Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Nine: Nobody's Perfect
This chapter has a bit of something for everybody.
Everybody: (extremely bored) Yay. -.-
Sidney: This is because at least everyone has their own scene!
Everybody: -.O (NOW she's got their attention)
Liam: (skeptically) Even me?
Sidney: Of course. (quietly and out of the corner of her mouth) In his scene, his antics really remind me of something Ichabod Crane would do. X3
Liam: What?
Sidney: Nothing you haven't heard before, dear. u.u
"You have no one, you know that, don't you?"
"Yes . . ."
"Look at me when I am speaking to you."
Zebbidy lifted her head a meager fraction of inch to stare into the cold, gray eyes of her grandfather.
"I repeat," he started, "you have no one, and you have lived comfortably in this house since you were six, therefore running away should be a waste of effort. Yet . . . . you left anyway."
Her eyes quickly returned to the black-and-white floor. She could still see her grandfather's wavy image reflected in the gleaming tiles. Though his words were calm, his reflection told her everything she needed to know: He was furious.
"I took you in, Zebbidy Samhain," he said sternly, "and what is your repayment? You run away."
"Sir, I didn't mean – "
"You DID mean to, Zebbidy, there is no way you could have mistaken your actions for anything else."
He paused, studying the young girl before him. She was almost eleven but so small that her tiny body was nearly hidden by a mane of long red hair. Half concealed by heavy lids, her vibrant green eyes – so much like her mother's – could not be seen.
"Why did you leave?" he asked severely.
"I . . . only wanted . . . to be out . . . of the house," she added quickly. "I-I needed some air."
"And for that you had to go to la Cote de Azure?" her grandfather demanded.
Zebbidy winced but said nothing. She had no explanation for this other than the one he had already figured out, and that one could lead to trouble for her.
'But I only wanted to help! Those people were in danger and I saw them!'
"I'm sure you know that you will need to be punished for your misbehavior."
"Yes."
'But I can't tell about anything like that . . . he wouldn't understand . . .'
"Go to your room," her grandfather commanded, glaring down at the small girl.
She looked up suddenly. Her grandfather's steely glare never wavered. He continued to pierce her with his eyes in a way that should have brought her to tears, but Zebbidy stood her ground.
"For how long?" she asked charily.
"When I think that you deserve sunlight. Until that time, you know the rules. You know what you are to do."
She bobbed her head once to show she understood. Her grandfather dismissed her with a flick of his hand and a single word:
"Go."
Zebbidy hurried away without another word. She knew her fate before her grandfather's men had found her. She was to go to her bedroom and stay put. She was to see no one and someone would be stationed outside her door to ensure that. She would be given her meals regularly but she was to eat them in her room and not with the rest of her family.
'They're not my family,' she reminded herself plainly.
How long she was to remain a captive in her own bedroom was beyond her. It all depended on how bad she had been. Though helping someone didn't qualify as 'being bad' in her eyes, it was a different story to her uncle.
'He gets upset over the smallest things,' she thought as she pulled open the door to her bedroom. She could be locked in that room for hours or days, possibly weeks.
'Leaving the house without guards WAS wrong . . .'
She sat down on her bed, staring at the soft, berry colored carpeting below her.
'But I left for good reason! I saw something and went out to find it. And I did and . . . I helped them . . . why does that call for punishment?'
'It doesn't,' she told herself firmly. 'Grandfather is overreacting like usual.'
And he would have been angrier if he knew she had been out sacrificing her time for others, she thought spitefully. Her grandfather always found something wrong with her, no matter what she did.
'And I am not being melodramatic about that,' she thought stubbornly.
He was constantly comparing her to her cousins and making remarks about her achievements, calling them shoddy and saying they 'weren't up to his standards.' What were his standards? Perfection?
"There's no such thing," she murmured quietly. And there wasn't. People used words like 'perfect' and 'perfection' to describe many things but it wasn't true. Yes, something might be rather amazing, brilliant, excellent, ideal, but nothing was perfect.
"There's no such thing," Zebbidy said again, this time louder.
"There's no such thing . . ."
And again.
"There's no such thing . . . "
Again – louder.
"There's no such thing . . . !"
Louder. Just saying it wasn't enough. She needed to yell it, scream it so somebody would hear.
"There's no such thing!"
Maybe they would even tell her grandfather.
"There's no such thing!"
Maybe it would be her grandfather who heard it. She hoped so, even though saying such things were bound to result in worse punishment than this. Her grandfather would kill her cat or maybe even her horse if he thought it would help her see reason, make her 'perfect' for him.
"THERE'S – NO – SUCH – THING!!!"
She was being shaken severely. Someone had taken her by the shoulders and was rocking her body back and forth as if trying to wake her. But she wasn't asleep . . . they just wanted her to admit she was wrong. There was such a thing as perfection and she wasn't it. But she could be, with a little persuasion.
"NO! It doesn't exist! You're deluded and you know it!"
"Damnit, Zebbidy, snap the fuck out of it," an angry voice ordered, "Now is not the time to have a mental breakdown on me."
"I'm NOT having a breakdown – I'm telling the truth!" she yelled. Why wouldn't they listen . . ?
"Dreams rarely speak the truth, honey," the person told her exasperatedly, giving her another shake. "Now do me a favor and open your eyes."
Beneath the woman's fluttering lashes Sands saw brief flickers of green. He let out a mental sigh but did not release Zebbidy just yet. She could still be dreaming for all he knew and her rapid blinking could mean nothing.
"Almost there, chère, now just wake up." Sands could hear the prominent annoyance in his voice but he thought he detected a small amount of urgency as well.
'Point? The last thing I need is her freaking out on me.'
But I thought you could handle crazy women easily. Look and Lynnie: You get along well with her and she's out of her mind.
'Lynnie,' he replied tersely, 'is different. May I remind you that she doesn't have panic attacks? '
If mental breakdowns were a common thing with Miss Samhain, don't you think her file would've said something about it?
'It should have, but, as we're both so well aware, the CIA tends to leave out tiny details like that.'
Beside him, Zebbidy Samhain finally seemed to be coming to her senses. She was blinking slowly as she peered around the room, taking in her surroundings. When at last her eyes landed on Sands, a small gasp emerged from her lips and she clasped a hand over her mouth.
"Was I doing it again?" she asked, her words slightly muffled underneath her fingers.
"If by that you mean talking in your sleep, then yes," Sands answered, surveying her intently. "Care to tell us what that was all about?"
Zebbidy blinked, perplexed.
"What was what all about . . . ?"
"Y'know, I had to think long and hard before I even started to inch my way towards telling you that."
"Agent Sands, when your fellow officers go MIA – "
" – it is your duty as an agent to inform the Company of it," Lynné concluded. "I know, I know. However, if you recall the events in Cullican four years ago and how even after I told you that the mission had been compromised you somehow . . . forgot to send me back up? Remember that? What happened that day, Latch? Get caught in traffic?"
"Lynné," her superior began, a desperate note in his voice. Lyn cut him off abruptly.
"So I'm assuming we're speaking the same language now, therefore you can now understand why I was reluctant to tell you anything new.
"That is no reas – "
"All I'm asking for . . . is a few more agents – three at the most – down here. I'm not taking risks, not when I've got someone to protect."
Liar.
'Oh drop dead. He's lapping this up and you know it.'
"You've got a squad assembled near la Cote de Azure, don't you? Any chance of shipping a few of them my way?"
Lyn thought she heard a response but it was difficult to tell through the sudden wave of static that had broken into her conversation. She scowled in aggravation but decided that her contact had agreed to meet her, and if he hadn't, then it would be his ass if he didn't show up tomorrow.
"Listen, I'm cutting out, so I need to know if you can get me my team or not, capishe?"
She was only met with a fuzzy, crackling sound.
"Hello? Hello, can you hear me . . . ?"
The words flashed on the screen of her cell phone: 'Out of Range.' And upon examining the phone more closely, she noticed that she only had one bar left on the battery tally as well.
Lynné slapped a hand over her eyes in disbelief.
'Goddamn you Liam for not charging up the phone . . . And goddamn you Sands for not reminding him.'
"Okay," she muttered aloud, "this . . . this isn't a big deal . . . I just . . . I just have to find a payphone."
She blinked, stunned that she hadn't thought of that in the first place.
'Right. That's it, that's all I need to do: Just . . . find . . . a payphone.'
She was standing near the middle of a semi-busy intersection, therefore a phone had to be nearby. And there it was, right across from the water fountain that acted as a monument at the center of the intersection.
'All right, now all I need to do is find change . . . change . . .' she murmured and began ferreting through the pockets of her blazer.
'Hopefully this is enough to get me through to D. C.,' she thought as she pushed the assortment of foreign coins around the palm of her hand. Lyn started towards the phone as soon as she was certain she had enough change. She walked in a distracted sort of trance, not noticing the many holes in her path. That is, until one came into contact with her right foot.
Lynné let out a startled yell as she pitched forward. Her leg twisted around in the pothole, her arms flailed, and in the process of trying to remain upright, her change went flying.
Suppressing a groan of frustration, Lyn grimaced as her fistful of coins soared through the air and landing with a resounding splash in the fountain in front of her.
She muttered something that sounded like "As if I haven't got enough shit to deal with . . ." and stormed over to the water fountain. Crouching down in front of it, Lyn rolled up the sleeves of her shirt and submerged her hand in the icy water.
"Mademoiselle?" a small voice asked.
Always on the alert, Lynné withdrew her hand from the fountain as if the water had been scalding. She spun around as she pushed off of the water fountain, her eyes narrowed with dubiety.
"Mademoiselle?" the voice called again, this time with more curiosity.
Lyn closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of alleviation when she saw who had spoken. It was a little girl, only about six give or take a year. She was obviously of French nationality, unless she was a very accomplished actress because her accent certainly had Lyn convinced. Pale, almost white blonde hair hung in loose curls that fell to the small of her back. Her eyes – as dark as Lyn's own – were narrowed in disapproval as she eyeballed the intense brunette who had been digging around a water fountain.
'Little Debbie's met Marilyn Monroe. They've combined styles and this was the result,' Lyn thought distantly as she observed the little girl who was decked out in a sundress of snow white and sky blue pinstripes. The little girl had put her hands on her hips and was scrutinizing the American agent angrily.
"Vous n'êtes pas censés vous en couler!" (You're not supposed to steal from that!) she informed her, outraged.
For a few seconds, Lyn gazed at the little girl with a look that would have frightened most people away.
"And you're not supposed to talk to strangers," Lyn replied in a voice that was calm and sweet at the same time. Then, she extended an arm and pointed off somewhere in the distance.
"Piss off."
Liam glanced around nervously. Fieldwork really wasn't his style. He'd much rather stand in the background and let someone more experienced (like Sands or Lynné or some other manipulative yet eloquent agent) do all the talking. But life was full of struggles. Meeting a complete (not to mention potentially dangerous) stranger at a restaurant in Paris was only one of them.
His hand shook slightly as he reached out to pick up the glass in front of him. Liam steadied himself quickly by gripping the crystal glass tightly and took a long drink of water. When he had finally finished, he set the glass down firmly. His left arm shifted slightly. Liam's blue eyes widened.
'Oh God . . . oh no . . . not now.'
His right hand shot out and seized the arm. He had no sooner touched the limb when it began to detach from his body. Liam let out a soft moan of panic and at once tried to reattach the arm. His haphazard attempts were fruitless as he only succeeded in ripping the arm off completely.
As if that was the worst of his worries, at that moment Liam saw his client walking towards him with long, confident strides. Luckily, the man hadn't seen Liam or his uncooperative limb. He DID notice Liam eventually, but not the arm. When the man finally reached the table, he quirked an eyebrow at the CIA agent sitting before him.
"Hi," Liam greeted, smiling nervously. Underneath the table, he shifted the gun in his actual hand ever so slightly. It was now pointed directly at the other man's abdomen. "I, um . . ." He faltered, looking for an answer to his strange predicament.
'What would Lynné do?' he thought frantically, 'I should wear a necklace that says that; it would be so much more helpful than those ones with WWJD on them . . .'
And then, it came to him, as simple as that.
"I . . . ," Liam stammered, looking up at the tall imposing man with a pleading expression, "I lost my arm . . . on duty . . . last year. Yes."
The man looked down at him strangely for a few seconds. Then, to Liam's emense relief, he nodded once in understanding.
"All right," the man said, taking a seat across from Liam. "I take it you are the one who called?"
"Yes," Liam sighed, unable to believe his good luck. "Yes, yes, I was – am. Heh."
He gave a weak smile that the man did not return.
"What is it your agency requires from me, Agent Fusco?" he asked in a tired voice, making it clear that he was not there for idle chitchat.
"Well," Liam began looking apprehensive, "I need you to kill a man."
I feel like I'm gonna go to hell (if such a thing exists, agnostic again 9.9) or at least receive a few angry glares for overriding Jesus with someone with the last name of Sands. Oh well . . . . but I'm still paranoid, so I'm gonna go confess my sins, but not before I respond to some reviews, of course. ;)
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:
vanillafluffy: Meep! I didn't know! o.o;; Seriously, I must have forgotten entirely that your Sands was Jewish or else I wouldn't've done the same thing to mine. But, yeah, now that you mention it, Sheldon sounds kind of Jewish . . . have yet to meet any Jews with that name though. And Sands falling off of the couch after he's had a nightmare made me think of 'Secret Window,' too. Geh, hate those falling dreams -.-;;
DragonHunter200: Don't worry, Liam eventually gets his say. I'm thinking of letting him "rip into" Lyn in the near future. Or . . . as best as one can tell off someone like Lynné. 9.9 And Keith Richards is a master musician, no doubt u.u o.o But rather scary, yes. (pokes Sands) Stop smoking, you fool!
Dawnie-7: I'm the same way with flashbacks, hence why they occur in every other chapter, lol. Don't know why either, I just like 'em. Guess it's for the same reasons I find a Jewish Sands and Lyn funny. XD
morph: Heh, I don't mind questions (mostly cuz I question everything 9.9) but I will answer as best I can without letting any major details slip. 1) I assure you, that's answered in the next chapter. 2) Maybe in time. 3) (like the girl in 'Don't Say a Word') I'll never te-ell . . . 4) Definitely! Hope that's helped a little bit. And of course you can use some of my quotes. I never mind anything like borrowing unless there's plagiarism involved (has read 'Secret Window, Secret Garden too much 9.9) But, sure, go right ahead. )
Oh, oh, oh! And as a note to everyone: I've just read something that made my day. Apparently, while doing an interview, Robert Rodriguez said that, and I quote, "the character of Agent Sands might return in an animated sequel or possibly a video game." (jumps up and down insanely) Feel free to celebrate, guys! And hope that Mr. Rodriguez fulfils our expectations! :D!!!
o