Alias Fanfiction: "History Repeating" and "Holiday Shopping"
Two Alias ficlets, originally written for fandom_muses.
The first prompt was the question "Do you believe that history repeats itself"?
History Repeating
"It's not glamorous," says the one-eyed man who either is hitting on him with an elaborate con or recruiting him. College experiments aside, Arvin doesn't consider himself the type to get passes from World War II veterans and thus is reasonably sure which is the case. "You're clear on that?"
Arvin nods, not bothering to go into elaborate protestations about his expectations regarding the secret service.
"No more private priorities. I know you young punks think that's all rethoric, but it's about the ideal. Your country. Lose your girl, lose your friends, that'll happen, more likely than not. Tough shit. Think you can do that? Without breaking down whining and being of no goddam use to anyone?"
"Yes," Arvin said. "Yes, Mr. Fury, I think so."
The one eye narrowed, and his recruiter pulled out a cigar, silently allowing Arvin to light it. Then he nodded. "You just might. Welcome to the CIA, Arvin Sloane."
***
"We won't be subject to bureaucratic idiocy anymore, Arvin," Briault said. "Doing the goverment's dirty work for ridiculous wages. Nor will we be petty criminals. No, Arvin, this is about an ideal. I know how this world works, and so do you. There is no reason why several intelligent men such as ourselves should not use their gifts to achieve what is due to us. Power, money, yes, but most of all control. No more red tape from goverments changing at the whim of an electorate stupid enough to fall for the latest slogan. No, we will be in control. Tell me you're not interested."
"If I weren't, you wouldn't be enjoying this excellent Veuve Cliquot with me, Jean," Sloane said mildly. "And you know that. You knew it before you came here."
Briault opened his hands in one of his elaborate Gallic gestures which were as much a masque as Sloane's own retinence was. They both sipped from their glasses, watching each other in silence.
"Given the nature of what we're planning to do," Briault said, "I can't take 'let me think about this' for an answer, Arvin. Whatever we are, whatever we will become, this is not the CIA. Nothing less than complete dedication will do, and complete secrecy. Anyone not able to commit wholeheartedly is a cancer, and you know the only thing to do with a cancer. Cut it out. Otherwise we might as well not start and volunteer for prison right now."
Sloane nodded.
"You think you can do that?"
"Yes."
Briault's face broke into a smile. "Welcome to the Alliance, Arvin."
****
"I'm not joking," Director Chase said. "This is your last chance. Betray your country again, and no matter how much valuable info you got, how talented you are, you're dead. You are aware how long the line of people petitioning for your execution is, aren't you?"
"Considering that I was already executed once," Sloane said politely, "I have a very precise idea."
She narrowed her eyes, obviously trying to decide whether he was mocking her. He wasn't. The irony of his death, and no matter how technical and temporary, to him, it had been a death, and a resurrection at the mercy of Jack Bristow, still cut deeply into him. He had been utterly without control then. Sloane had no intention of letting this happen again.
"Utter dedication," Chase said. "No private agendas, none. Serve your country, and maybe, just maybe, you will earn back our trust. Do you think you can do that?"
He did not offer his hand for a handshake. Despite being the one who had contacted him, she had made it clear she had no intention of performing any social gestures. Instead, he leaned back on the visitor's chair in her office, steepled his fingers and nodded, silently. Director Chase' face remained impassive.
"Welcome back to the CIA, Mr. Sloane."
****
The other prompt was "Holiday Shopping". I suppose this is this year's Christmas story on my part.
Holiday Shopping
Emily always used to buy the Christmas presents, even for long-term employes who were not exactly part of their social circle, such as the Dixons or Marshall Flinkman, whom she knew from her occasional visits to the official Credit Dauphine offices, or from Christmas parties.
Before Laura died, she also used to buy presents for the Bristows. It was the only holiday shopping they did together, Arvin taking the time between missions or administration battles, and wondering, year after year, whether there wasn't some potential for global mind control via shopping malls. After Laura, Jack made it clear he did not wish any more gifts. Emily still bought presents for Sydney, though this was something Arvin found out only later, when they moved into a new house. There they were, still wrapped up. At first he wondered whether Jack had sent them back unopened, but abandoned the idea as soon as it came to him; Jack, with his unfailing courtesy towards Emily - perhaps the only remaining person Jack was unfailingly courteous toward -, would never have done such a thing. Emily probably never sent them to begin with. He looked at the bright colours of the wrapping paper and understood they had not just been for Sydney; they had been tributes to the life that was gone, before she had reconciled herself to the idea of accepting the loss.
In the year after Emily died, truly died with her life bleeding away on an Italian field, Arvin Sloane spent most of December moving from country to country, both for practical reasons - he had not yet made the deal that allowed for his very public rehabiliation and still was on the list of most wanted fugitives - and because he did not quite know what else to do with himself. True, there was a new goal to look for, his unknown daughter, the Passenger, but he did not even know her name. Each time he tried to imagine her, he ended up thinking of the girl he had known very well indeed. When he found out Allison had killed Sydney, he called Jack a couple of times, but hung up every time Jack said as much as "Yes" or "Bristow". What was there to say, after all? Arvin had been the one to place Allison Doren in Sydney's house.
(Sometimes, he indulged fantasies about this being a mistake; that there was no way Allison should have been capable of killing Sydney Bristow, whose life was protected by prophecies and destiny. Sometimes, he wondered whether perhaps Sydney had done the same thing as her mother before her; faked her own death for some unknown purpose, brilliantly and efficiently. Then he made another of his phonecalls, and the sound of Jack's voice, the blankness no longer a cover but the lack of any life, told him it could not be anything but true.)
He was in Hongkong, of the all the places, having nothing in particular to do until the meeting with another contact, when some street traders approached him. "A shawl for your daughter," one of them said, and another called "flowers, Sir, flowers for your wife".
Arvin thought of Emily and those carefully wrapped up, unopened presents in their old house. She would not have wanted flowers, though; she would have wanted seeds. He did buy the shawl, though, thinking about the way the rich red silk would have accentuated Sydney's skin and eyes. "Fit for a bride, Sir," the hawker said, and Arvin pretended not to listen. He spent the next hour hunting down seeds for the most exotic of flowers he could find, with a fair modicum of success. For some reason, the image that came to mind was not Emily in her garden, planting, teasing life out of the barren ground, but of Persephone who made the mistake of eating those seeds and trapping herself in the underworld. There was still something missing. Jack, he thought, of course.
One of the first Chinese customs he had learned about: presents made of red paper, to be burned at a funeral for the dead, so they would have them in their next life. Never mind that Jack was the only one of the three still alive, or that Arvin was not a Buddhist (or, for that matter, a Christian). There was so much to choose from, though. Cars, pagodas, houses. In the end, he picked a gun; it was clearly the only choice.
It was time to meet his contact then; information was exchanged, favours were traded, and he left the meeting not without satisfaction. He could not afford to remain in Hongkong afterwards, though, and left within the hour, one identity exchanged for another, not an item of clothing the same he had arrived in. There were three things he kept, though. A shawl, seeds, a paper gun.
He should have known that presents, once bought, ultimately always found their recipients.
The first prompt was the question "Do you believe that history repeats itself"?
History Repeating
"It's not glamorous," says the one-eyed man who either is hitting on him with an elaborate con or recruiting him. College experiments aside, Arvin doesn't consider himself the type to get passes from World War II veterans and thus is reasonably sure which is the case. "You're clear on that?"
Arvin nods, not bothering to go into elaborate protestations about his expectations regarding the secret service.
"No more private priorities. I know you young punks think that's all rethoric, but it's about the ideal. Your country. Lose your girl, lose your friends, that'll happen, more likely than not. Tough shit. Think you can do that? Without breaking down whining and being of no goddam use to anyone?"
"Yes," Arvin said. "Yes, Mr. Fury, I think so."
The one eye narrowed, and his recruiter pulled out a cigar, silently allowing Arvin to light it. Then he nodded. "You just might. Welcome to the CIA, Arvin Sloane."
***
"We won't be subject to bureaucratic idiocy anymore, Arvin," Briault said. "Doing the goverment's dirty work for ridiculous wages. Nor will we be petty criminals. No, Arvin, this is about an ideal. I know how this world works, and so do you. There is no reason why several intelligent men such as ourselves should not use their gifts to achieve what is due to us. Power, money, yes, but most of all control. No more red tape from goverments changing at the whim of an electorate stupid enough to fall for the latest slogan. No, we will be in control. Tell me you're not interested."
"If I weren't, you wouldn't be enjoying this excellent Veuve Cliquot with me, Jean," Sloane said mildly. "And you know that. You knew it before you came here."
Briault opened his hands in one of his elaborate Gallic gestures which were as much a masque as Sloane's own retinence was. They both sipped from their glasses, watching each other in silence.
"Given the nature of what we're planning to do," Briault said, "I can't take 'let me think about this' for an answer, Arvin. Whatever we are, whatever we will become, this is not the CIA. Nothing less than complete dedication will do, and complete secrecy. Anyone not able to commit wholeheartedly is a cancer, and you know the only thing to do with a cancer. Cut it out. Otherwise we might as well not start and volunteer for prison right now."
Sloane nodded.
"You think you can do that?"
"Yes."
Briault's face broke into a smile. "Welcome to the Alliance, Arvin."
****
"I'm not joking," Director Chase said. "This is your last chance. Betray your country again, and no matter how much valuable info you got, how talented you are, you're dead. You are aware how long the line of people petitioning for your execution is, aren't you?"
"Considering that I was already executed once," Sloane said politely, "I have a very precise idea."
She narrowed her eyes, obviously trying to decide whether he was mocking her. He wasn't. The irony of his death, and no matter how technical and temporary, to him, it had been a death, and a resurrection at the mercy of Jack Bristow, still cut deeply into him. He had been utterly without control then. Sloane had no intention of letting this happen again.
"Utter dedication," Chase said. "No private agendas, none. Serve your country, and maybe, just maybe, you will earn back our trust. Do you think you can do that?"
He did not offer his hand for a handshake. Despite being the one who had contacted him, she had made it clear she had no intention of performing any social gestures. Instead, he leaned back on the visitor's chair in her office, steepled his fingers and nodded, silently. Director Chase' face remained impassive.
"Welcome back to the CIA, Mr. Sloane."
****
The other prompt was "Holiday Shopping". I suppose this is this year's Christmas story on my part.
Holiday Shopping
Emily always used to buy the Christmas presents, even for long-term employes who were not exactly part of their social circle, such as the Dixons or Marshall Flinkman, whom she knew from her occasional visits to the official Credit Dauphine offices, or from Christmas parties.
Before Laura died, she also used to buy presents for the Bristows. It was the only holiday shopping they did together, Arvin taking the time between missions or administration battles, and wondering, year after year, whether there wasn't some potential for global mind control via shopping malls. After Laura, Jack made it clear he did not wish any more gifts. Emily still bought presents for Sydney, though this was something Arvin found out only later, when they moved into a new house. There they were, still wrapped up. At first he wondered whether Jack had sent them back unopened, but abandoned the idea as soon as it came to him; Jack, with his unfailing courtesy towards Emily - perhaps the only remaining person Jack was unfailingly courteous toward -, would never have done such a thing. Emily probably never sent them to begin with. He looked at the bright colours of the wrapping paper and understood they had not just been for Sydney; they had been tributes to the life that was gone, before she had reconciled herself to the idea of accepting the loss.
In the year after Emily died, truly died with her life bleeding away on an Italian field, Arvin Sloane spent most of December moving from country to country, both for practical reasons - he had not yet made the deal that allowed for his very public rehabiliation and still was on the list of most wanted fugitives - and because he did not quite know what else to do with himself. True, there was a new goal to look for, his unknown daughter, the Passenger, but he did not even know her name. Each time he tried to imagine her, he ended up thinking of the girl he had known very well indeed. When he found out Allison had killed Sydney, he called Jack a couple of times, but hung up every time Jack said as much as "Yes" or "Bristow". What was there to say, after all? Arvin had been the one to place Allison Doren in Sydney's house.
(Sometimes, he indulged fantasies about this being a mistake; that there was no way Allison should have been capable of killing Sydney Bristow, whose life was protected by prophecies and destiny. Sometimes, he wondered whether perhaps Sydney had done the same thing as her mother before her; faked her own death for some unknown purpose, brilliantly and efficiently. Then he made another of his phonecalls, and the sound of Jack's voice, the blankness no longer a cover but the lack of any life, told him it could not be anything but true.)
He was in Hongkong, of the all the places, having nothing in particular to do until the meeting with another contact, when some street traders approached him. "A shawl for your daughter," one of them said, and another called "flowers, Sir, flowers for your wife".
Arvin thought of Emily and those carefully wrapped up, unopened presents in their old house. She would not have wanted flowers, though; she would have wanted seeds. He did buy the shawl, though, thinking about the way the rich red silk would have accentuated Sydney's skin and eyes. "Fit for a bride, Sir," the hawker said, and Arvin pretended not to listen. He spent the next hour hunting down seeds for the most exotic of flowers he could find, with a fair modicum of success. For some reason, the image that came to mind was not Emily in her garden, planting, teasing life out of the barren ground, but of Persephone who made the mistake of eating those seeds and trapping herself in the underworld. There was still something missing. Jack, he thought, of course.
One of the first Chinese customs he had learned about: presents made of red paper, to be burned at a funeral for the dead, so they would have them in their next life. Never mind that Jack was the only one of the three still alive, or that Arvin was not a Buddhist (or, for that matter, a Christian). There was so much to choose from, though. Cars, pagodas, houses. In the end, he picked a gun; it was clearly the only choice.
It was time to meet his contact then; information was exchanged, favours were traded, and he left the meeting not without satisfaction. He could not afford to remain in Hongkong afterwards, though, and left within the hour, one identity exchanged for another, not an item of clothing the same he had arrived in. There were three things he kept, though. A shawl, seeds, a paper gun.
He should have known that presents, once bought, ultimately always found their recipients.