieved.

Who are you?

He walked the halls of his home with a purposeful stride. The sound of his heel as it hit the marble floor echoed loudly around the corridors of the almost deserted house. Every window's curtains were drawn, as if in an attempt to keep the outside world from interfering with the gray atmosphere of every room. Cold. That was the general feel of the whole place. Cold -- to match the icy feel of fear as it flowed through his veins. Cold.

He never thought he would feel fear again. When his world collapsed around him, there had been nothing left to care about enough to feel fear for. When he had rescued Carla from her abductors, he had thought that he could provide a safe haven for her from everything. While it's true some might call his ways a little excessive, it's also true that it provided for healthier existence where Carla was concerned. And her well-being was his priority.

When the Quest team had seen her and chased her down the streets, he had devised a methodical plan to rid her of their threat. The plan was not up to the standards of the usual Ezekiel Rage, but that could be understood seeing that he does have a daughter to protect. After all, to destroy the world now would mean also destroying the one thing he held dear. And that is not an option. So, he had formulated a plan which he felt confident would work and was in fact in the process of executing it when one of his agents informed of an incident which might interest him. It seems that Siann nearly got in the line of fire when a sniper had tried to do away with the Quest team..

The mental picture had brought chills down his spine the fear that gripped him at that moment was something he would care not to experience again.

He would have to kill Luc for doing that to him. His agents were quite resourceful in extracting the information he needed from the sniper, who was more than willing to give the name of his fickle employer. Luc's carelessness had endangered his daughter and damned if he wasn't going to do something about it.

He stopped in front of the door to a room which he'd never thought he'd ever have to open again. Spreading his palms towards its wooden surface, he took a deep breath as he prepared himself to face the demons which drove him. He turned the knob of the door and entered. Taking no notice of the musky scent of the unused room or the heavy layers of dust that settled in all the furniture, he flinched as the warmth of the sun from the open window touched his face. Tightening his black-gloved hands into a ball of fist, he approached the podium in the room and stared at the familiar leather-bound book on top of it.

A vision . . . no, a memory . . . struggled hard to resurface into his consciousness as he got nearer the book. The voices of that called out to him as he was sucked into the depths of the sea reverberated in his ears. He can still hear a cry for someone --

Jessie!

NO! He shook his head and snatched the book from its place of rest for over a decade now.

"The Quest team's evil shall not contaminate my daughter!" he yelled. "So sayeth the Book of Rage!"

Everything else faded into the background.

Siann smiled at the man before her and gently placed her hand in his forehead.

The look in his blue eyes, the softening of his expression, and the fervent hope in his gaze made her envy whoever it was he thought she was. And for a moment, she considered being her -- at least for the time being. The thought of being the person to bring such look of tenderness, such look of wonder to this man's eyes was a heady feeling -- one that she found she craved. Rationality took over before she could put that thought into action, however, and she gave herself a mental shake.

"You are mistaken," she said softly. "My name is not Jessie."

She looked closely at him, noting his ashen expression. She was sure he would have disagreed with her had not for the fact that he lost the battle for his consciousness at that moment.

"Excuse me," she heard from above her.

She looked up and saw the uniformed individuals attempting to get to the man she was holding. The paramedics have arrived and she didn't even notice it. Carefully, she moved out of their way and let them do their jobs. Standing up, she looked down at them with concern when she felt someone tap her on her shoulder. She looked up and saw one of the paramedics smiling gently at her.

"Mademoiselle," he said softly, "We should do something about that graze in your arm, yes?"

The moment he mentioned her arm, she felt a twinge of pain that emanated from the said appendage. Startled, she looked at her arm and was surprised to discover trickles of blood sliding from her elbow and into her fingers.

"But of course," she said in a small voice, letting herself be led away to be treated.

She finally took the time to look at her appearance in general while her . . . scratches were being bandaged. To be honest, she looked a mess. She was pretty sure that the large splotches of blood on her shirt weren't all from her arm.

"If you would come with us," someone said, as they indicated towards the white vehicle.

She shook her head. "I'm fine," she said. "I do not need to go to the hospital."

For some reason, it seemed important to her not to go to the hospital.

"But mademoiselle--"

"No," she said adamantly. "I'm quite alright. Really."

She looked again at her bloody shirt, smelling the rusty odor.

Brushing away their helpful hands, she stood up precariously and tried to walk away from them.

She staggered and felt a set of arms envelope her.

"Perhaps you should take their advise and go to the hospital with Jon?" he said as he pulled her up to her feet.

A phantom smell made its way to her consciousness.

Looking up at him, she said, "Jon?"

"My friend," he expanded, staring at her with an unreadable expression.

Disengaging herself from the dark-skinned stranger, she looked back at his friend as he was placed on a stretcher. Steadier this time, she took a few steps forward and watched as people began to try to put order in the chaos the existed a few minutes before.

"I'm fine," she said again, more firmly this time. "Just a small delayed reaction."

"Which is why it would be better if you accompany us to the hospital," he insisted, his hand touching her arm.

The clicking of heels in an echoing hallway and the heavy smell of disinfectants . . .

Doctors and nurses rushing from one room to another . . .

The clink of metallic instruments . . .

"No," she said again, shaking his hand off. "I really should be getting home now." Turning to face him, she looked back at him again and said, "Thank you again for you attempt to protect Michèl. Please send my regrets to your friend about my . . . haste in hurling objects at him." With that, she ran.

"Where is she?" Jon demanded the moment he woke up from his drug-induced sleep.

Hadji sighed. He knew Jon would ask him that. In fact, he had been preparing for that question. The problem was that all his preparation did not change the fact that despite his efforts otherwise, he had been unsuccessful in discovering the whereabouts of the woman from the café.

"Did I mention that I called your father in Maine and he said that he was on his way here?" Hadji said instead of answering the question.

"Hadji," said Jon in a tone of voice which Hadji knew well, "where is she?"

"Did I also mention that Race and his family were apparently there on a surprise visit?" Hadji continued. "It would seem that Race, Estella, and Linna are also going to be on their way here."

A far away look entered Jon's eyes for the moment and for a second Hadji thought he had succeeded in distracting his friend -- but only for a second.

"You don't know where she is, do you?" Jon asked almost in an accusing tone.

Hadji sighed.

"No, I do not," he answered. "She ran from the scene after the paramedics patched her up"

A look of panic entered Jon's eyes. "She was hurt?" he demanded.

"I believe it was just a minor cut," he replied.

He winced when expletives flew out of Jon's mouth in response to this information.

Hadji watched as Jon struggled to sit up from his prone position before putting a halt to it by firmly pushing him back to the bed.

"You need to rest," he stated with a calm he hardly feels.

"We have to find her," Jon said insistently, looking at him imploringly. In those eyes, Hadji saw a look of almost desperation.

"We will," he said reassuringly. He hoped. Then, he reluctantly broached a pertinent issue. "Jon," he began carefully, "You know it is not her, yes?"

Not her? Of course he knew it wasn't her. It couldn't be her.

Couldn't it?

NO! Of course not. Intellectually, he knew that.

He lay back down in the hospital bed. Despite what all his rational thought was telling him, however, he couldn't help but feel that he has been given a second chance.

A second chance for what, he is a little unclear of.

"She could have passed for her twin," he said softly. He turned to Hadji. "She didn't have any sisters we didn't know about, did she?"

Hadji shook his head. "Race would have told us," he replied.

Sitting back up, Jon frowned. "Did you just say that Race and his family are coming here?" he asked incredulously.

Hadji nodded. "They were quite concerned to hear about someone taking a shot at you."

"Did you tell them . . . did you mention--"

"That there is a double ringer in our midst?" Hadji asked ruefully. "No."

Jon slumped back in the bed. "They'll know soon enough," he muttered.

"My friend," Hadji began apprehensively, "I am not sure if that is the wisest course of action."

"I'll find her, Hadji," he replied, his voice full of purpose.

He saw Hadji begin to pace the room only to come back by his bedside and take him by the shoulders.

"Listen, Jon," he said in a serious tone, "That woman may look like her, but she is not. You heard her. She even said her name was not Jessie." He paused. "Not that she could be since our Jessie is --"

Jon looked back at him with grim determination. "I'll find her," he reiterated.

I looked up from my huddle position, staring disbelievingly at the scene in front of me. I've been in darkness for so long that my eyes hurt from just looking at this vision. This beam of light that came from the wall of my cell was faint, but in contrast to the blackness that has been part of my life for so long, I thought it looked like the sun. For a moment, I contemplated the fact that what I was seeing was the light of heaven. People always said that you see a bright light when you die, so I figured, this is it. This was my light, my path.

The excruciating pain in my eyes, however, quickly made me discard that notion. Striving to adjust my senses to the faint glow, I finally succeeded and began approaching the source carefully, crawling carefully towards it. I tried to keep my eyes open and directed at that light, afraid that if I so much as blink, this miracle granted upon me would disappear.

Once I reached the wall, I hesitatingly placed my hand on that part of the wall that emitted the light. To my surprise, the surface was smooth, very unlike the rough and grainy surface around it.

I wanted to look at it. Not look at it as I am doing now, but actually look at it. I wanted to see that it is smooth, not just feel. I wanted to see that it is different from the surrounding surface, not just touch. And with the help of its light, I could do that. Now if only my eyes would cooperate . . .

It took awhile. My eyes were so unused to light that the pain of looking directly at this faint glow caused me to wince in pain for several minutes -- or hours, I can't tell anymore -- but it was worth it. The first thing I saw was the reflection of my hand as it touched its surface.

I smiled. Color. My hands had color. It's been a long time since I've seen color in my life and my eyes lingered over the pale color of my hand's skin. I never considered myself a connoisseur of beauty before. I've always thought of it as artificial and temporary. But seeing color after being deprived of it for so long showed me that beauty is not the elusive pursuit that plenty of people strive for. It is simply itself. And right now, beauty is color.

Gently rubbing my hand against this smooth and lighted surface, I slowly crawled nearer to it until I was directly in front of it. Hesitantly, I removed my hand from its surface and looked.

I was surprised. I saw my own concerned face staring back at me curiously. Nothing's changed, really. The smudge of dirt in my cheek was even a welcome presence. Dad had always said I was a rambunctious child and turning into a teenager has not changed that. I smiled at my sixteen year old face. It was my green eyes, my red hair, my pert nose, my rosy mouth . . .my everything. It was me. I exist. I haven't changed a bit. Me. The same old . . . me.

The only difference is . . . I wasn't the same. Deep down inside me, I know that I wasn't the same. In the time I've spent in this prison, I've changed. The innocent face that stared back at me was a lie. I was no longer that innocent. I was no longer that trusting. I suffered, dammit! But the face that looked back at me belied that fact, denied my changes. I smiled bitterly.

I touched my cheek and watched her touch her cheek. My fingers curled as they trembled just as hers did. I took a deep breath and tried to even my breathing. A small part of me wanted to be the girl I see in the wall to be me. A yearning exists inside of me to be that girl, that innocent girl.

It was tempting.

To go back and deny the reality of my situation, to pretend that nothing happened, to be that girl again was so easy . . .all I had to do is slip into that fantasy world and lose myself, numb myself.

But I won't. I didn't survive this long in this cell by taking the easy way out.

I saw my reflection shrug, as if in acceptance of my decision. Again, I stared at myself, bewildered at my unchanging appearance. That was when I heard it. It was so soft, so faint, that I almost missed it. It came from the wall, the smooth part of the wall. At first, I stared disbelievingly at this lighted surface and I can see my counterpart do the same. But then I heard it again.

It was him.

And he called my name.

My name.

Oh, God. He's here.

Suddenly the light intensified and I closed my eyes to protect them. When I was finally able to open my eyes, I was again surrounded by darkness, by blackness. I sat back down and leaned against the wall. Despair at this development would have swallowed me had it not been for the echoing of his voice -- in my mind -- calling my name. My name.

I'm here, I thought. I'm real.

Tears began to form in my eyes. A tightening began in my chest.

"Thank you," I whisper softly. "Thank you." And for the first time in a long time, hope began to blossom uncontrollably within me.

Revised October 10, 2004