Breathe in. Breathe out. When was the last time he looked at his reflection? Not so long ago, he would have scoffed at how incredibly pointless the question was. But that was before his head was encased in surgical bandages. Before the doctors pumped him full of anaesthetic, mumbling about grafts and infections and emergencies as if he could not hear them. Before the great flames engulfed his world, before the agonizing pain hit. So, now, when was this last time?
It had to be in Arkhangelsk. Yes, he remembered the grungy bathroom. The stench, the black specks peppering the cheap mirror, the leery look of the private who came in after him. They were supposed to be comrades, two squaddies like any other in Colonel Ourumov's regiment. But perhaps the man had known, even without realizing it, that in fact they were nothing of the like. That was the Soviet Union for you, instilling the sense that absolutely no one could be trusted.
Breathe in. Breathe out. He really was not going to take a look, was he? Never did he feel a terror so great that he found solace in caring about some nobody on his path. He had lost count of how many times he went under the knife; of how many days he had laid on the rough bed, the right side of his face an inextinguishable blaze. Then there was what those butchers had done to his thigh, that bad scar they left by carving a large patch of skin.
'Get a bloody grip on yourself already.', he thought, his teeth gritted so tight they might have cracked. He had seen severe injuries before – and even sustained a few –, so what was so special about this particular one? The sooner he confronted the blood-freezing apprehension, the sooner he could move on to what actually mattered. Hence, not leaving himself a choice anymore, he opened his eyes.
Suddenly, not a single muscle in his body was moving. His mind went blank for a fleeting moment, in which the soft hum of the ventilation system almost pierced his ears. The man in the mirror stared back at him, his mouth open in visible shock. His expression was a mixture of dread, suffering and disbelief. In the slowest motion, he drew closer to the reflective pane. First things first – he had to start with his left profile.
From this point of view, there was not too much to take in. The cheek was gaunt and covered in dark blonde stubble, but it was no surprise after weeks of inedible food and blind shaving. Meanwhile, the hair was an unglamorous mop; the complexion, somewhere in between chalk and plaster. Those discrepancies put aside, that was himself all right. The real problem was not there… it was on his other half.
As soon as he looked past his chin, all semblance to a human being abruptly ended. No more facial hair, no more pallid features. Instead, it looked like some purplish, glistening blob had latched itself onto him. A monstrosity with a crackled surface, or perhaps was it bulging veins? In a flash of panic, his hand yanked at his collar. The thing extended down to the side of his neck, until it stopped in a straight, slanted line.
It was a miracle that his eye, ear and mouth had been spared, but in truth that was not the most pressing issue on his mind right then. As if the graft's grotesque appearance was not enough, ugly black stitches encircled it. Some of his hair was missing, either burnt or shaven for the surgery. When he finally dared a light touch, he was greeted by warmth and prickling pain. If he didn't move his face and neck together, it felt as if they were about to tear apart.
Breathe in. Breathe out. There would be no way back from that. He would be permanently disfigured, just in a less conspicuous way as the skin healed. If he was lucky, perhaps the pins and needles would recede – but he was not as hopeful about the numbness they seeped from. Yet he was not afraid anymore. If he had to live with it for the remainder of his life, if this was going to be part of his identity… the fear was no longer relevant.
The mirror shattered in a million cracks around his closed fist. Later, he would feel the jagged glass slice the flesh on his knuckles. But for now, as the blood started to drip, he could only imagine that it was James Bond he smashed against it. Six minutes! Had it been too much to ask for? Didn't the bloody son of a bitch have the slightest respect for a friend?
No, of course he did not – his respects went to Her Majesty, and to Her Majesty alone. She was his one true mistress, all those women he had shagged could testify. Surely she was his sole friend too, more than a mere colleague would ever get to be. Another punch pushed the broken shards deeper into the latter's hand. He stood there, his whole being tensed with a murderous rage. After betraying him even before he was born, Britain had just spat its poison right at his face. Well, he looked forward to seeing who would be laughing on the other side of theirs.
Bond would die, he swore to himself. Not a swift death, but one of sorrow and humiliation. Likewise, 007's precious beloved would fall onto her knees. Mighty Britannia would no longer rule, she would wither and writhe in agony. This was Alec Trevelyan's rebirth into a new man, the man in the mirror. One who would dedicate his existence to make this blood oath a reality. One who would get due retribution, both for himself and his people. One who would show both God and the devil that no thread of fate could bind him into submission.
That man needed a name. For he had been given two faces, the choice was obvious. Janus.
Author's note: Happy 2022 people! This year, my resolution is to write more new stuff, more often (and out of of my comfort zone for an added bonus).
Actually the idea for this fic isn't new, it started a couple years back as a draft for a much more detailed story - but the inspiration only started to flow when it turned into this raw, edgy portrayal of Alec.
Again a piece for Amhran na bhFiann, but what can I do... I can't stay idle when he can post such a slew of Bond fics (on AO3 that is)! Hope you (and he) like it :)