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Feb. 10th, 2004 03:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ms_beccaAh, who am I kidding. I have nothing but time! I'll post some now.
Author's Note: This is set sometime before Allison got stabbed (since we're not sure if she died or not). In the event that you are a believer that she hasn't actually perished then this is set sometime in the future. As always all mistakes are mine alone. Though I owe a big "Thank you" to Rez (who I'm fairly certain doesn't know that I have a livejournal now) for 'criticisizing' (in a great way) my word choice. :)
Disclaimer: I don’t own them. Alias belongs to J.J. Abrams. Wish that I did own them, but I don’t
Translations
“Aimez-vous quelque chose d’autre” - Would you like something else?
“Non, c’est bon, merci” - No, it’s good, thank you.
“Hemos empezado nuestra bajada en Madrid.” - We have begun our descent into Madrid.
Constructive Criticism is always welcome (not to mention helpful).
Prometheus - Forethought
Truth is an abstract noun that any child over the age of five understands. It signifies everything. Yet, it means nothing. It is not tangible like an apple or a toy, but stands for the right. For someone like me truth doesn’t really exist. I am a corporeal being. I have a name. Or at least I used to have one. But both the body and the name are simply tools, means to an end. They are useful only up to a point after which then they become a hindrance. I could never understand why people put their bodies under so much strain. I suppose they just don’t see things the way I do. Then again, I’ve always been blessed by my physique. I have nothing to complain about.
“Monsieur, aimez-vous quelque chose d’autre?” The waiter asks me in a polite unobtrusive way.
“Non, c’est bon, merci” I reply. My accent is flawlessly French. I don’t even have to think about the language, it just flows freely. I actually can’t recall a time when I didn’t speak French fluently. I heard somewhere that children at the age of six learn faster than at any other age. Some times I wonder if that’s when I learned all of the languages I know. As well as everything else.
It’s these times when I’m alone when I allow myself to daydream about my life. What my life could have been like. The parents I had who were so proud of their son, or even the family that I would create with a wife and children of my own. People who love me unconditionally. Then I scold myself for dreaming because it is a complete waste of time and energy wishing for something that will, and can never be.
I cannot allow love to touch me. To love is to be weak, and in my line of work that is completely unacceptable. Weakness is severely frowned upon. I have seen what love can do to a person. I have seen the risks certain people are willing to take all in the name of love, and those risks always end in consequences that the person did not expect to pay. Love is an illusion anyway. It doesn’t really exist. It, like truth, is an abstract; it has a different meaning for every person.
Besides, who could love a shadow? I am no one. I have no existence except for life. No past. I have a tabula raza, a blank slate. Every time I take on a new persona I become a little less of what I was once and a little more of something that I will one day become. Whether that is a good thing or not I don’t think I will ever know. I may wake up one morning and hate the person who I have become. Or I may not.
I don’t know why I like to have my solitary reveries in public. The café is nothing spectacular. I have only been here twice before but the village is small and they get enough tourists for me not to be concerned about being remembered. Perhaps there is some sense of freedom when I am here. That notion is completely ridiculous isn’t it? There is no freedom, another abstract concept. Just like loyalty, it doesn’t exist except in the mind. I don’t believe in loyalty. Perhaps it is my abnormal childhood speaking, but it has been my experience that human beings are utterly incapable of being loyal to each other. Life is really just telling others a string of things that they want to hear. Sometimes those things are factual, but mainly I’ve found that the lies seem to be more well received.
Looking down, I hadn’t even noticed the chill of the night around me. I get up from my table leaving behind enough money to cover my bill. I will not come back to this place.
************************************************************************
Pandora enters
I don’t feel that leaving my house is a problem. After two years of captivity inside a glass cage I have earned the right to walk around outside. I enjoy the solitude of the walk along the cliffs. They don’t belong to me, just like the house doesn’t. They don’t represent me even though I am their owner. I appreciate them but they do not speak to outsiders of who I really am.
Ownership is entirely a matter of perspective as I have proven on many occasions. Things are just that. Things. The house doesn’t mean anything to me. It is a form of comfort and warmth. Beyond that it is just a series of wooden planks arranged into something beautiful and ‘safe’.
Of course to stay alive with the job that I have is the fundamental belief that there is no such thing as safety. The only time I have ever craved safety was when I was with Allison. It was a time of weakness and I learned my lesson very well. To care about someone else is the greatest of flaws. I was punished for my insubordination and have changed my ways.
“Just because you’re not on American soil doesn’t mean I can’t kill you.” The voice actually startles me. She is not a wholly unexpected visitor but I certainly did not expect her to find me here, on the cliffs. I turn myself around slowly though I am slightly off-kilter I retain the smirk that she is so well acquainted with.
“If you were going to kill me Agent Bristow you would have pulled your gun out and we would not be having this conversation.” She looks different to me. Maybe it is because I have discovered that she murdered my father. Maybe it is because I was not completely prepared for her. Whatever the reasoning for my sudden unease, I plaster on the persona of the heartless, soulless assassin that Ms. Bristow knows me as. Self-preservation is a blessing and a curse.
“What do you know about Allison?”
“Ah. Has Ms. Doren been getting herself into a little bit of trouble with the C.I.A.?” I find this line of questioning rather humorous. I feel no impulse to feign that I don’t know whom she is referring to by the name ‘Allison’. I have found over the years that Ms. Bristow responds best to the direct and honest approach. She hesitates at this. Silly little girl, I have caught her in a moment of weakness.
“Where is she?” She tucks her hair behind her right ear, another one of her classic tells. I want to drag out this moment as long as possible. Though this conversation would appear to an outsider as nothing more than two people talking, Ms. Bristow and I both know that at this moment I have the upper hand. Considering the past two years of my life were wasted because Ms. Bristow and her partner managed to capture me, I feel that this is a great triumph.
“Perhaps you should ask Arvin Sloane that question.” Evasiveness will only provoke her. I know this, and yet, I cannot seem to help myself.
“You listen.” She raises her voice and pulls out her .9mm aiming it directly at my chest. “I killed your father, I have no problem killing you as well.” The darkness in her coffee colored eyes backs up her words. “Where is Allison Doren?”
“I honestly don’t know Agent Bristow.” She looks at me as if she is weighing the truth of my words. “If there’s nothing else.” I trail off and turn back to look out at the ocean once more.
************************************************************************
Epimetheus - Afterthought
Obviously Ms. Bristow took my words at face value. I’m still alive. I have no doubt that she would not have hesitated to kill me. If truth be told I am rather surprised that she did not take the opportunity and clutch it with both fists.
Curiosity is something that all people feel at one point in time or another. It’s something that people in our profession cannot afford to risk. After all curiosity killed the cat did it not?
The plane is crowded. Even in the larger seats of first class I feel constrained. Like my essence is waiting to break through my skin at the first opportune moment. The flight is to be a short one and most of the time has already elapsed. Still I cannot shake the feeling of restlessness that has haunted me since my meeting with Ms. Bristow. I am not used to being surprised.
In my line of work it pays to have all the facts before your opponent. That is how I see Sydney as an opponent. Once I thought that we would be partners but I quickly saw that her moral weaknesses would be counterproductive. Although those same weaknesses could be extremely useful as things stand now.
My brain has been on full alert since her visit. I have been closely monitoring myself, careful not to make any movements that could be held against me. I have been more closely guarded not in the sense of having a detail. I would have no use for a guard detail as I am quite capable of taking care of things myself. It is what I get paid for, and have been paid for many years prior to this.
It’s amusing how much faith Sydney puts in truth and honesty. She still has that five-year-old’s perspective on things. I’m sure that she believes that there is good in every person, and that even the worst criminal can feel remorse. She is naïve. If experience has taught me one thing it is that. Naivety can get you killed in this business.
“Hemos empezado nuestra bajada en Madrid.” The announcement comes from the speakers above my head. The murmur of Spanish is heard throughout the cabin.
I double-check that all of my belongings are in order and that there will be no trace of me once I leave the plane. No remnants of who I am. I leave no truth behind because for someone like me, truth does not exist.
Author's Note: This is set sometime before Allison got stabbed (since we're not sure if she died or not). In the event that you are a believer that she hasn't actually perished then this is set sometime in the future. As always all mistakes are mine alone. Though I owe a big "Thank you" to Rez (who I'm fairly certain doesn't know that I have a livejournal now) for 'criticisizing' (in a great way) my word choice. :)
Disclaimer: I don’t own them. Alias belongs to J.J. Abrams. Wish that I did own them, but I don’t
Translations
“Aimez-vous quelque chose d’autre” - Would you like something else?
“Non, c’est bon, merci” - No, it’s good, thank you.
“Hemos empezado nuestra bajada en Madrid.” - We have begun our descent into Madrid.
Constructive Criticism is always welcome (not to mention helpful).
Prometheus - Forethought
Truth is an abstract noun that any child over the age of five understands. It signifies everything. Yet, it means nothing. It is not tangible like an apple or a toy, but stands for the right. For someone like me truth doesn’t really exist. I am a corporeal being. I have a name. Or at least I used to have one. But both the body and the name are simply tools, means to an end. They are useful only up to a point after which then they become a hindrance. I could never understand why people put their bodies under so much strain. I suppose they just don’t see things the way I do. Then again, I’ve always been blessed by my physique. I have nothing to complain about.
“Monsieur, aimez-vous quelque chose d’autre?” The waiter asks me in a polite unobtrusive way.
“Non, c’est bon, merci” I reply. My accent is flawlessly French. I don’t even have to think about the language, it just flows freely. I actually can’t recall a time when I didn’t speak French fluently. I heard somewhere that children at the age of six learn faster than at any other age. Some times I wonder if that’s when I learned all of the languages I know. As well as everything else.
It’s these times when I’m alone when I allow myself to daydream about my life. What my life could have been like. The parents I had who were so proud of their son, or even the family that I would create with a wife and children of my own. People who love me unconditionally. Then I scold myself for dreaming because it is a complete waste of time and energy wishing for something that will, and can never be.
I cannot allow love to touch me. To love is to be weak, and in my line of work that is completely unacceptable. Weakness is severely frowned upon. I have seen what love can do to a person. I have seen the risks certain people are willing to take all in the name of love, and those risks always end in consequences that the person did not expect to pay. Love is an illusion anyway. It doesn’t really exist. It, like truth, is an abstract; it has a different meaning for every person.
Besides, who could love a shadow? I am no one. I have no existence except for life. No past. I have a tabula raza, a blank slate. Every time I take on a new persona I become a little less of what I was once and a little more of something that I will one day become. Whether that is a good thing or not I don’t think I will ever know. I may wake up one morning and hate the person who I have become. Or I may not.
I don’t know why I like to have my solitary reveries in public. The café is nothing spectacular. I have only been here twice before but the village is small and they get enough tourists for me not to be concerned about being remembered. Perhaps there is some sense of freedom when I am here. That notion is completely ridiculous isn’t it? There is no freedom, another abstract concept. Just like loyalty, it doesn’t exist except in the mind. I don’t believe in loyalty. Perhaps it is my abnormal childhood speaking, but it has been my experience that human beings are utterly incapable of being loyal to each other. Life is really just telling others a string of things that they want to hear. Sometimes those things are factual, but mainly I’ve found that the lies seem to be more well received.
Looking down, I hadn’t even noticed the chill of the night around me. I get up from my table leaving behind enough money to cover my bill. I will not come back to this place.
************************************************************************
Pandora enters
I don’t feel that leaving my house is a problem. After two years of captivity inside a glass cage I have earned the right to walk around outside. I enjoy the solitude of the walk along the cliffs. They don’t belong to me, just like the house doesn’t. They don’t represent me even though I am their owner. I appreciate them but they do not speak to outsiders of who I really am.
Ownership is entirely a matter of perspective as I have proven on many occasions. Things are just that. Things. The house doesn’t mean anything to me. It is a form of comfort and warmth. Beyond that it is just a series of wooden planks arranged into something beautiful and ‘safe’.
Of course to stay alive with the job that I have is the fundamental belief that there is no such thing as safety. The only time I have ever craved safety was when I was with Allison. It was a time of weakness and I learned my lesson very well. To care about someone else is the greatest of flaws. I was punished for my insubordination and have changed my ways.
“Just because you’re not on American soil doesn’t mean I can’t kill you.” The voice actually startles me. She is not a wholly unexpected visitor but I certainly did not expect her to find me here, on the cliffs. I turn myself around slowly though I am slightly off-kilter I retain the smirk that she is so well acquainted with.
“If you were going to kill me Agent Bristow you would have pulled your gun out and we would not be having this conversation.” She looks different to me. Maybe it is because I have discovered that she murdered my father. Maybe it is because I was not completely prepared for her. Whatever the reasoning for my sudden unease, I plaster on the persona of the heartless, soulless assassin that Ms. Bristow knows me as. Self-preservation is a blessing and a curse.
“What do you know about Allison?”
“Ah. Has Ms. Doren been getting herself into a little bit of trouble with the C.I.A.?” I find this line of questioning rather humorous. I feel no impulse to feign that I don’t know whom she is referring to by the name ‘Allison’. I have found over the years that Ms. Bristow responds best to the direct and honest approach. She hesitates at this. Silly little girl, I have caught her in a moment of weakness.
“Where is she?” She tucks her hair behind her right ear, another one of her classic tells. I want to drag out this moment as long as possible. Though this conversation would appear to an outsider as nothing more than two people talking, Ms. Bristow and I both know that at this moment I have the upper hand. Considering the past two years of my life were wasted because Ms. Bristow and her partner managed to capture me, I feel that this is a great triumph.
“Perhaps you should ask Arvin Sloane that question.” Evasiveness will only provoke her. I know this, and yet, I cannot seem to help myself.
“You listen.” She raises her voice and pulls out her .9mm aiming it directly at my chest. “I killed your father, I have no problem killing you as well.” The darkness in her coffee colored eyes backs up her words. “Where is Allison Doren?”
“I honestly don’t know Agent Bristow.” She looks at me as if she is weighing the truth of my words. “If there’s nothing else.” I trail off and turn back to look out at the ocean once more.
************************************************************************
Epimetheus - Afterthought
Obviously Ms. Bristow took my words at face value. I’m still alive. I have no doubt that she would not have hesitated to kill me. If truth be told I am rather surprised that she did not take the opportunity and clutch it with both fists.
Curiosity is something that all people feel at one point in time or another. It’s something that people in our profession cannot afford to risk. After all curiosity killed the cat did it not?
The plane is crowded. Even in the larger seats of first class I feel constrained. Like my essence is waiting to break through my skin at the first opportune moment. The flight is to be a short one and most of the time has already elapsed. Still I cannot shake the feeling of restlessness that has haunted me since my meeting with Ms. Bristow. I am not used to being surprised.
In my line of work it pays to have all the facts before your opponent. That is how I see Sydney as an opponent. Once I thought that we would be partners but I quickly saw that her moral weaknesses would be counterproductive. Although those same weaknesses could be extremely useful as things stand now.
My brain has been on full alert since her visit. I have been closely monitoring myself, careful not to make any movements that could be held against me. I have been more closely guarded not in the sense of having a detail. I would have no use for a guard detail as I am quite capable of taking care of things myself. It is what I get paid for, and have been paid for many years prior to this.
It’s amusing how much faith Sydney puts in truth and honesty. She still has that five-year-old’s perspective on things. I’m sure that she believes that there is good in every person, and that even the worst criminal can feel remorse. She is naïve. If experience has taught me one thing it is that. Naivety can get you killed in this business.
“Hemos empezado nuestra bajada en Madrid.” The announcement comes from the speakers above my head. The murmur of Spanish is heard throughout the cabin.
I double-check that all of my belongings are in order and that there will be no trace of me once I leave the plane. No remnants of who I am. I leave no truth behind because for someone like me, truth does not exist.
