Peekaboo
Title: Peekaboo
Fandom: BtVS
Characters: Marcie Ross
Before, I was an emotionally disturbed borderline sociopath with serious body issues and a scalpel fetish.
Now I work for the US government!
Heh. You've heard that line before, right?
It's true, though. I wouldn't call myself Miss Stable . Whenever I see some pouty-lipped bitch on a billboard, a part of me wants to sneak into her apartment and pour a vial of acid over her pretty face. Did that one time in Paris. Her name's not important. No name, no pack drill as my peeps over in MI-6 say. I listened to every moan and snore while I tilted the beaker full of sulphuric acid. Maybe I should have done that do Cordelia instead of-- Ah, hell, water under the bridge, right? Anyway, I didn't actually do it. All I did was let a tiny drop go hiss on her pillow. Freaked the bitch out, though. When I checked on her the next night, she was up doing lines of coke to keep awake. Every single light in her place was on.
Wouldn't have stopped me, of course. But I didn't do anything more.
I'm much better now.
It's been a good life since the Feds picked me up sophomore year. You wouldn't believe how much the government was knocking on our secret program's doors when those planes when splat on the Towers. Talk about right place, right time. I knew choosing Arabic and Urdu for the language component in training was a good idea. Pays to smell where the wind's going. I've been a busy little secret agent girl ever since. The big problem for our lords and masters back then was getting decent humint on the tangos. Not easy when the Agency had been steering away from the messy business of dealing with meatbag informants. Lots of bad PR potential, trying to recruit terrorist wannabes and criminals to crack the tight-knit jihadi networks.
Or they could use us.
You'd be surprised. Most of our work is surveillance. Oh yeah, the lords and masters who set up the program saw us as the ultimate stealth assassins. Hey, I wasn't complaining. A girl can find knowing how to take down the average tract home with three grams of C4 and a propane tank pretty damn handy. Only that's just three percent of the job. What everyone found out quick that invisible folks like us enjoy is watching. Used to be that I hated it. Part of what sent me over the edge back at Sunnydale High. Seeing everyone, never being seen. That'll do a number on you.
But you learn that's power, too. Take this terror cell I was watching in Peshawar. Ooops, not in Afghanistan, we're officially not there. Well, you're cleared for it, so whatever. A bunch of jihadi Arabs and Pashtun Talibanistas plotting high level attacks on our boys over the line in The Stan. It was awesome. These guys kept their women all robed up and stuck in the back rooms, while I was there. Watching. Listening to every word. Shadowing them while they ate, while they prayed, while they slept. It's really fun to sit and watch someone sleep. You can just put out your hand and clamp it over their mouths. Time it just right, they think it's just sleep apnea.
That makes the moment when you get the okay over the satcom all the sweeter.
I use a scalpel. Call me sentimental.
We usually leave one alive--a mook--so they can spread the word. They call us afrit . Word is that the Great Satan command an army of demons. Which a little bird told me a while back someone did, only it didn't work out so well. Hey. We're just as good.
Still can't see myself. About the only time I can is if there's a mirror and the blood spray hits me right.
Heh.
Be all I can be, right?
Like I said. I'm much better now.
Fandom: BtVS
Characters: Marcie Ross
Before, I was an emotionally disturbed borderline sociopath with serious body issues and a scalpel fetish.
Now I work for the US government!
Heh. You've heard that line before, right?
It's true, though. I wouldn't call myself Miss Stable . Whenever I see some pouty-lipped bitch on a billboard, a part of me wants to sneak into her apartment and pour a vial of acid over her pretty face. Did that one time in Paris. Her name's not important. No name, no pack drill as my peeps over in MI-6 say. I listened to every moan and snore while I tilted the beaker full of sulphuric acid. Maybe I should have done that do Cordelia instead of-- Ah, hell, water under the bridge, right? Anyway, I didn't actually do it. All I did was let a tiny drop go hiss on her pillow. Freaked the bitch out, though. When I checked on her the next night, she was up doing lines of coke to keep awake. Every single light in her place was on.
Wouldn't have stopped me, of course. But I didn't do anything more.
I'm much better now.
It's been a good life since the Feds picked me up sophomore year. You wouldn't believe how much the government was knocking on our secret program's doors when those planes when splat on the Towers. Talk about right place, right time. I knew choosing Arabic and Urdu for the language component in training was a good idea. Pays to smell where the wind's going. I've been a busy little secret agent girl ever since. The big problem for our lords and masters back then was getting decent humint on the tangos. Not easy when the Agency had been steering away from the messy business of dealing with meatbag informants. Lots of bad PR potential, trying to recruit terrorist wannabes and criminals to crack the tight-knit jihadi networks.
Or they could use us.
You'd be surprised. Most of our work is surveillance. Oh yeah, the lords and masters who set up the program saw us as the ultimate stealth assassins. Hey, I wasn't complaining. A girl can find knowing how to take down the average tract home with three grams of C4 and a propane tank pretty damn handy. Only that's just three percent of the job. What everyone found out quick that invisible folks like us enjoy is watching. Used to be that I hated it. Part of what sent me over the edge back at Sunnydale High. Seeing everyone, never being seen. That'll do a number on you.
But you learn that's power, too. Take this terror cell I was watching in Peshawar. Ooops, not in Afghanistan, we're officially not there. Well, you're cleared for it, so whatever. A bunch of jihadi Arabs and Pashtun Talibanistas plotting high level attacks on our boys over the line in The Stan. It was awesome. These guys kept their women all robed up and stuck in the back rooms, while I was there. Watching. Listening to every word. Shadowing them while they ate, while they prayed, while they slept. It's really fun to sit and watch someone sleep. You can just put out your hand and clamp it over their mouths. Time it just right, they think it's just sleep apnea.
That makes the moment when you get the okay over the satcom all the sweeter.
I use a scalpel. Call me sentimental.
We usually leave one alive--a mook--so they can spread the word. They call us afrit . Word is that the Great Satan command an army of demons. Which a little bird told me a while back someone did, only it didn't work out so well. Hey. We're just as good.
Still can't see myself. About the only time I can is if there's a mirror and the blood spray hits me right.
Heh.
Be all I can be, right?
Like I said. I'm much better now.