AU Bingo ficlet: "The Cradle"
The au_bingo prompt is "Kid Fic," which we were invited to interpret liberally. And thus we have this. Oriented in Season Four.
"The Cradle"
Jack had never understood Arvin’s fascination with Rambaldi artifacts - for many reasons, but among them was the fact that nobody ever seemed to understand precisely what one of the devices did until it was activated. What if the machine in question did something you didn’t want it to do?
Such as this.
“Daddy?” Sydney smiled up at him from the end of the conference table. Her little hands drummed against the brushed metal surface. “May I have a sandwich?”
“Of course, sweetheart.” Jack could smile back at her. His daughter was, by far, the least troubling of … those affected.
“What about me?” said Vaughn. He had magic marker stains all over his cheeks and fingers; no doubt the briefing room walls had been defaced again. “I want a sandwich too!”
“Me too!” Weiss called from his place on the floor, where he was busily using highlighters to color in the margins of a report on black market activity in Malaysia. “Peanut butter and jelly for me.”
Nadia, who sat in the chair next to Jack, watching him with wide, black unwavering eyes, whispered, “I just want an apple.”
Jack studied the faces of the APO agents around him - all of whom had been competent, professional adults (in Vaughn’s case, more or less) until the latest Rambaldi device was activated. Now, they were four year olds: physically and mentally. Although they seemed to remember one another, the memories were vague, and not nearly as immediate as their desires for Legos, Hostess cupcakes and someone to help them remove their clothes when they went potty.
He had designated an outside agent for this last task, as he would have to look these people in the face again as adults someday. He hoped.
“Sydney, why don’t you tell Agent Takahara to make you all some sandwiches?” Jack said, as he opened his briefcase, took out his own apple for lunchtime and gave it to a beaming Nadia instead. “I’ll be back in just a minute.”
His daughter nodded as she skipped off toward the long-suffering Agent Takahara. Satisfied that the general chaos was controlled … at least for the moment … Jack headed down the hallway toward the chamber that contained this latest, greatest nuisance of Milo Rambaldi’s making: The Cradle.
As he walked down the corridor, however, he heard a voice shout, “Uhoh!”
Jack, reflexes honed after three days of this, ducked just in time to avoid being struck by a bizarre projectile made of crumpled paper, file folders and strategically placed staples. He looked into Marshall’s lab to see a newly constructed catapult with many rubber bands … and, sitting behind it silently and sheepishly, the four-year-old versions of Marcus Dixon and Marshall Flinkman.
“I’m sorry,” Marshall said, so sincerely that it was startling when he grinned. “But it was cool!”
“Really cool!” Dixon agreed, rocking back and forth as he took his tiny feet in his hands.
Jack sighed. “Be careful.”
Without further incident, he reached the room where the Rambaldi artifact was kept. Jack wasn’t surprised to see that he wasn’t alone.
“It’s shiny,” said Arvin. He sat on the floor, staring up at the brass-and-amber contraption on its pedestal. How strange it was, to see this small, guileless child and yet recognize Sloane in both body and soul. Perhaps it was the eager glow in his eyes.
“Yes,” Jack said. “It is. What do you think of it?”
“I think it must be magic.” Arvin’s voice was very sure, but a note of doubt crept in as he said, “Do you think it’s magic too?”
Head aching, Jack said, “I think I’m very glad I wasn’t around when it was turned on.”
"The Cradle"
Jack had never understood Arvin’s fascination with Rambaldi artifacts - for many reasons, but among them was the fact that nobody ever seemed to understand precisely what one of the devices did until it was activated. What if the machine in question did something you didn’t want it to do?
Such as this.
“Daddy?” Sydney smiled up at him from the end of the conference table. Her little hands drummed against the brushed metal surface. “May I have a sandwich?”
“Of course, sweetheart.” Jack could smile back at her. His daughter was, by far, the least troubling of … those affected.
“What about me?” said Vaughn. He had magic marker stains all over his cheeks and fingers; no doubt the briefing room walls had been defaced again. “I want a sandwich too!”
“Me too!” Weiss called from his place on the floor, where he was busily using highlighters to color in the margins of a report on black market activity in Malaysia. “Peanut butter and jelly for me.”
Nadia, who sat in the chair next to Jack, watching him with wide, black unwavering eyes, whispered, “I just want an apple.”
Jack studied the faces of the APO agents around him - all of whom had been competent, professional adults (in Vaughn’s case, more or less) until the latest Rambaldi device was activated. Now, they were four year olds: physically and mentally. Although they seemed to remember one another, the memories were vague, and not nearly as immediate as their desires for Legos, Hostess cupcakes and someone to help them remove their clothes when they went potty.
He had designated an outside agent for this last task, as he would have to look these people in the face again as adults someday. He hoped.
“Sydney, why don’t you tell Agent Takahara to make you all some sandwiches?” Jack said, as he opened his briefcase, took out his own apple for lunchtime and gave it to a beaming Nadia instead. “I’ll be back in just a minute.”
His daughter nodded as she skipped off toward the long-suffering Agent Takahara. Satisfied that the general chaos was controlled … at least for the moment … Jack headed down the hallway toward the chamber that contained this latest, greatest nuisance of Milo Rambaldi’s making: The Cradle.
As he walked down the corridor, however, he heard a voice shout, “Uhoh!”
Jack, reflexes honed after three days of this, ducked just in time to avoid being struck by a bizarre projectile made of crumpled paper, file folders and strategically placed staples. He looked into Marshall’s lab to see a newly constructed catapult with many rubber bands … and, sitting behind it silently and sheepishly, the four-year-old versions of Marcus Dixon and Marshall Flinkman.
“I’m sorry,” Marshall said, so sincerely that it was startling when he grinned. “But it was cool!”
“Really cool!” Dixon agreed, rocking back and forth as he took his tiny feet in his hands.
Jack sighed. “Be careful.”
Without further incident, he reached the room where the Rambaldi artifact was kept. Jack wasn’t surprised to see that he wasn’t alone.
“It’s shiny,” said Arvin. He sat on the floor, staring up at the brass-and-amber contraption on its pedestal. How strange it was, to see this small, guileless child and yet recognize Sloane in both body and soul. Perhaps it was the eager glow in his eyes.
“Yes,” Jack said. “It is. What do you think of it?”
“I think it must be magic.” Arvin’s voice was very sure, but a note of doubt crept in as he said, “Do you think it’s magic too?”
Head aching, Jack said, “I think I’m very glad I wasn’t around when it was turned on.”