Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Forty-Four: Slight Imbalances
This just in . . . I absolutely, completely, and utterly despise FanFiction .net! The destruction-bringing, tyrannical bastard who runs this damn website is deleting fanfics! Not mine. Not yet, anyway. But a lot of my friends' have been deleted. And why? Because they were written in script form and not pros. X'O Admittedly, I do not like my personal script form and only wrote like that at the time because it was easier and faster, but I do not see a problem with writing in that style. The ones that are gone were actually good. I honestly do not understand why FFn has decided to do this. Something about this being a "professional" website, I think. (face contorts with fury) This is fanfiction, people! It's not supposed to be professional, it's supposed to be fun! Bloody freakin' hell . . . If I find another site, I'll send links out to everyone I can think of and tell them to spread the word. This is getting ridiculous.
So . . . when did you become a masochist?
Tilting her head thoughtfully to one side, Lynné considered the voice's question. It had been a while ago, now that she thought about it. Though she had only recently come to terms with her passion for pain, Lynné knew that the arousal she had felt . . . She knew that it was not her first experience with the it. As Gaston's blows came at her again and again, the craving for pain had surged through her veins, charged up her brain, filling her body with adrenaline. But the eroticism was simply being given a wake up call. The feeling had awoken from a deep and peaceful sleep by the mobster's attack.
She remembered it well, that burning thirst for abuse. It had been so alive . . . and it had coursed through her body, begging for more, yearning for the unfulfilled lust she so desired . . .
Seven years ago, she recollected, thinking back on her first few years with the Company, way back at good ol' Camp Swampy, when she had been the sassy, sultry rookie with the face of an angel and the mouth of a truck driver. Everyone, especially the higher-ups, had been certain that she would not last. Lynné Sands was a slacker! All she had were a shapely figure, great legs, and a nice rack. And her daddy's plastic, of course. Those were all wonderful qualities and nobody (at least, none of her male colleagues) was complaining, however, they were qualities of a trophy wife, not a CIA agent.
She had shocked them all when she sailed through each test with ease. Oh well, everyone had figured. The girl was smart, but there was no way a woman as small and thin as Lynné Sands would do well in the physical portion of her training.
Though not incredibly strong, Lynné's light body made her exceptionally fast. And she knew nearly every weak spot of the human body, a handy trick when they were practicing defensive moves. Though she had not gone with the flying colors she had received in her earlier classes, she had not left physical training with a lack of confidence.
Fine, the heads had decided. So she passed the second test – barely. But could she handle pain?
Lyn had scoffed at this. After all the crazy shit she, her brother, and stepsisters had gotten into when they were kids? Snake bites, the frozen tundra, tennis balls gone awry, slips, falls, car crashes, hangovers, God only knew what kind of drugs, cuts, bruises, broken bones, and more scars than she could ever have imagined . . .
Oh yeah. She could handle pain.
It was standard procedure, or so they said. All of the agents needed to experience a small amount of pain so they would have a vague idea of what to expect should they ever be captured and tortured.
Lynné smirked at the memory. Shock treatments. Strange choice of torture device, but she had been intrigued by the concept nonetheless.
Most of her classmates had been terrified at the thought of being electrocuted. Granted that several guys had gaffed and tried to act like manly men, Lynné had rolled her eyes, knowing full well that all of them were scared shitless. Not that she herself hadn't been a little bit bugged about the electrocution, but she had also been determined to go through with it. As she watched each of her fellow rookies go through with it – twitching with each spasm of pain – Lynné had grown increasingly anxious. She had wanted to go first so that she could get it over and done with and then spend the rest of the class period watching her classmates squirm. Unfortunately, the teacher had decided to torture them in alphabetical order. 'S' being towards the end of the alphabet, Lyn had been one of the last to go.
At last, she took her seat in the chair where the torment would take place. All of the trainees had sat in that chair to test their tolerance levels. The teacher had said that it would be more comfortable for them, but that they also might not be able to get back up again.
He had looked down at her, a simple stun gun in his hand. The next thing she knew the tip of the instrument had tapped against her shoulder and a mild, electric buzz had flown through her system. She had not been expecting the shock to happen so fast, and she had not expected it to be so diluted either. Puzzled, Lynné glanced up at her instructor and inquired skeptically:
"That it?"
"That was just a tester," the teacher had growled.
Annoyed, he had driven the stun gun into her shoulder a second time. This time, he kept it there for twenty seconds before finally letting up.
"Was that another tester?" Lynné had questioned sarcastically.
The teacher had given her one of the looks that she had often received from Sands. It was either the 'you-get-what-you-paid-for' or the 'you-asked-for-this' look. But before Lyn could decide, her teacher had plunged the taser into her skin, fast and hard.
And she had felt a sensation so vigorous that her breath had escaped her. For the first time in her life after reading Laughing Wild and being taken by a crazy woman's logic, Lynné forgot to breathe. At that moment, all thoughts disappeared from her mind. Even the voice was silent.
But everything came flooding back when she suddenly realized that there was no pressure being applied to her arm. The shock was gone. Disappointed, she gazed up at her instructor and tormenter and said sorrowfully,
"I think you'll have to do that again."
And he did. Harder. Longer. Electricity ripped through her small body, tearing at her muscles, making them scream. Her heart raced.
"Oh God!" she gasped delightedly.
The teacher was furious. He shocked her again.
"Oh!"
Again, with more force.
"Oh!!"
The teacher was determined to make her scream. Where everyone else had failed, he would not. Lynné Sands could be broken, and he was going to prove it. Again, he jammed the stun gun into her arm and Lynné slumped. This time, she let out a different cry.
"Ohhh . . ."
A tired grin plastered across her face, she leaned forward in her chair and let her head droop. With an exhausted laugh, she shook her pounding head and once again turned to her teacher.
"That was a helluva ride. We'll have to do it again, sometime."
When she tired to get out of the chair, terribly weak and tingling all over, her muscles had twitched and had not obeyed the commands her brain sent to them, yet Lynné hardly noticed. She had never felt more exhilarated. Since that day, the Electric Slide had taken on a whole new meaning to her.
Vincent Poisson had been surprised to hear from him, just as Sands had predicted. That was good. It was always reassuring to know that being blind had not damaged his credentials. Not that he had suspected anything of being snafued, but it was always a good idea to test his abilities out before going into action. He had caught Fusco off guard on a few occasions, but the younger agent was not what Sands would call reliable. Fusco was a panicky twerp – easily surprised. He needed to test his skills on someone who would be a bit more difficult.
And he needed someone who could tell him about his sister.
So he had given Vincent Poisson a call, and the man had delivered the goods. He now had a decent portion of Édouard's son's trust, his cell phone number, and his whereabouts. Which meant that he now knew Lyn's whereabouts.
Sands grinned, ignoring the puzzled look on Zebbidy's wan face as she examined his wounds for the umpteenth time. Sometimes he could just be too damn good. Or a situation could just be too damn easy. But Sands preferred the former.
"I didn't think he'd be willing to help," Zebbidy told him. She was talking about Vincent, he knew, but he didn't agree with her. Though the rouge mobster had been short at first, Sands had known that Vincent would give in. They always did. Eventually.
"You'd be surprised at what people are willing to do," he drawled, stretching in order to avoid Zebbidy's caring hands. "If the right offer is made, that is."
Zebbidy nodded in understanding and told him to sit still so she could remove his stitches in his arm.
"I know they're a bitch, but if you won't let me take them out, you'll be making things worse."
"Zeb," he sighed, "that's what I do. I take a chaotic situation and make it worse."
"Is there a point to your . . . work . . . or do you just do it because you can?" Zebbidy questioned.
Sands raised his arms and held out his hands, palms up, imitating a set of scales. And avoiding her scissors-wielding hand as well, Zebbidy noted disapprovingly.
"It's all about balance, honey bunch," Sands told her simply. "Evening things out. Too much bad isn't right, but too much good isn't either. There has to be just enough of everything in order to keep the system from going outta whack."
"So that's your job," she stated. Her voice was very quiet.
Sands nodded.
"That's my job."
He leaned back against the headboard of his bed as Zebbidy fell silent. Sands decided to stay quiet, give her some time to process all he had said. He heard a shark intake of breath and realized it was his own when he felt the cool blades of Zebbidy's scissors slice through the catgut she had used to sew him back together.
"So" Zebbidy began, raising her voice slightly to cover his sudden gasp, "if too much bad isn't good, and too much good isn't good . . . where do you stand?"
He looked over at Zebbidy and saw that her expression was just as confused as his was, only hers shined with a healthy, eager light that he did not possess.
What are you playing at, lady?
"I only say that," Zebbidy hurried on to explain, "because it's clear that the evil inside you outweighs the angelic." She smirked.
Sands shrugged nonchalantly, narrowly avoiding being poked by Zebbidy's scissors.
"There are enough God-fearing religious freaks to balance out sinners like myself."
"No," Zebbidy cut across abruptly. "I didn't mean it that way. It's you as an individual I want to know about. Not everything's been evened out up there." She nodded pointedly to his head.
"That's why balance has to be kept, Zeb," Sands explained calmly. "I'm a prime example of how fucked up things can get if it isn't."
With nothing left to say, Zebbidy bobbed her head twice and deftly removed the remaining stitches from Sands' arm. The worst of the wound was gone, now. That was good. Sands would be going after Lynné soon and getting past Poisson's extraordinary security system and countless number of guards would be challenging enough without partially-healed injuries to worry about.
She too had a lot to concern herself with, Zebbidy knew. She sincerely hoped that she was not part of Sands plan to retrieve Lynné. The last thing Zebbidy wanted to do was enter Poisson territory. But returning to one of the Mafia don's many mansions was pushed to the back of her mind by a new burden.
Sands didn't sound as though he enjoyed his madness, but he didn't seem like he cared if it was there or not. The indifference could be a cover, Zebbidy imagined, but she doubted it. Then again, it was possible that the agent had simply learned to cope with his insanity. Perhaps he found it was easier to embrace the dementia rather than fight it.
That seems wrong, somehow, she thought, casting the idea away like an unwanted piece of clothing. It would make more sense for him to fight. Wage a war against his own mind, rather than give in…
As she went about gathering the shreds of fallen catgut, Sands' words reverberated in her mind.
'That's why balance has to be kept, Zeb. I'm a prime example of how fucked up things can get if it isn't.'
After quietly pocketing her scissors, Zebbidy rose from her seat on the bed, watching Sands as he punched in several buttons on his cell phone. And she thought that it, the idea of a person so obviously unbalanced working tirelessly to achieve balance, was riveting in a way she could not describe. She did not derive a perverse sort of pleasure from it, but the thought stirred up a feeling inside of her, and that feeling made her chest ache.
With a long, exasperated sigh, Lynné tilted her head so far back her neck creaked. Letting out another disgruntled breath, she snapped her neck back down. She narrowed her eyes at the door. For several seconds, she entertained herself by imagining an explosion that rocked the entire room and blew the God-awful door to bits. It was a fantasy, but it was amusing nonetheless.
Three days, she counted. Three straight days with nothing but Cat, Harrington, Poisson's goons, and her royal bitchy-ness . . . and after they had finished with her there had been . . .solitude. It wouldn't have been so bad if it hadn't been so fucking boring. Only so many hours can pass before one finds themselves out of energy, out of songs, and out of ideas.
"God . . . if I weren't crazy already, I'd loose my fucking marbles," Lynné muttered aloud. As the seconds ticked by, she was loosing every scrap of sanity she had managed to hold onto. What did she care if anyone heard her? Screw 'em. Screw them all. The bunch of ignorant assholes could've at least given her a lava lamp to occupy her mind.
"They didn't even give me that!" she cried in outrage.
No consideration at all, the voice murmured, failing to stifle a laugh.
During the time she had been left alone in the room, Lynné had unhooked her handcuffs and then hooked them back together again to see if she could undo them twice. She had succeeded only to perform the same trick once more. And twice after that. It had been a last resort to pass the time, but it hadn't been entirely useless. She could now successfully remove a set of handcuffs in less than thirty seconds.
But the novelty of hooking and unhooking the cuffs had worn off after the fourth try. And now she was bored again. She had been for the past . . . four hours, she guessed.
The chair she was sitting on felt like a block of ice inside the meat locker of a prison.
Meat locker . . . the voice snickered sadistically. Y'know, I wouldn't be surprised if this wasn't a meat locker at one time.
After a quick glance around the room, Lynné felt her eyebrows peak with interest.
"Hey . . ."
Oops, might wanna stop with the crazy act, Lynnie. Somebody's coming.
"What?"
The voice said nothing. In front of her, the door, whose destruction she had pictured repeatedly, flew open and struck the cement wall with a loud 'crack.'
"Hello, monsieur," Sands greeted brightly. He ignored the agitation that came through his phone. In his opinion, the man on the other end had no right to be annoyed. Just how the hell was he expected to walk into a trap when he didn't know where he was supposed to go?
"May I ask who is calling?" the receiver asked in clipped tones.
"Am I to assume that a wealthy man such as yourself isn't hooked up with caller ID?" Sands chided, feigning bewilderment. "All right," he sighed disdainfully, "I'll level with ya. You – more specifically, your thugs – took something of mine and then informed an acquaintance of mine that you wanted me to retrieve it."
A pause.
There was a light note in Édouard Poisson's voice when at last he spoke.
"Ah. Agent Sands. I was beginning to wonder if I would hear from you."
"No time to spare, Eddie. It's been one of those weeks."
"How did you get this number?" Poisson wondered coyly.
"Now, now. Let's not get stuck on the details. I'd like to make this as simple as possible."
"Very well," Poisson agreed.
"Good. Now, as I'm sure you're well aware of, you've got one of my agents. A top agent, to be exact. I'd be happy to take her off your hands, because, let me tell ya, she can be a wildcat when she's deprived of a firearm for too long.
"This agent –"
"I'm curious to know, Agent Sands," Poisson interrupted casually, "why you say agent instead of sister. That is who Lynné Sands is, is she not? Your sister?"
Sands felt his jaw clench. True, it didn't surprise him that Poisson knew that Lynné was his sibling. If their last name hadn't given it away, their strong resemblance would have. Still, Sands had tried to keep the word 'sister' out of the conversation. If he didn't say the 'S' word, he figured, there was a chance that Poisson would believe that he, Sands, had no feelings toward Lynné. That the words 'sister' and 'brother' were simply labels they had been attached to for the past twenty-eight years. It seemed, however, that Poisson had seen through this. But there was still time to change his mind. The game wasn't over yet.
"I won't deny that she is my sister," Sands sighed, "but at the agency, things like family are meaningless. They're frivolous and get in the way of work, which, as you know, is what's really important.
"And because my job is so important," he continued airily, "I have to have my agent back. Can't get anything done without her, I'm afraid."
"Really," Poisson murmured slowly. "Your job. If what you say is true, and your work is as important to you as you claim, Agent Sands . . . then would you not have pushed everything aside in order to rescue the young lady who is so vital, she enables you to continue doing the work you claim is so important?"
Sands bit down on his lower lip. Fuck. That crafty bastard . . . So far he had caught every lie that had been thrown at him. But Sands wasn't about to give up. Not by a long shot.
"Well, Monsieur, I'll be straight with you," Sands said at last, sounding like a lawbreaker that had been caught in the middle of a crime. With false defeat on the edge of his voice, he continued, "I would have gone after the girl the moment I heard of her kidnapping . . . if it hadn't been for one tiny, miniscule, ridiculous thought that would not stop nagging me."
"And what would that be?" the Mafia don questioned, bored.
"How do I know if she's even alive?" Sands demanded. His tone morphed from discouraged to distrustful in a heartbeat. "Because, honestly, I'm not gonna drag my butt all the way out to your chateau only to find out that she's dead ."
"What are you saying?" Poisson demanded suspiciously.
The corners of Sands' mouth twitched into a smirk.
"Put her on the phone."
Like a demonic beacon, a symbol of hell itself, Ajedrez stood, a black silhouette against the eerie red glow that was emitting from behind her. She watched as her prisoner slowly slipped away from the world of the sane. Outside, she had heard the crazed ravings of the pale young woman. They had amused her greatly. The thought of Lynné Sands loosing control over her brilliant mind . . . What could be better than snatching away the very thing the woman strived for?
Ajedrez smirked. And, of course, there was no chance she would cancel Lynné's torture just because the agent was reaching the edge of her sanity. She would merely . . . postpone it for a while. Taunting, however, was not out of the question.
"You know," she began quietly, "talking out loud to yourself isn't healthy."
"And I imagine having a demented thirst for vengance is?" Lynné retorted flatly.
"Your brother shot me and you killed my father," Ajedrez hissed, the teasing note gone from her voice. "When you think about all I have suffered through, no one would blame me for seeking revenge."
"I would," Lynné mouthed silently.
"It would make my father proud," Ajedrez went on to say as she strode into the room, "to know that his daughter had sought out the ones who had wronged him and that she was going to avenge his death."
"Y'know . . ." Lyn sighed. She paused for a moment, rolling her shoulders in an attempt to dislodge them from their stiff position. When she spoke again she sounded remarkably sincere. "You have some extreme Daddy-issues, sweetheart."
Ajedrez's footsteps faltered. She halted all movement, staring down at the American agent in distrustful shock.
"I'm serious," Lynné insisted. "I'll bet you were ignored as a kid and when ol' Barillo did want you around, he expected too much of you. And too much pressure can do terrible things to a girl, believe me. I oughtta know."
Her captor made a noise that clearly illustrated her point: She wasn't buying the act.
"No, really," Lyn said calmly. "My dad was the same way, although, unlike you, I blew him off and didn't listen to a word he said. You, on the other hand . . . I'm guessing you took your father's words to heart. And he didn't have the nicest things to say about you, did he?"
Ajedrez scoffed, "You don't know what you're –"
"Talking about?" Lyn finished coyly. She grinned smugly. "Hit home, didn't I?"
Ajedrez's only answer was to send a searing glare of the utmost loathing in the agent's direction. Lynné met her gaze with gusto. An expectant smile spread across her fair face, she waited for the female drug lord's response. But Ajedrez continued to shoot fiery spears with her eyes, hatred boiling in her dark irises. For a moment, Lynné considered informing her that it had been more exciting before she entered the scene, but before the words had even begun to form in her mouth, the door banged open once again.
The weasel-like face of Alphonse Poisson was drawn with overexertion as it made its way into the small, square room. His body sagged as he leaned against the doorframe, gasping and sputtering for the air that was always out of reach. His chest heaved as though he had just run a marathon and by the looks of things, he had. Yet Alphonse was a man on a mission, and he would be damned if he didn't carry it out.
"Father sent me . . ." he managed to pant out. "I was . . . only one there . . . at the time . . ." Weakly, he raised his arm and, with a tightly clasped yet shaky hand, held out a sleek, black cell phone.
"Mademoiselle . . ." he wheezed. "For you . . . Not you!" he yelled suddenly as Ajedrez went to accept the phone. Sweat shining on his face in the dim glow of the light bulb, Alphonse narrowed his eyes and gave a curt nod towards Lynné. "Her."
It took its time, but at last it registered in Ajedrez's brain. Irritated, she snatched the phone away from Alphonse and shoved it roughly into the crook of Lynné's shoulder. The agent nearly had to jump to catch the phone before it fell to the ground. Sandwiching it between her shoulder and her ear and muttering a loud "Bitch" in Ajedrez's direction, Lynné none-too-comfortably struck up a conversation.
"Hello?" Her face suddenly lit with mild surprise at who was calling. "Well whaddaya know. I certainly haven't heard from you in a while. How's every little thing?"
"Swell, Lynnie, just swell," Sands answered sardonically. "And what have you been up to?"
A shrug would have gone nicely with her reply, but Lyn didn't want to risk dropping her phone. Besides, it wasn't as if her brother was in the room to witness it, anyway.
"Not much. Just got done chatting it up with one of your favorite people."
"Who?"
"Well," his sister drawled delicately, "I can't say here – I'm kinda treading on thin ice at the moment – but I'll give you a clue. Ready to hear it?"
"Go for it," Sands allowed unenthusiastically.
"Okay," Lyn said mischievously. Without warning, she threw back her head and let out a piercing cry that consisted of two infamous words: "Aie caramba!"
The second the words flew from her mouth, the phone toppled from its perch. Wide-eyed with panic, Alphonse made a mad dash to retrieve the object before it clattered to the rock-hard floor. Snickering in amusement, Lynné watched as the mobster caught the tiny cellular and held it up to his own ear. Alphonse cleared his throat importantly before beginning. From the doorway, Ajedrez rolled her eyes in disgust.
"There," Alphonse declared shortly. "Your sister is still alive. You heard her."
On the other end of the line, Sands picked up something behind Alphonse's boring rant. Something hidden. A tune. Humming. Lyn humming, he realized, intrigued. Though she chose not to sing the words, he recognized the melody instantly.
Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been?
I've been up to London to visit the Queen.
"She's safe," Alphonse was saying when Sands finally tuned back in. "And she will remain safe, provided you come to her rescue, of course."
Pussycat, pussycat, what did you dare?
I frightened a little mouse under her chair.
"Be quiet," Alphonse hissed at Lynné. She paid him no mind and continued to hum.
Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been?
I've been up to London to visit the Queen.
"I said be quiet!" Alphonse was livid, now. "Silencieux!" he commanded furiously. "Fermez votre bouche!"
He must have tried to clamp a hand over Lynné's mouth because the next thing Sands heard was a startled outcry of pain and several enraged French curses.
"Chienne abominable, dégoûtante . . ." he swore at Lynné. Turning back to his cell phone, Alphonse warned heatedly, "Agent Sands, if you wish for your sister to remain unharmed, you will tell her to keep her mouth shut and to hold her tongue!"
"How about this," Sands began with a quiet laugh, "You tell Lyn . . . tell Lyn . . . not to put any more mobsters in her mouth. She doesn't know where they've been."
Geh, I should have had this up yesterday and would have had my dad not decided to take me to see Phantom of the Opera. Not that I'm protesting. As a matter of fact, I encourage you all to go out and see the movie/musical for yourself because it is spectacular. Beyond amazing, wonderful, a masterpiece. Then go out and buy the soundtracks from both the original Broadway production and the movie. And buy the book too: Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux. It's an excellent read. Yes, I am m a pimp for PotO and I'm proud of it u.u
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:
morph: Blah, I tried several times to edit the ending so it didn't repeat itself like that, but it didn't work (checks that off as another reason she isn't fond of FFn). Glad you found the convo between Lyn and the voice amusing and the Canada comment too :) And don't worry; Cat and Ajedrez aren't going to get away with all they've done. u.u
Dawnie-7: The feeling's mutual as far as shots are concerned. Can't stand them, personally. It used to be because they hurt like hell but not it's mostly because I the damn doctors never tell you what's in them! If someone's injecting a foreign liquid into my body, I'd like to know what's in it, y'know? But anyway, moving on . . . Sands most definitely has a plan. Or a makeshift one, anyway. There are still a few details that need to be worked out before he goes into action.
vanillafluffy: 'Bête' I was wondering if someone would pick up on that :) And that is one creepy telephone – much creepier than my lamp. Your phone actually does something whereas the lamp just sits and looks evil. Ah well, my sister still insists that it's up to no good…
Lynx Ryder: I knew I could count on you to pick out several of the more…artistic lines in the last chapter :) If I'd have known that mentioning Liam would trigger a reaction like yours… Well, Lyn's going to give him what's coming to him, one way or another. He's certainly not going to get away unscathed. u.u Yep, she said the D-word. My guess is that Dr. Hoffman didn't have much experience with kids. Kids like Sands, at least. I'm so pleased to hear you thought that's how a kid would see a nurse! That's what I was going for :D And I'm glad you liked Sands' exact responses; I couldn't help but find them amusing :P Yep, Josey is Lyn's version of the little boy in OUaTiM as a way to make up for the fact that I didn't include him in TLWH as I would have liked to :( And it's sweet that you feel a little sorry for Vincent. He's not that bad a guy, really :)
fanfiction fanatic: Sorry if the repeated part was a bit confusing. Like I said, I tried fixing it but nothing happened. Demonic lamp…yes…I'll spare you the details. And I'm planning on some action in the next installment, just so you know :)
DragonHunter200: Glad you liked the dream and the concept of Sands with emotions. I figured that he would since he was only about six at the time. Young, slightly innocent…plus he's in a doctor's office and who feels comfortable there? Eh. Hate to disappoint, but there was and wasn't a point to Sands baiting Liam. He was trying to figure out if Liam was hiding anything and at the same time he was just messing with him because he was in a bad mood. You know how Sands can be ;D
Want to apologize for the lack of Author's Thanks in the first installment of this chapter. Goddamn FFn cut it off the first time around. But it's all there now, so read and be thanked and then review!
o