Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Three: Seeing at la Pique
Geh, I'm having such a hard time holding back in this story! -.-; See, the Sands and Zebbidy characters in a RPG I'm in are much more . . . developed, ie, they know each other better and are actually, very good friends if not more than that. Okay . . . so now they probably are more than friends, which is why it's so difficult to write them! Grrrr . . . but I will not give up, no. I refuse to do that. u.u
I'm sure you'd feel differently if you knew about last years' Day of the Dead extravaganza, sugar-butt.
Had . . . Agent Sands, whatever his first name was . . . had he said that out loud . . . or had she just imagined it?
No. I know I've never imagined things like that. Then again . . . his mind was so complicated. I could hardly figure out anything on the plane.
That's true, Zebbidy agreed with herself after a moment of consideration. What had the agent meant by all of that?
What I don't understand, was . . . She thought back to what had made Agent Sands say (or think) those peculiar words.
Was he blind before now? Even to herself the thought sounded stupid. Still, there was that surgery that could cure those who had been born blind. It was really just like a fancy form of laser eye surgery from what she had heard. It was possible.
But he couldn't have become a CIA agent that quickly, she reasoned with herself. And the CIA certainly wouldn't have hired him if he was blind. If they had, they wouldn't have made him a field agent. But no, that's just not sensible. I know what the CIA is like and they would not take on a blind officer.
But there had been something about the Day of the Dead . . . That was in November, wasn't it? Yes, of course it was in November, she of all people should have remembered that . . .
Fuck! she swore, practically stomping to the room across the hall, the room that she was supposed to call her home for . . . how long would it take for the CIA to finally bring an end to the Poissons' reign of drugs and threats and bloodshed . . . ? Years? Months? Maybe even a few weeks?
Few weeks my ass. If I believe that then I'm as big an idiot as what's-his-face thinks I am.
That was one thing she was certain of: Agent Sands thought she was an idiot, no question. Then again, he seemed like the kind of man who thought that everyone was stupid to some degree. And everyone was, weren't they? Just like everyone had a little bit of madness tucked away inside of them.
Zebbidy Samhain sighed, leaning against the inside of her hotel room door, her thoughts reeling uncontrollably. Eventually, she pushed herself away from the door and strode across her room (she had even labeled it as 'her room' now, that couldn't be good).
She sat down on the bed, it's pale yellow and bright red cover clashing with her dark blue jeans, green jacket, and purple shirt. Her nose twitched and she reached a hand up to rub it before returning it to the bed spread.
Something isn't right about this . . . Fuck! I shouldn't've told him my parent's real names, why the hell couldn't I've made something up!? Damnit, I'm such a moron!!
Flipping open the latches of one of her larger suitcases, Zebbidy began pulling out the case's contents, arranging them neatly on the bed as she did so. A brightly colored afghan, a tiny tin filled with different flavored teas, and lastly, several little bottles each containing something that looked like oddly like the kind of herbs someone's mother would house on her spice rack.
Sighing sadly, Zebbidy stared down at the little row of bottles she had lined up across her bedspread.
I can't keep these here . . .
"Lynné," Liam began, "what are you doing?"
It was a reasonable question. One that anybody would ask if they saw someone enter the bathroom of a hotel, leave the door open, and begin poking at the mirror with their index finger.
"I'm checking the mirror," Lyn explained calmly.
"Um," Liam said looking confused, "why?"
His partner sighed, turning to give him a disdainful look, saying:
"To see if it's a two-way mirror."
And she promptly went back to poking. Liam blinked, taking this new bit of information in.
"How?" he inquired curiously. Lyn rolled her eyes.
"If you simply place the tip of your fingernail against the reflective surface and see that there's a gap between your fingernail and the image of the nail, then it is a genuine mirror. However, if your fingernail directly touches the image of your nail, then beware, for it is a two-way mirror."
Liam's eyes widened.
"And . . . ?"
Lyn withdrew her finger, smiling cheerfully.
"It's safe."
She started to exit the bathroom but stopped suddenly, a bemused look on her face.
"Or was it if there isn't a gap then it's genuine . . . ? Hmm . . . Oh well," she said brightly, "We'd best get a move on; we have much to do."
Ignoring the blazing red traffic light, Sands twisted the steering wheel in his hands, swerving into the lane next to his and flying down the aged roads of the Paris intersection.
"Having fun, Mario?" Zebbidy asked ironically, tightening her seatbelt just in case Sands managed to throw them off the road. Not that she thought he would. Just from seeing his calm stance behind the wheel, she had the strange feeling that the agent knew exactly what he was doing and was in complete control of the Miata.
"Just trying to get rid of some unwanted pests, if you don't mind, Zeb," Sands told her, keeping his dark eyes on the road ahead.
"What?" she breathed, looking alarmed. Sands smirked; tally up another point for him.
Oh, you're at war with her now? When the hell did that start?
Ignoring the voice he said, "Relax, sugar-butt. I meant my darling little sister and her so-called partner."
At this reassurance, Zebbidy leaned over to look into the rearview mirror. Nothing but various European cars met her eyes.
"I . . . don't see them," she told Sands, sounding confused.
Eyes flickering to the side view mirror for a fraction of a second, Sands murmured, "Didn't think you would since she's doing a decent job of keeping herself hidden." He looked at his mirror again. "Not decent enough . . . . . Blue SUV, about five cars back."
Zebbidy turned around in her seat, and sure enough, her eyes finally found the little, blue, sports utility vehicle. Blinking in disarray, Zebbidy gave Sands a questioning look.
"Is there . . . any . . . particular reason they're following us?"
"Honestly, I have no idea. They just might be headed this way; they might not. Agent Fusco was supposed to take you to the Louvre museum but, seeing how he's . . . Agent Fusco . . . none of us really felt that he would react very well if some of the Poisson's hit men just up and started a little shootout. Besides, I'm the mission controller, therefore I am christened with the job of being your babysitter."
"Ah, so that's why you're toting me around," Zebbidy realized.
"That's why," Sands replied in a sarcastically euphoric tone. "And, personally, I wanted to see if you knew how to defend yourself just in case you do get stuck with Agent Fusco," he explained in a much darker voice than the one before.
"I'm touched," Zebbidy replied, sounding bored.
"Glad I could strike a nerve, Zeb," Sands said placidly. "However, I wouldn't get too excited if I were you because . . . if anything does happen and you get killed, then it'll be my ass. So we're going to a shooting range to make sure none of that happens." He looked at her pointedly in the rearview mirror and proposed the timeless question, "Can ya dig it?"
Zebbidy met his eyes in the mirror and she looked directly into them when she replied in her soft, cool voice.
"I can dig it."
"In the town . . . where I was born,
"Lived a man . . . who sailed to sea.
"And he told . . . us of his life,
"In the land . . . of submarines . . ."
"I really hate this car," Lyn muttered more to herself than to her partner. "It's not even a car. It's . . . a big, nasty hunk of metal . . . painted blue." She shook her head, moving her head towards Liam. "Who thought of that?"
"Lynné . . ." he began nervously, "Lynné . . . Ly – bus!!"
Lyn rolled her eyes as she spun the steering wheel of the SUV, easily avoiding the oncoming traffic.
"So we sailed . . . up to the sun,
"Till we found . . . the sea of green.
"And we lived . . . beneath the waves,
"In our yellow . . . submarine."
"It wasn't a bus, it was a trolley," she corrected, annoyed.
"Still," Liam insisted, visibly panic-stricken, "we could've been killed!"
"What's life without cheating death every once in a while?"
Calm, safe, and peaceful, Liam thought wildly, but he chose to remain silent and kept his wide eyes on the road.
". . . and our friends . . . are all aboard,
"Many more of them . . . live next door.
"And the band . . . begins to play . . ."
Lyn sang along with the radio, clearly unmoved by their near accident. She stole a glance at the paranoid Liam and smirked in amusement at the look on his face. Her partner's eyes were large with fear and his mouth was stretched in a silent scream. Glancing down she saw that Liam's fingernails were gripping the seat tightly, digging into the fabric. Lyn shook her head, once again wondering why on Earth the man in the seat next to hers had joined the CIA and who in their right mind decided to make him a field agent.
Eventually, however, Liam eased up. He even decided to join in on the classic song, albeit tentatively.
"As we live . . . a life of ease,
"Every one of us . . . has all we need:
"Sky of blue . . . and sea of green,
"In our yellow . . . submarine."
"Did you know," Lyn began as she drove closer to the corner she had seen Sands' car disappear down, "that this song was supposedly written about anti-depressants?"
"Really?" Liam asked, looking thoughtful. "Huh."
Lyn nodded. "Supposedly."
"We all live in a yellow submarine,
"Yellow submarine, yellow submarine.
"We all live in a yellow submarine,
"Yellow submarine, yellow submarine . . ."
"Well," Liam said reasonably, "if you think about it, it makes sense. The tune's all light and carefree."
"And some anti-depressants are yellow," Lyn added pointedly, steering the SUV down a second corner. "If you think about it . . . you could refer to the pills and call them – "
"Yellow submarines?" Liam inquired skeptically.
"We all live in a yellow submarine,
"Yellow submarine, yellow submarine . . ."
"Apparently," Lyn said with a little shrug. Suddenly, her face contorted into a scowl as she watched Sands' vehicle swerve to miss a little red Ferrari, causing the breaks to screech. "God, he cannot drive . . ."
Liam could only stare in disbelief as his partner pulled into a parking lot outside of a building titled simply La Pique.
"Stay with them," Lyn instructed carefully as the car slowed to a stop.
"What about you?" Liam wanted to know as he slid out of the vehicle. Lyn adjusted the sunglasses that rested on the bridge of her tiny nose and Liam saw her impulsively run a hand over the knee of her left leg.
"I've got some catching up to do with a few old friends."
"I can't believe I've had to going into hiding," Zebbidy muttered, cocking her small silver handgun and taking aim, "all because a family -- whose name means fish in English -- is after me."
"In case no one's told you, Miss Samhain," Sands said, raising his gun as well, "they also want you dead, so . . . you might want to take that into consideration."
He sighed, massaging his eyes behind closed lids. The stinging he now felt was aggravating, but not unbearable.
Still wish you would've taken Zeb's advice, though.
Fuck off, Sands thought distractedly as he shoved a new clip into his gun.
Why? Don't give me that 'they obstruct my vision' excuse because you've fired a gun at night, in sunglasses, and blind too, bucko. Don't forget that. So what's you're real excuse?
When Sands did not answer the question, the voice took it upon itself to continue with an insult.
You really are a chauvinistic bastard, aren't you?
In an attempt to tune the voice out, Sands suddenly became very interested in Zebbidy Samhain as she readied herself to shoot at one of the many cardboard targets. He thought that having his eyesight back would put a damper on the voice during times like this. Instead, his recent gain had only succeeded in making it louder.
"Where did you learn to shoot like that?" Liam asked in awe as Zebbidy planted three bullets neatly into the chest of one of the targets.
"You think that just because I grew up in a place like Wisconsin, I can't shoot?" she inquired with a smirk.
You can't deny she looks very good when she does that, the voice whispered evilly from some undiscovered corner of his mind.
I wasn't going to, Sands informed it calmly.
"Where did you learn to fire a gun, chère?" Sands asked, once again ignoring the voice.
Slap him, Zebbidy found herself thinking, Somebody slap him right across the face. Does he really think he can get away with being that corny??
Apparently Sands did, because Zebbidy decided to let his remark go. Shrugging, she answered his question airily.
"My father was very big on hunting. I hated it and he knew this, but that doesn't mean he chose not to teach me the proper way to fire a gun."
"Oh, well that's good," Sands said, nodding. "I mean, in the event that any of those . . . psychotic, deranged, Wisconsin inmates that I hear so much about escapes . . . you'd be able to defend yourself."
Zebbidy smiled up at him, a benign expression forming on her face.
"Well, no, actually, my father wasn't thinking about that. We don't have many escapes from our prisons," she explained to Sands as if she hadn't noticed his sarcasm. "You see, what my father really intended on doing when he taught me to fire a weapon was keep any . . . disgusting . . . perverted . . . little boys from getting too close. That way, if he couldn't get to them first, I could."
Sands smirked in feigned amusement.
"Is that so?"
She merely smiled again before turning back to the shooting range.
Meanwhile, Liam had taken aim and, with one of his eyelids clamped down tightly, fired. Sighing with the air of one who had been through something time and again, Sands strode up to his fellow agent to make a remark about his progress.
"Okay, Fusco, that . . . wasn't bad," he commented fairly, "but next time, keep both of your eyes open and . . . maybe, just maybe . . . you'll hit the target instead of the wall behind it."
With a small sigh of annoyance, Lynné stirred her strawberry daiquiri, glancing around her and occasionally tugging on a strand of her straight, chin-length red hair – wig. Catching sight of herself in the shaded window of the outdoor café, Lyn smirked. If she could get one person to ask her if it was a wig, then that would just make her day.
Yes, sneered her interior voice, because then you'd have a reason to kill somebody.
Hey, Lyn thought defensively, I never kill anyone unless I have a reason to. Whether or not that reason is very good is of no importance. What IS important . . . is that there IS indeed a reason for their death, cuz if not . . . then I'd just be nuts.
Oh, so sorry. Thank you ever so much for clearing that up for me, Lynnie, cuz I was very confused.
Glad I could be of help, dearest.
She could almost see the voice rolling its nonexistent eyes but Lyn smiled nonetheless; one of her contacts in the city of lights had just sat down across from her and, judging by the look on their face, they were none too pleased to see the agent. Again.
"Hello," Lyn greeted politely.
Her contact's only reply was a sharp nod of the head.
"Amazing, Moreau," Lyn remarked, "you were a man of few words when I talked to you the last time but now . . . you don't say anything at all. Now that is just amazing."
"What do you want?" David Moreau (roughly pronounced 'DAH-veed Mor-oh) demanded shortly, his words somewhat hard to decipher due to his strong French accent.
"So much for progress," Lyn muttered, reaching for her cool, pink drink.
"Mademoiselle, if you do n –"
"Why is it," Lyn continued, ignoring Moreau's anger, "that whenever I go to meet someone, the first thing out of their mouths is always an unfounded accusation? How can you be certain that I didn't invite you here to talk, that I wasn't just in town and fancied a little chat with you?"
"Because you never want to 'chat' as you so lightly put it, Mademoiselle Sands," Moreau spat. "Oh, you want something, but a simple conversation with some wine isn't it."
"This isn't wine," Lyn commented, pointing to her daiquiri. Moreau glared at her from his position across the little table. "But you are right about one thing: I am in need of something – something you can get me. And all you have to do is listen to what I have to say, and cooperate. After that, should you choose to give me what I want, I'm gone. How's that sound?"
Moreau continued to scowl at her but he did manage a brief wave of the hand that told her he was listening. Lyn smiled humorlessly, adjusted her wig once more, and began.
"You're in the Poisson family's good books, right? Being a personal friend of Édouard Poisson after all."
She saw the wealthy man shift in his seat before he said grudgingly, "Yes."
"So I imagine you spend a lot of time at their house – one of their many houses," Lyn ventured.
At these words, Moreau stiffened where he sat but still managed a response.
"I suppose I do," replied he coolly.
"Which means you know the location of at least one of their maisons," Lyn said, slipping into French.
"Possibly."
Asshole.
"I guess what I'm trying to say . . . is if you give me the whereabouts of the Poissons . . . then I could make it worth your while."
"I am a very wealthy man, Mademoiselle Sands," Moreau said icily, "You could offer me any sum of money, but what makes you think I'll even consider helping you or your agency?"
"Well, if you're anything like my other rich associates you're always looking for a way to attain more money . . . no matter how high your income."
The scowl the crossed Moreau's face made Lynné want to break out in a grin so badly that she had to place the straw of her daiquiri between her lips in order to hide her look of triumph.
"I was there that day," Moreau said suddenly.
"I know," was Lyn cool response.
The woman looked positively conserved and unconcerned by the fact that he knew one of her deepest secrets, and this sent Moreau's temper flaring.
"I should have let you die," he snarled bitterly.
"I'm sure if you'd've known how charming I am, you would have."
"Oui," agreed Moreau, glaring at the agent viciously. "If I had, I would not have lent you my phone o – "
"Or stayed with me until my fellow agent came, I know, I know." Lyn gave him a pained look. "Moreau, we all make mistakes. Don't be so hard on yourself."
"You learned to walk again," he noted. "I would not have believed it."
This time, Lynné did grin. "Well now you can, Monsieur Moreau."
And she laid down a few bills for her finished drink, but when Lyn started to rise, Moreau stopped her.
"We both know what happed three years ago, mademoiselle," he said quietly. "Why try to hide it?"
If any of her fellow agents had been there, they would have thought that Moreau had a death wish for saying such words or for even brining up such a topic. However, none of Lynn's fellow agents knew about her little handicap save for Liam and Sands. And they would not have been surprised to see the young woman smile at her contact and rise from the table with an eerie aura of calm about her. What would have shocked them, is what Lynné did next.
"My dear Moreau," Lyn began with a little laugh of disbelief, "I don't know what you're talking about."
Slipping one hand into her long black blazer, she pulled out, not a gun, but a simple little cell phone and a scrap of paper with her number on it. Then she reached down and unearthed what made Moreau's eyes widen in shock: A plain, black cane made for one thing and one thing only.
Lyn flashed him a smile that lacked in cheer, leaning heavily on her cane. And her wealthy contact saw for the first time that she was wearing Capri pants that showed a (clearly prosthetic) leg. Lynné gave a little shrug as she turned to walk away.
"Who's hiding anything?"
Sands had been observing Zebbidy Samhain with interest for the past forty-some minutes, taking in the young woman's expression, her eye contact, her stance as she took aim . . . What intrigued him the most about Miss Samhain was her – insert dramatic music here – mystery. Oh, he already had a decent idea of the woman's character. Quick on the uptake, rather unshakable (at least when if came to his smart little comments), a bit dour, even, if he wanted to go that far. While Sands had been driving her to the shooting range, he asked her what she had done for a living before she had gone into hiding.
"Oh, I was training to be a doctor," she had answered, absently running a finger along the black choker tied around her throat.
An eyebrow arching over his sunglasses, Sands said, "So I take it your income wasn't very low if you can afford outfits from . . ."
Trailing off, Sands eyed her classy attire.
"J. Crew?"
Zebbidy had smirked in approval.
"Very observant," she had remarked. Sands shrugged and silence filled the vehicle. Then, suddenly, Zebbidy had sat up in her seat and her head snapped towards Sands. Brushing a several strands of her sweeping hair out of her face, she had asked:
"You're not –"
"No," he answered bluntly, already expecting her question. "My sister just has the same shirt in red."
One of Zebbidy's dark eyebrows flew up.
"Oh," she murmured, then – "You noticed my shirt . . . ?"
"That's up to your own imagination, Zeb," Sands had replied, smirking as he met her bright green eyes in the mirror.
If his words had any impact on Zebbidy Samhain's mind, he would never know. Abruptly after he had made his suggestion, the young woman had leaned back in her seat, resuming her slumped position. She had stared out of her window, leaving him alone with noting but the soft roar of the engine.
Now the woman stood before a line of targets, her right arm out in front of her, gun in hand. So far, Sands had to admit, she had been doing all right. She was a fairly good shot; if the situation should arise, she could probably get herself out of a gunfight, escaping with a few scrapes at the least. However, there was a big difference between firing at real, moving bodies and firing at stationary, cardboard targets.
When she suddenly lifted her unoccupied arm to grip the gun with both hands, Sands sighed in annoyance and strode over to her. Using both hands to fire a pistol wasn't wrong, however, it was much easier to pull the trigger if you used only one.
"Here," he murmured, standing right behind her. "If you're going to do that, it'll be easier if you hold it like this."
It happened in an instant. The moment Sands reached forward and laid his hands over hers, Zebbidy's eyes grew huge. Her vision blurred as hot tears gathered in her stinging eyes. All around her everything melted together into one swirling mass of color. And then, just as suddenly as it had started, the spinning stopped and everything fell back into place. The only thing different was her surroundings.
She was now standing on the sidewalk of a dusty street or a busy intersection. All around her, people were going about their business, walking straight past the girl with the long red hair. This had happened to her before, many times, though she had never seen the same location twice.
Why, why did it have to hit her now? Of all the times she could have been struck, she had to receive a blow now.
"Hombre incorrecto . . ."
Desperately, Zebbidy tried to locate the source of the unfamiliar young voice. But before she could even spin around, someone else spoke.
"Sorry . . ."
Slowly, Zebbidy turned towards the soft, haggard voice. As her eyes swept over the scene, she barely contained a gasp when she saw a little boy being held at gunpoint by a tall man with a shiny, clean-shaven head. Still, for some reason she continued to move to the voice she had heard; it was terribly familiar.
Clad in black, small silver pistol in hand, Sands stood in the center of the street. Cocking her head in confusion, Zebbidy found herself drawn to the man's face. The dark glasses he wore covered most of his features, and what the large sunglasses failed to hide was soaked in dark rivers of blood.
Regretfully, Sands tossed his gun away and Zebbidy thought she saw him sigh a little in defeat. The bald man she had seen earlier released the boy, but raised his own gun and pointed it at Sands instead. But before the man could shoot, Sands held up a hand, indicating that he wanted the other man to wait. Then, in what seemed like the longest seven seconds of Zebbidy's life, Sands raised an arm and touched his long fingers to the dark glasses.
"Look me in the eyes . . ." he whispered hoarsely, ". . . and then kill me."
Holding her collective breath, Zebbidy braced herself for the worst. However, nothing could have prepared her for what was to come when the glasses came off.
Zebbidy had to place a hand over her mouth to execute her terrified scream. As her line of vision cleared, she found herself sitting on the cold floor of the shooting range with two anxious pairs of eyes peering down at her. She looked up into the set of ocean-blue eyes of Agent Fusco to see that they were just as fearful as her own, but when she turned her aghast gaze to the next man, Zebbidy let out a soft yelp as another scream tried to escape her throat.
"What was that all about?" Sands demanded.
"Are you all right?" Liam asked at the same time.
Letting out a little shuddery sigh, Zebbidy closed her eyes and pulled her legs up to her chest, wanting nothing more than the sharp pinpricks of pain to end. Biting into her lower lip, she was not surprised when a salty taste entered her mouth. Her eyes were burning so badly, it didn't come as a shock to realize that a few tears had leaked out.
"What the hell was that all about?" Sands wanted to know. His voice was as calm and authoritative as it always was, even in the time of chaos.
Shaking her head back and fourth slowly, Zebbidy loosened her hold on her knees.
"Nothing, nothing . . ." she whispered huskily. "It was nothing . . ."
She was lying.
(glare) One of these days I'm gonna work up the nerve to inform Lynné that this is Sands' story, not hers. .o; Well, he's supposed to be in it more and she's just to be comic relief but Lyn had more scenes than her brother in this chapter, one of which was kinda pointless. Not really, though, cuz now, the next time you goes to a hotel, you now know how to tell if the mirrors are two-way or not. I forget where I read about that but it was recent so I decided to put it in here. )
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:
vanillafluffy: I'll have to find that song; certainly sounds like it would fit her. And, yes, Mort and Shooter are definitely a lot of fun write. I've had to play them in a random RPG once of twice, so I know what you mean )
Dawnie-7: Actually, the Ninth Gate wasn't one of my favorites either. I didn't really care for the ending. But after seeing it recently I couldn't' help but think that (if I could draw people realistically instead of cartoonishly 9.9) the woman who played 'The Girl Who was Following Depp Around' looked something like a blonde Zebbidy. (shrug) Just throwing out a visual image if anybody's trying to picture her.
The Gilatas Monster: I can't help it! I'm cursed!!! o.o' The gory stuff from the movie just keeps coming up in my mind and then that leads to other gory stuff and the next thing I know I'm coming up with another flashback or dream sequence. Vay iz mir . . .
Savvy TBird: Thank you! I'm trying to update every Friday and Sunday night and possibly on Wednesdays as well, if you care to know. )
Invader Nicole: Meep, I know what you mean. Everyone around here says Samhain the way it's spelled too. Ah, well, can't really blame them, I guess. Sands on the other hand . . . .9;; u.u Anyway, and I loved your IZ fic, too. Hope to see it posted soon! D
o