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Anger can be a very useful motivation for one's employees, and downright invaluable in one's enemies. Naturally, one needs a little finesse and a sense of balance in either scenario. It simply won't do to let the anger in a subordinate reach a boiling point at just the moment where you don't need it to. On the other hand, cultivating a long simmering resentment can be worth it with the right person, say, a young woman with a crusader mentality, a veritable Athena; it can tie her to you as surely as devotion, as she would not let anyone else bring you down.
As for enemies, well, surely I don't have to point out the glaringly obvious: an enemy given to temper tantrums and acting out of rising wrath rarely manages to develop any long term strategies at the same time. Though again, there are rare exceptions, and a thorough knowledge of one's opponent is always advisable.
Or was the question referring to my own anger?
Don't be absurd.
*locked*
Judy Barnett once asked me this question - one of the unfortunate effects of conducting anotherwise pleasant affair with a psychiatrist being these kind of questions - and I gave her a nonedescript answer which failed to satisfy her. She then approached the subject from another angle, singling out certain events in my life and wishing to know how they made me feel. As I wished to continue our relationship at this point, I naturally did not tell her the truth, just enough of it to keep her intrigued, and added the things she wanted to be true.
The banal truth, in as much there is a single truth, is this: I very rarely get angry, and when I do, several decades in a profession that feeds of secrecy and masks allow me to postpone any reaction I feel. I certainly do not let my actions be dictated by it.
There were a few exceptions to this rule. I still remember every single one, much as I don't care to. The event Judy Barnett named first, the death of my wife Emily, was not one of them, at least not in the sense that she meant it; it was easier for Judy to think of my subsequent actions being caused by anger, of course, and so I told her they were. But even though the death of Dixon's wife Diane was the one time I killed someone not for any strategic benefit, not because I was ordered to or because I saw any advantage to be gained for either myself or the various organizations I belonged to during my life, but simply to satisfy an emotion, that emotion was not anger. After Emily had died, I felt nothing anymore. I thought this petty act of vengeance against the man who had shot her might bring me satisfaction. It did not. I did not feel anything then, either, which was why I left Irina and Sark to their own devices and tried to find my purpose again. I only started to feel something again when I saw the prophecy concerning my daughter - the prophecy that simultanously revealed her existence to me - written in that hand I knew all too well, Rambaldi's hand, and what I felt then was not anger, either. It was renewed hope, and yes, grief for Emily, which I realized would never end, but not anger.
But I was angry two years later, when I heard Katya Derevko's voice on the phone and saw Jack come into my office. It was a simple demonstration of power; Irina's, I thought at the time, though given later events, I can't be sure anymore whether Katya was not playing her own game. Be it as it may, the point of said demonstration was to show me that they - or either of them - could make Jack kill me whenever they wished. It wasn't hard to figure out their leverage; it had to be something concerning Sydney. I understood perfectly; as I told Jack later, when Sydney's life was at stake, I never expected him to act differently.
It still left me in a state of burning anger that slowly started to consume me. This was humiliating. I had thought myself to be above such things, at least at this point in my life. But as immaturely as any teenager, I wished to retaliate. I knew that Irina and Jack had reached some kind of rapprochement during the two years that we believed Sydney to be dead, a state I had only just reached with Jack myself. If it was in her power to spoil it by that little demonstration, well. I could do her a similar favour. A few days later Jack, who was in a rare state of embarrassment and actual guilt, which manifests as concern in him, actually sent a psychiatrist to me, dear Judy Barnett, whom I met for the first time then. The point about Judy was that she worked for the CIA and had, probably assisted by strict orders from superiors, even managed to drag Jack to a few counselling sessions. So I told her, quite deliberately and after enough of a struggle to make it believable, what I wanted her to eventually tell Jack, because after having met Judy, I knew she would not be able to resist sharing this particular information sooner or later. I told her the one thing Irina and myself had agreed to keep silent from him forever. That affair of twenty-five years ago.
As an illustration on why one should never let anger govern one's actions, this could hardly be bettered. My little retaliation backfired on a spectacular level. At the time Judy did tell Jack, I was in prison for something I actually had not done, which was why I had not thought of guarding myself against that particular event, and entirely dependent on Jack for my exculpation. He took great pleasure in telling me he would not help me, let the state kill me for him and then resurrected me. (Jack's anger is as personal as his daughter's; he will never let you die unless it is by his hands if you have personally angered him.) The one person on whom this entire sequence of events had no effect whatsover was Irina, and as for her relationship with Jack, he killed whom he believed to be her as well a few months later, but for a very different reason.
There were, regrettably, a few - a very few - other occasions when I let anger get the better of me, but this was by far the most humiliating. I still find it galling to think about. How do I handle it? By not thinking about it at all, if I can help it.
As for enemies, well, surely I don't have to point out the glaringly obvious: an enemy given to temper tantrums and acting out of rising wrath rarely manages to develop any long term strategies at the same time. Though again, there are rare exceptions, and a thorough knowledge of one's opponent is always advisable.
Or was the question referring to my own anger?
Don't be absurd.
*locked*
Judy Barnett once asked me this question - one of the unfortunate effects of conducting anotherwise pleasant affair with a psychiatrist being these kind of questions - and I gave her a nonedescript answer which failed to satisfy her. She then approached the subject from another angle, singling out certain events in my life and wishing to know how they made me feel. As I wished to continue our relationship at this point, I naturally did not tell her the truth, just enough of it to keep her intrigued, and added the things she wanted to be true.
The banal truth, in as much there is a single truth, is this: I very rarely get angry, and when I do, several decades in a profession that feeds of secrecy and masks allow me to postpone any reaction I feel. I certainly do not let my actions be dictated by it.
There were a few exceptions to this rule. I still remember every single one, much as I don't care to. The event Judy Barnett named first, the death of my wife Emily, was not one of them, at least not in the sense that she meant it; it was easier for Judy to think of my subsequent actions being caused by anger, of course, and so I told her they were. But even though the death of Dixon's wife Diane was the one time I killed someone not for any strategic benefit, not because I was ordered to or because I saw any advantage to be gained for either myself or the various organizations I belonged to during my life, but simply to satisfy an emotion, that emotion was not anger. After Emily had died, I felt nothing anymore. I thought this petty act of vengeance against the man who had shot her might bring me satisfaction. It did not. I did not feel anything then, either, which was why I left Irina and Sark to their own devices and tried to find my purpose again. I only started to feel something again when I saw the prophecy concerning my daughter - the prophecy that simultanously revealed her existence to me - written in that hand I knew all too well, Rambaldi's hand, and what I felt then was not anger, either. It was renewed hope, and yes, grief for Emily, which I realized would never end, but not anger.
But I was angry two years later, when I heard Katya Derevko's voice on the phone and saw Jack come into my office. It was a simple demonstration of power; Irina's, I thought at the time, though given later events, I can't be sure anymore whether Katya was not playing her own game. Be it as it may, the point of said demonstration was to show me that they - or either of them - could make Jack kill me whenever they wished. It wasn't hard to figure out their leverage; it had to be something concerning Sydney. I understood perfectly; as I told Jack later, when Sydney's life was at stake, I never expected him to act differently.
It still left me in a state of burning anger that slowly started to consume me. This was humiliating. I had thought myself to be above such things, at least at this point in my life. But as immaturely as any teenager, I wished to retaliate. I knew that Irina and Jack had reached some kind of rapprochement during the two years that we believed Sydney to be dead, a state I had only just reached with Jack myself. If it was in her power to spoil it by that little demonstration, well. I could do her a similar favour. A few days later Jack, who was in a rare state of embarrassment and actual guilt, which manifests as concern in him, actually sent a psychiatrist to me, dear Judy Barnett, whom I met for the first time then. The point about Judy was that she worked for the CIA and had, probably assisted by strict orders from superiors, even managed to drag Jack to a few counselling sessions. So I told her, quite deliberately and after enough of a struggle to make it believable, what I wanted her to eventually tell Jack, because after having met Judy, I knew she would not be able to resist sharing this particular information sooner or later. I told her the one thing Irina and myself had agreed to keep silent from him forever. That affair of twenty-five years ago.
As an illustration on why one should never let anger govern one's actions, this could hardly be bettered. My little retaliation backfired on a spectacular level. At the time Judy did tell Jack, I was in prison for something I actually had not done, which was why I had not thought of guarding myself against that particular event, and entirely dependent on Jack for my exculpation. He took great pleasure in telling me he would not help me, let the state kill me for him and then resurrected me. (Jack's anger is as personal as his daughter's; he will never let you die unless it is by his hands if you have personally angered him.) The one person on whom this entire sequence of events had no effect whatsover was Irina, and as for her relationship with Jack, he killed whom he believed to be her as well a few months later, but for a very different reason.
There were, regrettably, a few - a very few - other occasions when I let anger get the better of me, but this was by far the most humiliating. I still find it galling to think about. How do I handle it? By not thinking about it at all, if I can help it.
FM prompt January: Ten Things
Jan. 28th, 2008 03:34 pmWhat are ten things that no one knows about you, and that you will not willingly tell anyone about?
*meta, since he wouldn't even write most of them down in a locked entry*
1) Laura/Irina was not the only time Arvin cheated on Emily. It was, however, the only affair he had, and so the only sexual relationship he thinks of as a betrayal; the other occasions either happened during his time as a field agent where he couldn't have avoided them without breaking cover, or were one night stands that happened several years apart and which he successfully told himself did not matter because he never saw the people in question again.
2) He liked to believe that if Emily had lived, he would have been able to keep his promise to her and would have abandoned Rambaldi for good. Sydney once told him, and not even in anger, that she doesn't think he could have. A year, perhaps, maybe two, but not longer. In his heart of hearts, he knew she was right.
3) Not telling Emily about SD-6 and the Alliance wasn't really about keeping her safe and keeping the Alliance rules. He knew Emily; she would have never have betrayed her knowledge had he entrusted her with it. But she would not have been able to live with him in the full knowledge of what he was, and what he did, not unless he would have stopped immediately. He prefered lying to her to losing her, pure and simple.
4) He had some same-sex experiences in high school and in college. Considering he was going for a career in a highly conservative institution like the C.I.A. and considering the blackmail potential, that was where it ended, and he never mentioned said experiences to anyone. By the time he left the CIA, it had become irrelevant anyway; he was happily married, and the only man he still had less than platonic feelings for was unavailable and always would be.
5) He loved Nadia, and if he could gone back in time and changed one thing, it would have been her life; not just her survival in general, he'd change circumstances so that Elena Derevko dies an early death, Nadia gets adopted by a nice Argentinian couple and never finds out about either of her parents, living her life untouched by Rambaldi. On the other hand, much as he regretted individual actions that brought grief to Sydney - Danny comes to mind - he would not have taken himself out of Sydney's life, or her out of his. He never cared to examine whether this means he loved Nadia more or less than Sydney.
6) He thought of Sydney as a daughter until the day she stormed in his office, furious, and threw him against his desk. Which was when the whole murky business of not paternal feelings for Sydney started, though he succesfully managed to repress awareness of those until he found out Sydney was a double agent. Now if it simply had been a complete transition of feeling paternal to feeling attracted, it would have still been something not to talk about but at least admittable to himself. But he never entirely stopped seeing her as a daughter, and that was what made his feelings for Sydney something firmly labelled under "not to be thought about" in his subconscious.
7) On the other hand, he had no problem admitting to himself he felt the entire spectrum between fierce rivaly and possessive love for Jack. Thankfully, Jack could be relied upon on never figuring this out.
8) Arvin liked Andrew Llyod Webber. Genuinely loved his musicals, especially Phantom of the Opera and Evita. This isn't something no one knows, strictly speaking, but the three people who did are dead. Or at least supposed to be dead. Or vanished from his life. And he had no intention of telling anyone else.
9) If he ever figured out Rambaldi completely, every last mystery, his faith would not have survived. It depended on there being something eternally out of reach.
10) If what he was trying to do with Omnifam had succeeded - a genetically modified peaceful world, and he did think, for a while, that this was to be the grand justification for everything and Rambaldi's heritage - it would not have been a world where he himself fitted in. More to the point, it would not have been a world where anyone named Bristow or Derevko fitted in, or that still could produce such people. Which was the reason why he never really pressed the monks to reveal the last ingredient the way the Elena-engineered Arvin Clone did. A part of him did not want such a world to exist.
*meta, since he wouldn't even write most of them down in a locked entry*
1) Laura/Irina was not the only time Arvin cheated on Emily. It was, however, the only affair he had, and so the only sexual relationship he thinks of as a betrayal; the other occasions either happened during his time as a field agent where he couldn't have avoided them without breaking cover, or were one night stands that happened several years apart and which he successfully told himself did not matter because he never saw the people in question again.
2) He liked to believe that if Emily had lived, he would have been able to keep his promise to her and would have abandoned Rambaldi for good. Sydney once told him, and not even in anger, that she doesn't think he could have. A year, perhaps, maybe two, but not longer. In his heart of hearts, he knew she was right.
3) Not telling Emily about SD-6 and the Alliance wasn't really about keeping her safe and keeping the Alliance rules. He knew Emily; she would have never have betrayed her knowledge had he entrusted her with it. But she would not have been able to live with him in the full knowledge of what he was, and what he did, not unless he would have stopped immediately. He prefered lying to her to losing her, pure and simple.
4) He had some same-sex experiences in high school and in college. Considering he was going for a career in a highly conservative institution like the C.I.A. and considering the blackmail potential, that was where it ended, and he never mentioned said experiences to anyone. By the time he left the CIA, it had become irrelevant anyway; he was happily married, and the only man he still had less than platonic feelings for was unavailable and always would be.
5) He loved Nadia, and if he could gone back in time and changed one thing, it would have been her life; not just her survival in general, he'd change circumstances so that Elena Derevko dies an early death, Nadia gets adopted by a nice Argentinian couple and never finds out about either of her parents, living her life untouched by Rambaldi. On the other hand, much as he regretted individual actions that brought grief to Sydney - Danny comes to mind - he would not have taken himself out of Sydney's life, or her out of his. He never cared to examine whether this means he loved Nadia more or less than Sydney.
6) He thought of Sydney as a daughter until the day she stormed in his office, furious, and threw him against his desk. Which was when the whole murky business of not paternal feelings for Sydney started, though he succesfully managed to repress awareness of those until he found out Sydney was a double agent. Now if it simply had been a complete transition of feeling paternal to feeling attracted, it would have still been something not to talk about but at least admittable to himself. But he never entirely stopped seeing her as a daughter, and that was what made his feelings for Sydney something firmly labelled under "not to be thought about" in his subconscious.
7) On the other hand, he had no problem admitting to himself he felt the entire spectrum between fierce rivaly and possessive love for Jack. Thankfully, Jack could be relied upon on never figuring this out.
8) Arvin liked Andrew Llyod Webber. Genuinely loved his musicals, especially Phantom of the Opera and Evita. This isn't something no one knows, strictly speaking, but the three people who did are dead. Or at least supposed to be dead. Or vanished from his life. And he had no intention of telling anyone else.
9) If he ever figured out Rambaldi completely, every last mystery, his faith would not have survived. It depended on there being something eternally out of reach.
10) If what he was trying to do with Omnifam had succeeded - a genetically modified peaceful world, and he did think, for a while, that this was to be the grand justification for everything and Rambaldi's heritage - it would not have been a world where he himself fitted in. More to the point, it would not have been a world where anyone named Bristow or Derevko fitted in, or that still could produce such people. Which was the reason why he never really pressed the monks to reveal the last ingredient the way the Elena-engineered Arvin Clone did. A part of him did not want such a world to exist.
December Topic: Do you have faith?
Dec. 29th, 2007 11:58 amIn retrospect, it strikes him that the only person he ever tried to explain it to had been Sydney.
Jack and faith were anathema to each other, so bringing it up with him was pointless. Jack, enviably enough, had never felt the need to justify his existence beyond protecting those he loved, and besides, the language they shared, of pragmatism and games and wary affection, did not not offer the vocabulary for that which had driven Arvin Sloane to allow a dead 15th century Renaissance man to rule his life.
Elena Derevko, on the other hand, was of course a fellow believer, but her own obsession with Rambaldi was strictly limited to what he could do for her. As a consequence, she never experienced periods of doubt. "The only thing I never understood about you," she said to him after he had convinced her to let him join her, "was why you stopped for a while. You had to know the rest of us wouldn't. What did you hope to gain?"
He gave a reply appropriate to his cover. But even without the necessity to maintain it, a genuine conversation with Elena on the subject would have been impossible by the narrowness that made her ask this question in the first place. Elena never sacrificed anything because she never cared enough for anything but herself to make surrendering it a sacrifice. How could she possibly understand?
Sydney, now, that was another matter. She was an idealist; she did need to believe in something greater, but she thought patriotism and the need to protect not just her nearest and dearest, like her father, but just about everyone fulfilled that purpose. She was still young.
She also was the challenge and the doubter who was necessary for any faith. When Ana Espinosa went after Nadia, he told Sydney Ana would not succeed, and she asked him how he could still have his faith after everything. He asked her how he could not. But he hid Nadia from Ana, all the same. The contradiction never left him; either Nadia's life was safeguarded by Rambaldi's prophecies, or it was not. He continued to believe that it was, and to act as if it was not, until her life, and his faith, exploded in glass shards and blood and became one again. It was impossible, against every prediction, and yet fulfilling them all: and not having faith, after, was not an option any more, either.
And yet, and yet. When he was told Sydney was dead, with her life just as safeguarded by prophecies, he did not act on any commandment. "She died, just like anyone," Sydney's own voice said, and he knew he had to kill the person who did this.
It turned out to be the last test. Of course she wasn't dead. Of course it was not for him to either avenge her or kill her by mistake. Her role, after all, was to devastate... and to restore.
She was alive, as surely as she had been drawn four hundred years before her birth. And he had faith, again.
There really was no other choice.
Jack and faith were anathema to each other, so bringing it up with him was pointless. Jack, enviably enough, had never felt the need to justify his existence beyond protecting those he loved, and besides, the language they shared, of pragmatism and games and wary affection, did not not offer the vocabulary for that which had driven Arvin Sloane to allow a dead 15th century Renaissance man to rule his life.
Elena Derevko, on the other hand, was of course a fellow believer, but her own obsession with Rambaldi was strictly limited to what he could do for her. As a consequence, she never experienced periods of doubt. "The only thing I never understood about you," she said to him after he had convinced her to let him join her, "was why you stopped for a while. You had to know the rest of us wouldn't. What did you hope to gain?"
He gave a reply appropriate to his cover. But even without the necessity to maintain it, a genuine conversation with Elena on the subject would have been impossible by the narrowness that made her ask this question in the first place. Elena never sacrificed anything because she never cared enough for anything but herself to make surrendering it a sacrifice. How could she possibly understand?
Sydney, now, that was another matter. She was an idealist; she did need to believe in something greater, but she thought patriotism and the need to protect not just her nearest and dearest, like her father, but just about everyone fulfilled that purpose. She was still young.
She also was the challenge and the doubter who was necessary for any faith. When Ana Espinosa went after Nadia, he told Sydney Ana would not succeed, and she asked him how he could still have his faith after everything. He asked her how he could not. But he hid Nadia from Ana, all the same. The contradiction never left him; either Nadia's life was safeguarded by Rambaldi's prophecies, or it was not. He continued to believe that it was, and to act as if it was not, until her life, and his faith, exploded in glass shards and blood and became one again. It was impossible, against every prediction, and yet fulfilling them all: and not having faith, after, was not an option any more, either.
And yet, and yet. When he was told Sydney was dead, with her life just as safeguarded by prophecies, he did not act on any commandment. "She died, just like anyone," Sydney's own voice said, and he knew he had to kill the person who did this.
It turned out to be the last test. Of course she wasn't dead. Of course it was not for him to either avenge her or kill her by mistake. Her role, after all, was to devastate... and to restore.
She was alive, as surely as she had been drawn four hundred years before her birth. And he had faith, again.
There really was no other choice.
November Topic: Mercy
Nov. 29th, 2007 09:36 pm*locked*
In a life where pretense is part of one's profession, one does everything not just once but several times. Of course I was in situations where my chosen role demanded a plea for mercy. In what you could call reality, I never did, except once. On other occasions, thankfully rare, when I found myself in a weaker position and in need of someone's goodwill, I made sure to offer bargains. Or common sense.
But once, I asked. The people in a position to grant or refuse said mercy were a less than ideal audience. They were the senior partners of the Alliance, and hadn't gotten that position because of their kind hearts and sense of fair play. My wife Emily was suffering from cancer then, and in a conversation with a friend had revealed she knew that my position at Credit Dauphine was a cover, that I was leading an organisation named SD-6. Emily, of course, believed that SD-6 was a section of the CIA, but still, the Alliance directives were very clear. More than clear. I had executed them myself repeatedly.
"I feel rather awkward sitting here asking you to allow my wife to die of cancer," I said, in London, half a world away from her, trying to remember how any other persona I had ever embodied would plead, for this was what I was doing, pretense at dignity aside.
"Arvin, the agreement is simple," Christophe replied. "People with any unauthorized information regarding SD-6, or any SD cell, must be eliminated."
I thought of Emily and her fight against death, unwavering, every hour of every day, despite the terrible pain she was. Ever since she was first diagnosed, I had tried to adjust myself to the fact I would lose her, but I could not. I could not. Taking away even an hour she could have otherwise - the idea was unbearable.
"My wife is being eliminated," I snapped. "By cancer. And the pending bone marrow biopsy report will merely inform us as to the number of days she has left. Days she will spend in an SD-6 hospital where information can be contained."
I collected myself and became calm again. I listed figures, I argued like the lawyer I never was, but in the end, we all knew what it came down to. I was begging, like any pathetic captive ever taken.
They did have mercy, of a sort. They approved my request. "Due to your wife's illness," Christophe said, and the warning was clear. Not a day later, the doctors told Emily her cancer would go into remission. I knew then what I had to do, and it was neither another round of begging for mercy nor fulfilling the Alliance directive. If you want to know when I decided to betray the Alliance and bring it down by using the tools fate had given me: it was then.
Mercy is only ever temporary. I never made the mistake of extending it myself.
In a life where pretense is part of one's profession, one does everything not just once but several times. Of course I was in situations where my chosen role demanded a plea for mercy. In what you could call reality, I never did, except once. On other occasions, thankfully rare, when I found myself in a weaker position and in need of someone's goodwill, I made sure to offer bargains. Or common sense.
But once, I asked. The people in a position to grant or refuse said mercy were a less than ideal audience. They were the senior partners of the Alliance, and hadn't gotten that position because of their kind hearts and sense of fair play. My wife Emily was suffering from cancer then, and in a conversation with a friend had revealed she knew that my position at Credit Dauphine was a cover, that I was leading an organisation named SD-6. Emily, of course, believed that SD-6 was a section of the CIA, but still, the Alliance directives were very clear. More than clear. I had executed them myself repeatedly.
"I feel rather awkward sitting here asking you to allow my wife to die of cancer," I said, in London, half a world away from her, trying to remember how any other persona I had ever embodied would plead, for this was what I was doing, pretense at dignity aside.
"Arvin, the agreement is simple," Christophe replied. "People with any unauthorized information regarding SD-6, or any SD cell, must be eliminated."
I thought of Emily and her fight against death, unwavering, every hour of every day, despite the terrible pain she was. Ever since she was first diagnosed, I had tried to adjust myself to the fact I would lose her, but I could not. I could not. Taking away even an hour she could have otherwise - the idea was unbearable.
"My wife is being eliminated," I snapped. "By cancer. And the pending bone marrow biopsy report will merely inform us as to the number of days she has left. Days she will spend in an SD-6 hospital where information can be contained."
I collected myself and became calm again. I listed figures, I argued like the lawyer I never was, but in the end, we all knew what it came down to. I was begging, like any pathetic captive ever taken.
They did have mercy, of a sort. They approved my request. "Due to your wife's illness," Christophe said, and the warning was clear. Not a day later, the doctors told Emily her cancer would go into remission. I knew then what I had to do, and it was neither another round of begging for mercy nor fulfilling the Alliance directive. If you want to know when I decided to betray the Alliance and bring it down by using the tools fate had given me: it was then.
Mercy is only ever temporary. I never made the mistake of extending it myself.
October Prompt: Reunion
Oct. 31st, 2007 01:53 pmI had not seen her in decades. Photos, surveillance tapes, yes, but not the woman herself. She had contacted me through the versatile Mr. Sark, but in a way, I had felt her presence before. After all, I saw Jack and Sydney on a daily basis at work, and her fingerprints on them were unmistakable.
I, of all people, should be able to recognize obsession.
In any case, observing the effect Irina's return had on them was like a taunt, and childishly I thought: You left. They're not yours anymore. You have no right to take them back. At the same time, I was admittedly burning with curiosity to meet her again, and not just for practical reasons. The last time I had seen her, she had been Laura to me as well as to Jack, though perhaps a somewhat different Laura. If one's profession is deception, one does like tribute to a master - or mistress, as it were. But I could hardly walk into the CIA and demand an audience, and so I had to rely on Julian Sark and the instructions she had given him, the suggestions about an alliance. Now capable as our young friend is, reliance on him should not be anyone's favourite option for anything, and it certainly wasn't mine. Still, I was in a tricky position, needing to deceive both my own employers and the CIA at the same time, so I made the best of what was possible.
Once SD6 was over and done with, along with all other SD -cells, and I had made my escape with Emily, I could have spent the rest of my life in comfortable anonymity, never mind previous agreements. It wasn't as if Irina was in a position to complain from her cell within the CIA if she never heard from me again. But I still wanted to pursue the mystery of Rambaldi; that was the main reason why I did not choose the path which, in restrospect, would have saved Emily's life.
I also, and it took me another two years to admit it, wanted to see Irina again.
Not because I was in love with her. Such foolishness was Jack's to feel. And I certainly didn't feel sentimental about old times. If I had known then what I found out later, my main reason would have been to ask her about Nadia, but at this point I was completely unaware she and I had had a child together. I suppose, in the end, it must have been curiosity, that same curiosity which had initially led me to study Milo Rambaldi. Who was she, really, that woman who had been married to my best friend, with whom I had had an ill-advised affair and who had managed to fool us both completely during all that time? That woman who had become a power to be reckoned with in our profession, so much so that she could devise a plan which allowed her minions to waltz into SD-6 while I headed it, take us all hostage and nearly got us killed?
That woman whose invisible presence had grown more solid each time I had talked to her husband and daughter for three months. Who, when making her offer of allliance through Sark, had done so in a way that demonstrated to me she could get Sydney and Jack to kill me if she wanted. (For the record, I wouldn't have minded being traded over to save the life of either Bristow. But being used as the cash to purchase a cure for Michael Vaughn, of all the people, is somewhat galling. Couldn't it at least have been Dixon or Marshall?)
I came up with a suitable elaborate extraction method - nothing uncomplicated or not elegant for Irina Derevko - and she did bring the Rambaldi manuscript she had promised. Seeing each other again other the space of years, we smiled and immediately wondered when the stab in the back would occur.
But I must admit I also thought that she was an even more fascinating woman than I had assumed her to be all those years ago. And that I did enjoy seeing her again.
I, of all people, should be able to recognize obsession.
In any case, observing the effect Irina's return had on them was like a taunt, and childishly I thought: You left. They're not yours anymore. You have no right to take them back. At the same time, I was admittedly burning with curiosity to meet her again, and not just for practical reasons. The last time I had seen her, she had been Laura to me as well as to Jack, though perhaps a somewhat different Laura. If one's profession is deception, one does like tribute to a master - or mistress, as it were. But I could hardly walk into the CIA and demand an audience, and so I had to rely on Julian Sark and the instructions she had given him, the suggestions about an alliance. Now capable as our young friend is, reliance on him should not be anyone's favourite option for anything, and it certainly wasn't mine. Still, I was in a tricky position, needing to deceive both my own employers and the CIA at the same time, so I made the best of what was possible.
Once SD6 was over and done with, along with all other SD -cells, and I had made my escape with Emily, I could have spent the rest of my life in comfortable anonymity, never mind previous agreements. It wasn't as if Irina was in a position to complain from her cell within the CIA if she never heard from me again. But I still wanted to pursue the mystery of Rambaldi; that was the main reason why I did not choose the path which, in restrospect, would have saved Emily's life.
I also, and it took me another two years to admit it, wanted to see Irina again.
Not because I was in love with her. Such foolishness was Jack's to feel. And I certainly didn't feel sentimental about old times. If I had known then what I found out later, my main reason would have been to ask her about Nadia, but at this point I was completely unaware she and I had had a child together. I suppose, in the end, it must have been curiosity, that same curiosity which had initially led me to study Milo Rambaldi. Who was she, really, that woman who had been married to my best friend, with whom I had had an ill-advised affair and who had managed to fool us both completely during all that time? That woman who had become a power to be reckoned with in our profession, so much so that she could devise a plan which allowed her minions to waltz into SD-6 while I headed it, take us all hostage and nearly got us killed?
That woman whose invisible presence had grown more solid each time I had talked to her husband and daughter for three months. Who, when making her offer of allliance through Sark, had done so in a way that demonstrated to me she could get Sydney and Jack to kill me if she wanted. (For the record, I wouldn't have minded being traded over to save the life of either Bristow. But being used as the cash to purchase a cure for Michael Vaughn, of all the people, is somewhat galling. Couldn't it at least have been Dixon or Marshall?)
I came up with a suitable elaborate extraction method - nothing uncomplicated or not elegant for Irina Derevko - and she did bring the Rambaldi manuscript she had promised. Seeing each other again other the space of years, we smiled and immediately wondered when the stab in the back would occur.
But I must admit I also thought that she was an even more fascinating woman than I had assumed her to be all those years ago. And that I did enjoy seeing her again.
September Topic: Scars
Sep. 29th, 2007 04:13 pmIt's not the torture, or the fact he had to order his best friend to cut of one of his fingers, or that the appendix in question is currently being reattached by a surgeon which means Arvin can't be elsewhere, taking her of the incredible mess that is SD-6 right now: no, what really makes him feel oddly helpless and at the same time indignant are two different things.
It should not have happened in the first place. Someone like McKennas Cole, admittedly once a good agent, or he wouldn't have bene hired to begin with, but still nowhere near top league, should not have been able to waltz into SD-6 and take everyone hostage the way he did. The fact Cole had to be someone else's flunky isn't really helping. It still shouldn't have happened. It means Arvin Sloane is getting sloppy, and that kind of thing gets you killed. He'll have to make sure it won't ever happen again.
The other thing that makes him linger once the operation is done, the immediate aftermath at SD-6 is dealt with and the doctor shows up for the third time to send Arvin home, which he only briefly considers responding to by shooting the unfortunate man, is that he can't think of any explanation Emily will buy. One does not return from a day at the bank with a severed and then reattached finger. On the other hand - an unfortunate simile, right now, but he can't think of any other - on the other hand, Arvin is supposed to be brilliant at the invention of convincing lies. He is brilliant at it. Has been for decades. So why the performance failure now?
"Arvin," Jack says, "you shouldn't still be here."
"You shouldn't, either," Arvin replies automatically, and it is true. Jack is at less than optimum condition himself.
Somehow, this short exchange leads to them heading off to a bar for a drink, which they haven't done in quite a while. Something has changed between them ever since Arvin recruited Sydney, and the tenseness only increased once he made Jack and Sydney actually work together. It was to be expected. Leave it to Jack Bristow not to recognize the obvious, the obvious being that Sydney is briliant at her - their - job and that working together actually allows for topics of conversations between Jack and his daughter as opposed to the endless silence that was between them before. Arvin does have other, more selfish reasons for the current arrangement as well, but these benefits are no less important. He loves the Bristows, but they never know what is good for them as well as he does. If that means a temporary distance between him and Jack, well. A painful necessity. Jack would come around. In fact, sitting in a bar together, sipping at the bitter Scotch which Jack likes more than Arvin does and Arvin has ordered anyway because this just wasn't a day for fine wine, isn't that an indication the coming around process had started?
"I... appreciate what you did today," Jack says, which is the Jack Bristow equivalent of a hug, and Arvin raises an eyebrow.
"What I did today was damage control," he replies, and Jack shakes his head.
"Damage control was activating the failsafe. Telling me to cut off your finger was saving Sydney's life."
There is the explanation for that shared drink, then. Jack feels grateful for a daughter saved instead of lying torn into bits among the ruins of a blown up building. Saving Sydney's life has been the reason for that quick decision down in the interrogation room, admittedly, but nonetheless, Arvin feels a tiny slice of disappointment adding to the odd sense of failure he has about the entire affair and concludes the Scotch has to be worse than expected.
"I keep my promises, Jack," he says. Jack doesn't point out that spoken from one CIA deserter to another, from one experienced liar to another, this statement is somewhat questionable. He doesn't ask which particular promise Arvin means, either. It is one given many years ago, in the aftermath of Laura's "death" and the discovery of her true identity, when Jack ended up in prison for a while until internal affairs concluded he had been a dupe, not a mole. Of course, Arvin's interpretation of keeping Sydney safe isn't Jack's, but preventing her death is a definition they can both agree on.
Somehow, Arvin's glass is empty, and Jack refills it. The bitterness of the taste has changed into a comfortable numbness, Arvin decides, and knows this should make him feel distrustful because he has no business being relaxed today, but decides to put off the distrust for just a few moments longer.
"It won't happen again," says Jack. He might mean today's incredible security breach, or this particular echo of old times, sharing a drink together, or either, or neither. Everything and nothing at all.
"Here's to unique occurences then," Arvin says, and raises his glass. The nerves in his finger must work again, because he can feel the throbbing pain, but he raises his glass, nonetheless, and so does Jack. Their eyes meet and hold as they drink.
Years later, remembering that day, Arvin can't recall what he eventually did tell Emily when he got home. What excuse he used, and how she reacted. Maybe there was disbelief, and maybe there was not, because those were her bad days, with the cancer putting her through hell day by day, hour by hour, and her medication only insufficient relief. What Arvin does remember are the shared drinks, Jack at the bar; his memory is convenient that way sometimes. He looks at the thin white circle around one of his fingers, which is only noticable of you pay close attention, and then it resembles nothing as much as a wedding ring, cut in the flesh. Which fits, in its way. Arvin still wears Emily's ring above his own, as widowers do, but what ties him to the Bristows never was as clear and simple as a marriage vow. It never will be. It should be a scar.
He won't let it fade, either.
It should not have happened in the first place. Someone like McKennas Cole, admittedly once a good agent, or he wouldn't have bene hired to begin with, but still nowhere near top league, should not have been able to waltz into SD-6 and take everyone hostage the way he did. The fact Cole had to be someone else's flunky isn't really helping. It still shouldn't have happened. It means Arvin Sloane is getting sloppy, and that kind of thing gets you killed. He'll have to make sure it won't ever happen again.
The other thing that makes him linger once the operation is done, the immediate aftermath at SD-6 is dealt with and the doctor shows up for the third time to send Arvin home, which he only briefly considers responding to by shooting the unfortunate man, is that he can't think of any explanation Emily will buy. One does not return from a day at the bank with a severed and then reattached finger. On the other hand - an unfortunate simile, right now, but he can't think of any other - on the other hand, Arvin is supposed to be brilliant at the invention of convincing lies. He is brilliant at it. Has been for decades. So why the performance failure now?
"Arvin," Jack says, "you shouldn't still be here."
"You shouldn't, either," Arvin replies automatically, and it is true. Jack is at less than optimum condition himself.
Somehow, this short exchange leads to them heading off to a bar for a drink, which they haven't done in quite a while. Something has changed between them ever since Arvin recruited Sydney, and the tenseness only increased once he made Jack and Sydney actually work together. It was to be expected. Leave it to Jack Bristow not to recognize the obvious, the obvious being that Sydney is briliant at her - their - job and that working together actually allows for topics of conversations between Jack and his daughter as opposed to the endless silence that was between them before. Arvin does have other, more selfish reasons for the current arrangement as well, but these benefits are no less important. He loves the Bristows, but they never know what is good for them as well as he does. If that means a temporary distance between him and Jack, well. A painful necessity. Jack would come around. In fact, sitting in a bar together, sipping at the bitter Scotch which Jack likes more than Arvin does and Arvin has ordered anyway because this just wasn't a day for fine wine, isn't that an indication the coming around process had started?
"I... appreciate what you did today," Jack says, which is the Jack Bristow equivalent of a hug, and Arvin raises an eyebrow.
"What I did today was damage control," he replies, and Jack shakes his head.
"Damage control was activating the failsafe. Telling me to cut off your finger was saving Sydney's life."
There is the explanation for that shared drink, then. Jack feels grateful for a daughter saved instead of lying torn into bits among the ruins of a blown up building. Saving Sydney's life has been the reason for that quick decision down in the interrogation room, admittedly, but nonetheless, Arvin feels a tiny slice of disappointment adding to the odd sense of failure he has about the entire affair and concludes the Scotch has to be worse than expected.
"I keep my promises, Jack," he says. Jack doesn't point out that spoken from one CIA deserter to another, from one experienced liar to another, this statement is somewhat questionable. He doesn't ask which particular promise Arvin means, either. It is one given many years ago, in the aftermath of Laura's "death" and the discovery of her true identity, when Jack ended up in prison for a while until internal affairs concluded he had been a dupe, not a mole. Of course, Arvin's interpretation of keeping Sydney safe isn't Jack's, but preventing her death is a definition they can both agree on.
Somehow, Arvin's glass is empty, and Jack refills it. The bitterness of the taste has changed into a comfortable numbness, Arvin decides, and knows this should make him feel distrustful because he has no business being relaxed today, but decides to put off the distrust for just a few moments longer.
"It won't happen again," says Jack. He might mean today's incredible security breach, or this particular echo of old times, sharing a drink together, or either, or neither. Everything and nothing at all.
"Here's to unique occurences then," Arvin says, and raises his glass. The nerves in his finger must work again, because he can feel the throbbing pain, but he raises his glass, nonetheless, and so does Jack. Their eyes meet and hold as they drink.
Years later, remembering that day, Arvin can't recall what he eventually did tell Emily when he got home. What excuse he used, and how she reacted. Maybe there was disbelief, and maybe there was not, because those were her bad days, with the cancer putting her through hell day by day, hour by hour, and her medication only insufficient relief. What Arvin does remember are the shared drinks, Jack at the bar; his memory is convenient that way sometimes. He looks at the thin white circle around one of his fingers, which is only noticable of you pay close attention, and then it resembles nothing as much as a wedding ring, cut in the flesh. Which fits, in its way. Arvin still wears Emily's ring above his own, as widowers do, but what ties him to the Bristows never was as clear and simple as a marriage vow. It never will be. It should be a scar.
He won't let it fade, either.
August Prompt: Fantasies and Fables
Aug. 25th, 2007 12:26 pmLove is a cunning weaver of fantasies and fables. - Sappho
"So Irina is alive," I said to Elena Derevko, pretending only mild interest.
"As if I would let my little sister be killed by someone else," Elena scoffed, black eyes gleaming with delight. "She's a Derevko, and neither her fool of a husband nor yourself would be worthy. I'll do it myself."
Those few days I spent with the oldest of the Derevko sisters were among the least agreeable and yet most interesting of my life. She had only been a name before, competition in a race I had made myself abandon; as Sofia Vargas, she had been a lie. But here she was, one of the few people who could claim a knowledge of Rambaldi almost close to mine, if not the same understanding; the woman who had raised my daughter.
I despised her, of course. Because she was using a perversion of my own plans, because she had made it necessary for me to let Nadia believe I had betrayed her, because she had, as a matter of fact, betrayed Nadia, oh, and because she had used a man impersonating me who was responsible for some of the more painful hours of my life. Now there was also the new discovery she had set up Jack to kill who he believed to be Irina, and had held Irina under lock and key the entire time. If there is a Derevko making of fool of both Jack and myself, I would rather have it to be Irina, you know; I might never have been in love with Irina, but I... well, let us just say we understood each other. Her sister, on the other hand, thought she understood me and that I could not possibly be in the same position, which grated.
Most of all, though, I despised Elena Derevko because she was whole in a way I never had been, nor ever would be. There were never second thoughts to her, no regrets. She might not understand the true grandeur of Rambaldi's imagination, believing it to be a simple tool for world domination, but once she had committed to making his inventions her own, she never let anything stop her. It was like looking in a mirror, much as my confrontation with her puppet Ned had been, and seeing what others saw when they looked at me. Of course I despised her.
I am sure the feeling was mutual. Naturally, she did not trust me, no matter how much she respected my knowledge. She did not have time to do to me as she had done to Irina to make sure I was telling her the truth. So she came up with a way of tormenting me which was, I must admit, breathtakingly brilliant. After I had found out Irina was still alive, and that the Irina Jack had killed had been a product of Project Helix - some people would call this the elegance of nemesis, no doubt, given how both myself and Irina had profited from said Project not too long ago - I could not help but wonder at the magnitude of the deception. You see, I was sure that Jack would not have done the expedient think and simply killed Irina once he had determined that this was necessary. No, not Jack. I know him. He would have spoken to her first, touched her, breathed in her scent and then killed her. And yet, despite this closeness, he was deceived.
"Arguably a better proof of the perfection Project Helix can achieve than Allison Doren has been," I said to Elena, as I didn't wish her to speculate on my thoughts. Elena, proving she was the most dangerous of the Derevko sisters, looked at me and said: "Yes. Is there anyone you would wish to see doubled?"
"I've played this game," I said indifferently. "I prefer not to reuse tools. Besides, in the new world..."
"Yes," Elena said a bit impatiently, "in the new world, everything will be different anyway, but not this. I think there is someone. Jack Bristow is not the only one who brought death to his wife, no? Irina told me, and so did her boy Julian. Your wife, she was shot in your place. Her blood was on your hands when she died. And before that, she sacrificed one of her fingers so you would both be safe."
She came closer and whispered in my ear.
"What became of that finger, Arvin, hmmm? You know, that is more than enough DNA for Project Helix. Should this be my welcoming present for you, my new confederate? Your very own Emily to do with what you like, just as I gave Jack Bristow an Irina of his own to kill?"
McKenas Cole, poor amateur, had nothing on Elena Derevko. I said no, of course. It was easy to say. I knew the Bristows and Nadia had to be on their way by now, I knew we would all work together to stop Elena, even if they did not yet. But the idea, once pronounced, would never leave me, and Elena knew it.
To see Emily again, alive. Just once. To talk to her. To hear her voice. To touch her hand, to hear her breathe, alive and safe. It would not be Emily, it would be an illusion, I know that, but as opposed to Jack I have been kown to willingly prefer illusions.
It would also be a betrayal of Emily, the only one I have not committed, and that is what has kept me from pursuing such a course of action. Not the idea of someone else being doomed to live out their life in another woman's skin, as Ms. Doren had been; frankly, I would only care that the woman in question was a good enough actress to disappear into her role. Yes, I do have more than enough DNA, stored in a Swiss deposit. I think about it sometimes, still.
And then I think of Emily choosing to come with me, for the third and fatal time, despite all I had done, and I know I will not do this to her, or her memory.
I wish my subconscious would accept this as well and would stop sending me dreams in which I do it anyway.
"So Irina is alive," I said to Elena Derevko, pretending only mild interest.
"As if I would let my little sister be killed by someone else," Elena scoffed, black eyes gleaming with delight. "She's a Derevko, and neither her fool of a husband nor yourself would be worthy. I'll do it myself."
Those few days I spent with the oldest of the Derevko sisters were among the least agreeable and yet most interesting of my life. She had only been a name before, competition in a race I had made myself abandon; as Sofia Vargas, she had been a lie. But here she was, one of the few people who could claim a knowledge of Rambaldi almost close to mine, if not the same understanding; the woman who had raised my daughter.
I despised her, of course. Because she was using a perversion of my own plans, because she had made it necessary for me to let Nadia believe I had betrayed her, because she had, as a matter of fact, betrayed Nadia, oh, and because she had used a man impersonating me who was responsible for some of the more painful hours of my life. Now there was also the new discovery she had set up Jack to kill who he believed to be Irina, and had held Irina under lock and key the entire time. If there is a Derevko making of fool of both Jack and myself, I would rather have it to be Irina, you know; I might never have been in love with Irina, but I... well, let us just say we understood each other. Her sister, on the other hand, thought she understood me and that I could not possibly be in the same position, which grated.
Most of all, though, I despised Elena Derevko because she was whole in a way I never had been, nor ever would be. There were never second thoughts to her, no regrets. She might not understand the true grandeur of Rambaldi's imagination, believing it to be a simple tool for world domination, but once she had committed to making his inventions her own, she never let anything stop her. It was like looking in a mirror, much as my confrontation with her puppet Ned had been, and seeing what others saw when they looked at me. Of course I despised her.
I am sure the feeling was mutual. Naturally, she did not trust me, no matter how much she respected my knowledge. She did not have time to do to me as she had done to Irina to make sure I was telling her the truth. So she came up with a way of tormenting me which was, I must admit, breathtakingly brilliant. After I had found out Irina was still alive, and that the Irina Jack had killed had been a product of Project Helix - some people would call this the elegance of nemesis, no doubt, given how both myself and Irina had profited from said Project not too long ago - I could not help but wonder at the magnitude of the deception. You see, I was sure that Jack would not have done the expedient think and simply killed Irina once he had determined that this was necessary. No, not Jack. I know him. He would have spoken to her first, touched her, breathed in her scent and then killed her. And yet, despite this closeness, he was deceived.
"Arguably a better proof of the perfection Project Helix can achieve than Allison Doren has been," I said to Elena, as I didn't wish her to speculate on my thoughts. Elena, proving she was the most dangerous of the Derevko sisters, looked at me and said: "Yes. Is there anyone you would wish to see doubled?"
"I've played this game," I said indifferently. "I prefer not to reuse tools. Besides, in the new world..."
"Yes," Elena said a bit impatiently, "in the new world, everything will be different anyway, but not this. I think there is someone. Jack Bristow is not the only one who brought death to his wife, no? Irina told me, and so did her boy Julian. Your wife, she was shot in your place. Her blood was on your hands when she died. And before that, she sacrificed one of her fingers so you would both be safe."
She came closer and whispered in my ear.
"What became of that finger, Arvin, hmmm? You know, that is more than enough DNA for Project Helix. Should this be my welcoming present for you, my new confederate? Your very own Emily to do with what you like, just as I gave Jack Bristow an Irina of his own to kill?"
McKenas Cole, poor amateur, had nothing on Elena Derevko. I said no, of course. It was easy to say. I knew the Bristows and Nadia had to be on their way by now, I knew we would all work together to stop Elena, even if they did not yet. But the idea, once pronounced, would never leave me, and Elena knew it.
To see Emily again, alive. Just once. To talk to her. To hear her voice. To touch her hand, to hear her breathe, alive and safe. It would not be Emily, it would be an illusion, I know that, but as opposed to Jack I have been kown to willingly prefer illusions.
It would also be a betrayal of Emily, the only one I have not committed, and that is what has kept me from pursuing such a course of action. Not the idea of someone else being doomed to live out their life in another woman's skin, as Ms. Doren had been; frankly, I would only care that the woman in question was a good enough actress to disappear into her role. Yes, I do have more than enough DNA, stored in a Swiss deposit. I think about it sometimes, still.
And then I think of Emily choosing to come with me, for the third and fatal time, despite all I had done, and I know I will not do this to her, or her memory.
I wish my subconscious would accept this as well and would stop sending me dreams in which I do it anyway.
From ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cyke_out
Aug. 1st, 2007 04:16 pmI must confess that as a part of motivating the students, I ordered the Latin translation of the first novel. It improves Ms. Rowling's prose while retaining her estimable ability to keep up suspense. It seems to work, too; following the adventure of Harrius is easier for teenagers than working one's way through Cicero at his most egomaniac.
...ah, yes. The quiz results.
...ah, yes. The quiz results.
Your Score: SLYTHERIN!
You scored 60% Slytherin, 8% Ravenclaw, 28% Gryffindor, and 20% Hufflepuff!
Or perhaps in Slytherin
You'll make your real friends,
These cunning folk use any means
To achieve their ends.
Slytherins are known for their ambition, guile, and Machiavellian sensiblities.
| Link: The Sorting Hat Test written by leeannslytherin on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test |
My dear Marcus,
in our profession, men devoted to their own survival such as myself usually lack surviving enemies, for obvious reasons. Or they do not regard the people in question as their enemies but as, shall we say, friends lost and waiting to be found again, one day. You know of whom I speak, of course.
You, however, are something of an exception. In the decade you worked for me, I always thought of you as an extremely competent agent, with only one flaw, which made you ideal for SD-6; you did not question authority. You never once doubted, and when you started to suspect Sydney was a double agent, you did report her to me, despite your years of friendship. Duty and loyalty to the state above all.
(A word among enemies, Agent Dixon: duty and loyalty usually isn't worth it, even in cases where the double in question is actually working for the state, and you are actually working for a rogue organization.)
You were not then my enemy, of course, though I assume I became yours the moment you found out the truth. Bringing down the Alliance with the CIA's gracious help, making my getaway and continuing my quest for Il Dire was very time consuming, and I cannot claim I thought of you, any more than I did of my other former employees, always excepting Sydney and Jack. No, what made you my enemy was a single shot months later.
You may not believe this, or care, either way, but I always knew you never meant to kill her. I knew that bullet had been destined for me; even as I held her in my arms and felt her blood on my hands, I knew.
That did not change a single thing.
It's a strange thing, that atavistic hate, isn't it, Marcus? You know it, I know it; and there is no rationality to it, and no temperance. Undoubtedly you have a statistic about the number of people whose death I was responsible for somewhere; your wife was the only one who died not because of any practical gain, not because I was told to - yes, in those far away days when I was young, I killed for the state, too -, but simply because my wife had died, and I wanted to see blood.
A few years later, we both believed I was about to die, ironically enough not for your wife's death or indeed any crime I had committed, but something I had not done, and you waited for me on my way to the execution chamber in order to tell me you had prayed for me. I always found that fascinating, later, thinking about it. (At the time, I was otherwise preoccupied.) With anyone else, I would have assumed irony, a more stylish version of gloating; not with you. At the same time, you are a good man but not a saint; this was hardly meant as absolution for my sins. When not on a field trip, you tend to be uncannily straight forward. If you had meant to say "I hope dying will take you eons, and you will burn in hell afterwards," you would have said so. If you had meant "your death frees me of my hate towards you, and I forgive you", you would have said that, too. And thus I am left with the conclusion that I still do not know what you were praying for.
As I do not intend to post this letter, my curiosity will remain unsatisfied. I did not die then; and only a few months later, you were working for me again, together with the rest of our old team. You must have wondered why I requested you, Marcus, and probably concluded that it was a tactical move, designed to reassure Director Chase of my sincerity. That was certainly one reason, but there was another. You see, my life was better than than it had been ever since Emily died. Jack and Sydney were with me again; I had found Nadia, and she had agreed to be with me as we; the CIA, instead of hunting me down, had chosen to give me my own secret organization.
If ever there was an occasion for relaxed satisfaction, or, as Jack would have put it, smugness, it was then. And you know what smugness does, especially to a man of my past. It gets one killed.
That was the other, more important reason for me to ask for you. Sydney and Jack might have distrusted and hated me in varying degrees, but they had also loved me once, and they knew as well as I that we were family. But not you. Your hate had always been free of anything else. With you working next to me, I would never get sloppy. I could never afford to. And so I would survive.
"You want us to believe you have changed," you told me during that year, "for love of your daughter. That she has brought out the better angels of your nature. But the truth is, Arvin, that you don't have any."
It is always good to know that one was correct in the assessment of an agent, Marcus.
You probably thought of your dead wife every morning you entered my office. I know I thought of Emily every time I sent you on a mission; confident that you would return.
Farewell, Marcus Dixon. I doubt we'll ever meet again. I will, however, pray for you.
Arvin Sloane
in our profession, men devoted to their own survival such as myself usually lack surviving enemies, for obvious reasons. Or they do not regard the people in question as their enemies but as, shall we say, friends lost and waiting to be found again, one day. You know of whom I speak, of course.
You, however, are something of an exception. In the decade you worked for me, I always thought of you as an extremely competent agent, with only one flaw, which made you ideal for SD-6; you did not question authority. You never once doubted, and when you started to suspect Sydney was a double agent, you did report her to me, despite your years of friendship. Duty and loyalty to the state above all.
(A word among enemies, Agent Dixon: duty and loyalty usually isn't worth it, even in cases where the double in question is actually working for the state, and you are actually working for a rogue organization.)
You were not then my enemy, of course, though I assume I became yours the moment you found out the truth. Bringing down the Alliance with the CIA's gracious help, making my getaway and continuing my quest for Il Dire was very time consuming, and I cannot claim I thought of you, any more than I did of my other former employees, always excepting Sydney and Jack. No, what made you my enemy was a single shot months later.
You may not believe this, or care, either way, but I always knew you never meant to kill her. I knew that bullet had been destined for me; even as I held her in my arms and felt her blood on my hands, I knew.
That did not change a single thing.
It's a strange thing, that atavistic hate, isn't it, Marcus? You know it, I know it; and there is no rationality to it, and no temperance. Undoubtedly you have a statistic about the number of people whose death I was responsible for somewhere; your wife was the only one who died not because of any practical gain, not because I was told to - yes, in those far away days when I was young, I killed for the state, too -, but simply because my wife had died, and I wanted to see blood.
A few years later, we both believed I was about to die, ironically enough not for your wife's death or indeed any crime I had committed, but something I had not done, and you waited for me on my way to the execution chamber in order to tell me you had prayed for me. I always found that fascinating, later, thinking about it. (At the time, I was otherwise preoccupied.) With anyone else, I would have assumed irony, a more stylish version of gloating; not with you. At the same time, you are a good man but not a saint; this was hardly meant as absolution for my sins. When not on a field trip, you tend to be uncannily straight forward. If you had meant to say "I hope dying will take you eons, and you will burn in hell afterwards," you would have said so. If you had meant "your death frees me of my hate towards you, and I forgive you", you would have said that, too. And thus I am left with the conclusion that I still do not know what you were praying for.
As I do not intend to post this letter, my curiosity will remain unsatisfied. I did not die then; and only a few months later, you were working for me again, together with the rest of our old team. You must have wondered why I requested you, Marcus, and probably concluded that it was a tactical move, designed to reassure Director Chase of my sincerity. That was certainly one reason, but there was another. You see, my life was better than than it had been ever since Emily died. Jack and Sydney were with me again; I had found Nadia, and she had agreed to be with me as we; the CIA, instead of hunting me down, had chosen to give me my own secret organization.
If ever there was an occasion for relaxed satisfaction, or, as Jack would have put it, smugness, it was then. And you know what smugness does, especially to a man of my past. It gets one killed.
That was the other, more important reason for me to ask for you. Sydney and Jack might have distrusted and hated me in varying degrees, but they had also loved me once, and they knew as well as I that we were family. But not you. Your hate had always been free of anything else. With you working next to me, I would never get sloppy. I could never afford to. And so I would survive.
"You want us to believe you have changed," you told me during that year, "for love of your daughter. That she has brought out the better angels of your nature. But the truth is, Arvin, that you don't have any."
It is always good to know that one was correct in the assessment of an agent, Marcus.
You probably thought of your dead wife every morning you entered my office. I know I thought of Emily every time I sent you on a mission; confident that you would return.
Farewell, Marcus Dixon. I doubt we'll ever meet again. I will, however, pray for you.
Arvin Sloane
Library Conversations (rp for cyke_out)
Jun. 20th, 2007 06:13 pmThe library was quickly becoming a favorite place, which disconcerted Arvin Sloane to some degree. He hated being predictable. Still. It reminded him of Zurich, not of Los Angeles, which he found preferable, and yet had an atmosphere of its own. The mysterious Charles Xavier, who had come and gone before Sloane moved into the mansion, must have created it, and it was entertaining and challenging to identify hidden doors, books that didn't belong, which one one but an avid reader would notice, and sometimes just to enjoy the quiet.
Sloane had forgotten how teenagers could be. He had missed both Sydney's and Nadia's teenage years, and there had been no reason to involve himself with others. Sometimes he thought teaching them was being locked up with ten to fifteen versions of Marshall Flinkman and Julian Sark; they were either over eager, or sullen and unsubtly sarkastic. Irina, he remembered, had taught when playing Laura Bristow, and she had raised Sark. Clearly, she was even stronger than Sloane had always thought her to be.
So here he was, retreating in the library, looking forward to working on his idea for infiltrating and invading first the Sentinel outside and then SHIELD which was supposed to be a surprise gift for his, well, hosts, when realizing this time, he wasn't alone. There was already someone in the library. Scott Summers. Looking somewhat harrassed himself.
Sloane had forgotten how teenagers could be. He had missed both Sydney's and Nadia's teenage years, and there had been no reason to involve himself with others. Sometimes he thought teaching them was being locked up with ten to fifteen versions of Marshall Flinkman and Julian Sark; they were either over eager, or sullen and unsubtly sarkastic. Irina, he remembered, had taught when playing Laura Bristow, and she had raised Sark. Clearly, she was even stronger than Sloane had always thought her to be.
So here he was, retreating in the library, looking forward to working on his idea for infiltrating and invading first the Sentinel outside and then SHIELD which was supposed to be a surprise gift for his, well, hosts, when realizing this time, he wasn't alone. There was already someone in the library. Scott Summers. Looking somewhat harrassed himself.
FM June prompt: Art
Jun. 8th, 2007 05:01 pmIt's just one of the questions they ask to get to know each other, father and daughter, complete strangers, in those days of travel that lead them first to China, then Siena.
"What's your favourite art?" Nadia asks. "Music? Painting? Sculpture? Dancing?"
Arvin looks at her, and wonders what she would want to hear. He's keenly aware that whoever she imagined her father to be during those years in Argentina, whatever she imagined him to be like, there was almost certainly no trait he would share with this fictional portrait. Of course, he could pretend to. That was, after all, their profession. His and hers both. If he could deduce what image she had in mind, he could create a persona to fit it, just for her. It wouldn't be the first time.
"Performance," he replies, and the rueful smile she gives him tells him she understands the joke. Perhaps they can continue like this; shared truths in the guise of jests.
Being someone else to get what they want: it's not the only thing they are both trained in. But he is very careful to think of the other art. It's the past; what done is done. He won't allow it to touch her again.
But it is true, nonetheless, that he always excelled at the art of killing.
"What's your favourite art?" Nadia asks. "Music? Painting? Sculpture? Dancing?"
Arvin looks at her, and wonders what she would want to hear. He's keenly aware that whoever she imagined her father to be during those years in Argentina, whatever she imagined him to be like, there was almost certainly no trait he would share with this fictional portrait. Of course, he could pretend to. That was, after all, their profession. His and hers both. If he could deduce what image she had in mind, he could create a persona to fit it, just for her. It wouldn't be the first time.
"Performance," he replies, and the rueful smile she gives him tells him she understands the joke. Perhaps they can continue like this; shared truths in the guise of jests.
Being someone else to get what they want: it's not the only thing they are both trained in. But he is very careful to think of the other art. It's the past; what done is done. He won't allow it to touch her again.
But it is true, nonetheless, that he always excelled at the art of killing.
Becoming a teacher
May. 19th, 2007 10:34 pm*locked*
The first thing I saw when I arrived was the Sentinel. I don't think giant robots programmed to kill were mentioned during my delightful conversation with the two headmasters of this school, but of course I did my research before applying in the first place. Indeed, it made me rather confident about my prospects. Nothing encourages people to hire an expert in strategy as much as physical evidence that the world is even more out to get them than it used to be.
The downside of this is that there will be a visual record for the goverment of my arrival here. Ah, well. As far as I know, I have been officially declared dead, which means no one is looking for me, and given the fact one doppelganger was walking around rather recently already, people within the business will be more inclined to assume more are making the rounds. (I wonder what became of Ned Bulger?)
The mansion itself is, as advertised, a pleasant and obviously rebuild example of New England taste. It is odd to find myself here, after so many years in Los Angeles. I was born in New York City, but I haven't lived in New York state for decades. I never expected to do so again.
What luggage I had with me were some newly aquired clothes, some books, and financial means; the CIA never managed to track down all my accounts. There is nothing else. Whatever became of those Rambaldi relics I did not hand over to APO, I do not know; I didn't have them with me when I woke up in Paris. I didn't have anything with me save my wedding ring, and Emily's, which I have been wearing since she died. There used to be photo albums, belonging to Emily, but Sydney received those even before Emily died, and I - there are no photos of Nadia. Oh, there were plenty in the APO files, of course, but I never had photos of the type a father should possess, and I did not realize until just recently.
This is about a new beginning. There is no way to go back, and pretending I could through snapshots of the past is pointless.
So, the future. As embodied by mutants, which is one of several reasons why I put some effort into convincing the intriguing couple who leads this little institution to let me come here. I need an ongoing mystery to explore and an ongoing critical situation to set my skills against, and mutants provide both. Given that I must have somehow managed to reach the Horizon and fulfill the first step of Rambaldi's endgame by becoming immortal, even if I no longer remember how, we do have something in common anyway.
I stepped out of the taxi that brought me there, paid the driver, ignored the sentinel and entered the perimeters of the Xavier mansion. The park certainly could use better supervision, but then, I am spoiled in this regard.
On my way to the main buildling, I passed several young individuals, sometimes of not obvious gender, and all quite different from each other. Fascinating. Each a species of one, you could say. But then, in a way, we all are. Of course, it was impossible to observe a young girl in some sort of energy field and not wonder how she would do when placed in a combat situation, or whether that shield of hers could be changed to bend light and render her invisible.
I find myself missing Marshal, which is something I certainly never expected.
As far as the staff was concerned, I was looking forward to meeting Dr. McCoy, of whom I had, course, heard, years ago. When I first started to wonder about the application of Rambaldi's formula to change the human disposition towards agression, to be precise. It's something that won't come up in conversation; considering the results, and what they meant for - well. It will not come up.
There is also someone named Logan who is listed as a freelance teacher, and K. Pryde, the young lady who had been charged to investigate me beforehand through electronic means, which presumably makes her the equivalent of Marshal. We will see.
In a way, one could say I am rather old to start anew; but considering I might have the rest of eternity ahead of me, I am only at the beginning of my path. It is not something I ever thought I would say again.
The first thing I saw when I arrived was the Sentinel. I don't think giant robots programmed to kill were mentioned during my delightful conversation with the two headmasters of this school, but of course I did my research before applying in the first place. Indeed, it made me rather confident about my prospects. Nothing encourages people to hire an expert in strategy as much as physical evidence that the world is even more out to get them than it used to be.
The downside of this is that there will be a visual record for the goverment of my arrival here. Ah, well. As far as I know, I have been officially declared dead, which means no one is looking for me, and given the fact one doppelganger was walking around rather recently already, people within the business will be more inclined to assume more are making the rounds. (I wonder what became of Ned Bulger?)
The mansion itself is, as advertised, a pleasant and obviously rebuild example of New England taste. It is odd to find myself here, after so many years in Los Angeles. I was born in New York City, but I haven't lived in New York state for decades. I never expected to do so again.
What luggage I had with me were some newly aquired clothes, some books, and financial means; the CIA never managed to track down all my accounts. There is nothing else. Whatever became of those Rambaldi relics I did not hand over to APO, I do not know; I didn't have them with me when I woke up in Paris. I didn't have anything with me save my wedding ring, and Emily's, which I have been wearing since she died. There used to be photo albums, belonging to Emily, but Sydney received those even before Emily died, and I - there are no photos of Nadia. Oh, there were plenty in the APO files, of course, but I never had photos of the type a father should possess, and I did not realize until just recently.
This is about a new beginning. There is no way to go back, and pretending I could through snapshots of the past is pointless.
So, the future. As embodied by mutants, which is one of several reasons why I put some effort into convincing the intriguing couple who leads this little institution to let me come here. I need an ongoing mystery to explore and an ongoing critical situation to set my skills against, and mutants provide both. Given that I must have somehow managed to reach the Horizon and fulfill the first step of Rambaldi's endgame by becoming immortal, even if I no longer remember how, we do have something in common anyway.
I stepped out of the taxi that brought me there, paid the driver, ignored the sentinel and entered the perimeters of the Xavier mansion. The park certainly could use better supervision, but then, I am spoiled in this regard.
On my way to the main buildling, I passed several young individuals, sometimes of not obvious gender, and all quite different from each other. Fascinating. Each a species of one, you could say. But then, in a way, we all are. Of course, it was impossible to observe a young girl in some sort of energy field and not wonder how she would do when placed in a combat situation, or whether that shield of hers could be changed to bend light and render her invisible.
I find myself missing Marshal, which is something I certainly never expected.
As far as the staff was concerned, I was looking forward to meeting Dr. McCoy, of whom I had, course, heard, years ago. When I first started to wonder about the application of Rambaldi's formula to change the human disposition towards agression, to be precise. It's something that won't come up in conversation; considering the results, and what they meant for - well. It will not come up.
There is also someone named Logan who is listed as a freelance teacher, and K. Pryde, the young lady who had been charged to investigate me beforehand through electronic means, which presumably makes her the equivalent of Marshal. We will see.
In a way, one could say I am rather old to start anew; but considering I might have the rest of eternity ahead of me, I am only at the beginning of my path. It is not something I ever thought I would say again.
It was an odd thing to reflect on: the last time he had applied for any kind of position had been decades ago. Not counting all the counterfeits, of course, but all serious positions had been offered to him since then, and of course his profession had, in essence, remained the same.
(In the field, he had posed as a teacher, in Columbia. It had been an interesting and rewarding assignment, though for reasons that had nothing to do with teaching and everything with the first Rambaldi manuscript he aquired on the occasion.)
Maybe this was an assignment, too. He still had that hole in his memory, though so far he had known better than to go against his own instructions. Remember Julia. He did. He did far too well not to listen. But based on what he knew, he had no other reasons to apply for a teaching position at Xavier's than intellectual curiosity and the need of a challenge. Sloane could not abide stagnation. Besides, if the past in whichever form did catch up with him, it could be more than useful to be among people who had various interesting and lethal superpowers at their disposal. Granted, he'd have to win their loyalty first, but then again, that, too, was part of the challenge.
Finding an acceptable restaurant in the Westchester County wasn't difficult. His own inclination was to look for an Italian one, so he went for French in order not to be predictable. It reminded him of Zurich, and Judy. Well. One could hope that this particular dinner would have simarly rewarding results. At the very least, he would meet two of the more intriguing people he had corresponded with; one of them with clear mentor issues, and the other well versed in sarcasm and the guilt of survival.
Weren't all new beginnings filled with nostalgia?
(In the field, he had posed as a teacher, in Columbia. It had been an interesting and rewarding assignment, though for reasons that had nothing to do with teaching and everything with the first Rambaldi manuscript he aquired on the occasion.)
Maybe this was an assignment, too. He still had that hole in his memory, though so far he had known better than to go against his own instructions. Remember Julia. He did. He did far too well not to listen. But based on what he knew, he had no other reasons to apply for a teaching position at Xavier's than intellectual curiosity and the need of a challenge. Sloane could not abide stagnation. Besides, if the past in whichever form did catch up with him, it could be more than useful to be among people who had various interesting and lethal superpowers at their disposal. Granted, he'd have to win their loyalty first, but then again, that, too, was part of the challenge.
Finding an acceptable restaurant in the Westchester County wasn't difficult. His own inclination was to look for an Italian one, so he went for French in order not to be predictable. It reminded him of Zurich, and Judy. Well. One could hope that this particular dinner would have simarly rewarding results. At the very least, he would meet two of the more intriguing people he had corresponded with; one of them with clear mentor issues, and the other well versed in sarcasm and the guilt of survival.
Weren't all new beginnings filled with nostalgia?
May Topic: Fairy Tale
Apr. 29th, 2007 07:16 pmWhich fairy tale does your life resemble most?
It would say something less than flattering if I did not know the difference between a fairy tale and a myth; and yet sometimes, they intermingle. Take the whole enormous complex of Arthurian lore. There is one particular story, interwoven with the main tapesty, which I confess myself to be fascinated by, and perhaps it can answer the question. No, not the triangle of the king, his best friend and the woman fatal, and fatally attractive to them both. And certainly not anything involving dragons, or stones that yield their answers only to the chosen ones. No, the story that carries the greatest resonance with me is that of Merlin and Nimue.
Before the forces of Hollywood got their hands on him, Merlin had a less than savoury reputation. He was a teacher and a mentor, yes, but his lessons were full of deceptions, as was Merlin himself, and they definitely included treachery; just ask the Duke of Cornwall, who lost his wife and life so that Merlin's aims could be achieved.
In all version of the tale, however, Merlin certainly did not lack competence. And so it is less than surprising that his advice was sought, again and again, despite his deeds, or maybe because of them. As every good story must include irony, it seems extremely fitting he should finally be defeated by a student of his, the young and lovely Nimue.
Nimue, being a woman, did not challenge Merlin, as men had done and lost their lives because of it. No, she first learned what she could of him. Now one might ask whether Merlin did not not notice, at some point at least, that she learned to conquer. I prefer to think that he did; in fact, she would not have been of interest if he had not sensed in her the power to destroy him. One might argue with this interpretation and claim that Merlin was blinded by a mixture of sentimentality and eros, but that would take all the power of this particular story and change it into a dull tale of approaching senility, wouldn't it?
As for Nimue, she took her time, which rather supports my interpretation. She did not hurry, and she passed over many an obvious opportunity to defeat her mentor and foe. I rather think that at some level, she must have enjoyed the game. But all games have to end at some point, and besides, Nimue had her entire life ahead of her. And so she put all her skills to the test, all that power that had become refined and focused through the time she had spent with Merlin, and she asked him to teach her the one spell that would render him powerless.
Merlin might have felt something as banal as age at this point. Or he might have wished to test her as she tested him. Or he might have seen his successor, who could not succeed him if he remained with her. In any case, eventually, he taught her his last enchantment.
The story ends with Merlin sleeping in a cave under the earth. Sleeping forever, for Merlin, you see, is immortal. What became of Nimue is, like everything else, open to interpretation, but I think we can remain confident that she lived out her life in her own, matchless way.
I do not think they will meet again. And there you have the difference between a fairy tale and a myth.
Sometimes, though, one's life resembles both.
It would say something less than flattering if I did not know the difference between a fairy tale and a myth; and yet sometimes, they intermingle. Take the whole enormous complex of Arthurian lore. There is one particular story, interwoven with the main tapesty, which I confess myself to be fascinated by, and perhaps it can answer the question. No, not the triangle of the king, his best friend and the woman fatal, and fatally attractive to them both. And certainly not anything involving dragons, or stones that yield their answers only to the chosen ones. No, the story that carries the greatest resonance with me is that of Merlin and Nimue.
Before the forces of Hollywood got their hands on him, Merlin had a less than savoury reputation. He was a teacher and a mentor, yes, but his lessons were full of deceptions, as was Merlin himself, and they definitely included treachery; just ask the Duke of Cornwall, who lost his wife and life so that Merlin's aims could be achieved.
In all version of the tale, however, Merlin certainly did not lack competence. And so it is less than surprising that his advice was sought, again and again, despite his deeds, or maybe because of them. As every good story must include irony, it seems extremely fitting he should finally be defeated by a student of his, the young and lovely Nimue.
Nimue, being a woman, did not challenge Merlin, as men had done and lost their lives because of it. No, she first learned what she could of him. Now one might ask whether Merlin did not not notice, at some point at least, that she learned to conquer. I prefer to think that he did; in fact, she would not have been of interest if he had not sensed in her the power to destroy him. One might argue with this interpretation and claim that Merlin was blinded by a mixture of sentimentality and eros, but that would take all the power of this particular story and change it into a dull tale of approaching senility, wouldn't it?
As for Nimue, she took her time, which rather supports my interpretation. She did not hurry, and she passed over many an obvious opportunity to defeat her mentor and foe. I rather think that at some level, she must have enjoyed the game. But all games have to end at some point, and besides, Nimue had her entire life ahead of her. And so she put all her skills to the test, all that power that had become refined and focused through the time she had spent with Merlin, and she asked him to teach her the one spell that would render him powerless.
Merlin might have felt something as banal as age at this point. Or he might have wished to test her as she tested him. Or he might have seen his successor, who could not succeed him if he remained with her. In any case, eventually, he taught her his last enchantment.
The story ends with Merlin sleeping in a cave under the earth. Sleeping forever, for Merlin, you see, is immortal. What became of Nimue is, like everything else, open to interpretation, but I think we can remain confident that she lived out her life in her own, matchless way.
I do not think they will meet again. And there you have the difference between a fairy tale and a myth.
Sometimes, though, one's life resembles both.
April Topic: Help
Mar. 31st, 2007 06:42 pm*locked*
Someone must have helped me.
Which is more disquieting than it is reassuring, considering the results. I cannot remember most of the last one and a half years; the precise flow of my memories ends in Russia, after I shot my daughter Nadia. There are only fragments after this; fragments, and a letter. In my own writing, and using the Rambaldi codes only a very few save myself have been able to decypher.
Remember Julia. Do not look.
A few years ago, a great many people, including myself, were under the impression Sydney Bristow had died. As it turned out, she did not; after her resurrection, as it were, she had a gap of two years in her memories, and tried to find out what had happened in this time. In the end, as I recall, she discovered she had erased her own memories. The name she had chosen during the time she wished to forget had been Julia. This makes me inclined to believe that either I did write this letter to myself, or Irina must have done. No one else would have the necessary knowledge, not of Rambaldi, and not of me.
But if I did this, I cannot have done so on my own. There are several techniques I can think of to achieve this kind of selective amnesia, and all of them carry the risk of reducing the subject to a gibbering wreck. I have seen a man in this condition, a man who was something of a mirror to myself, and it defies belief to imagine I would trust anyone to do this to me. It also is hard to comprehend what could make me wish to forget so much that I would risk this.
After all, I remember Nadia.
I remember her eyes, dull with the red poison infecting her, I remember her struggle with Sydney, something Nadia in her right mind would have abhorred, I remember realizing she would not be in this condition if not for the search that I started. I remember realizing I had to kill her. My daughter. My Nadia. What memory could possibly be worse than this?
You achieved the Horizon.
Still my own handwriting, and yet I would suspect Irina of forging it for the above named reasons, perhaps as part of a game to both avenge the daughter we knew for all too little a time and, always an aim of Irina's, to win... except for something rather obvious. There is a way to test that claim, and I did.
It is not every day a man discovers he is immortal.
Immortality, you understand, is not Rambaldi's final promise, though that is what the dilettantes believe. It is, however, a crucial step. And yet in the memories I still possess, those predating what happened in Russia, I distinctly recall abandoning my quest. It was not easy, and it was, in a way, a betrayal of faith, but it was Nadia's condition for returning and....
I must have taken up the quest again after Nadia died, obviously. And yet. And yet. To obtain the Horizon, you have to die. Not by your own hand, and not naturally; by violent means. It is the ultimate test of belief, of couse, but it, too, is an indication that I must have had help. Now I have always been rather particular about my demise. I always thought that either Jack or Sydney would kill me; anything else would be a rude usurpation by someone not even remotely qualified. I was sure they would see it the same way; I still am.
This would indicate they believe I am dead, of course. And yet I did not find myself buried. One of the fragments of the past after shooting Nadia is does contain the sense of being underground, true, but not in a grave. I remember breathing considerable amounts of air, though I could not move my legs for some reason. I also remember talking to someone, but not to whom. Nothing before or after; just darkness, and talking to someone who was there with me.
Then Paris - why Paris? I like the city, but it was never one of mine in the way Florence was, or Zurich -; a rather mediocre hotelroom in Paris, and the letter. I must have gotten there after whatever procedure was undertaken to remove my memories; must have written the letter before that; someone must have left me behind. Together with a better than avarage letter opener, definitely sharp enough to investigate the Horizon claim, as that someone must have known I would.
I asked the concierge; he remembers me arriving alone, though he says I had a visitor. He can't recall anything about this person, not even whether it was a man or a woman. The night watchman who was on service when the visitor arrived has disappeared. Either I was very thorough in advance, or someone else was.
Never go back.
Back to where? Los Angeles? Russia? That place under ground, wherever it was? Go back to Rambaldi or go back to - but then, if there were Jack or Sydney to go back to, I would not have achieved the Horizon. I cannot believe I would have triggered the necessary circumstances leading to either of them killing me unless something had happened to separate me from them for good.
Well. I have all the time of the world now, it seems; and in the beginning at least, it might be useful to play along. With myself, and whoever else put me on this new path. Aquiescence can be as good a method to unsettle your opponent as any.
I should know. I had help.
Someone must have helped me.
Which is more disquieting than it is reassuring, considering the results. I cannot remember most of the last one and a half years; the precise flow of my memories ends in Russia, after I shot my daughter Nadia. There are only fragments after this; fragments, and a letter. In my own writing, and using the Rambaldi codes only a very few save myself have been able to decypher.
Remember Julia. Do not look.
A few years ago, a great many people, including myself, were under the impression Sydney Bristow had died. As it turned out, she did not; after her resurrection, as it were, she had a gap of two years in her memories, and tried to find out what had happened in this time. In the end, as I recall, she discovered she had erased her own memories. The name she had chosen during the time she wished to forget had been Julia. This makes me inclined to believe that either I did write this letter to myself, or Irina must have done. No one else would have the necessary knowledge, not of Rambaldi, and not of me.
But if I did this, I cannot have done so on my own. There are several techniques I can think of to achieve this kind of selective amnesia, and all of them carry the risk of reducing the subject to a gibbering wreck. I have seen a man in this condition, a man who was something of a mirror to myself, and it defies belief to imagine I would trust anyone to do this to me. It also is hard to comprehend what could make me wish to forget so much that I would risk this.
After all, I remember Nadia.
I remember her eyes, dull with the red poison infecting her, I remember her struggle with Sydney, something Nadia in her right mind would have abhorred, I remember realizing she would not be in this condition if not for the search that I started. I remember realizing I had to kill her. My daughter. My Nadia. What memory could possibly be worse than this?
You achieved the Horizon.
Still my own handwriting, and yet I would suspect Irina of forging it for the above named reasons, perhaps as part of a game to both avenge the daughter we knew for all too little a time and, always an aim of Irina's, to win... except for something rather obvious. There is a way to test that claim, and I did.
It is not every day a man discovers he is immortal.
Immortality, you understand, is not Rambaldi's final promise, though that is what the dilettantes believe. It is, however, a crucial step. And yet in the memories I still possess, those predating what happened in Russia, I distinctly recall abandoning my quest. It was not easy, and it was, in a way, a betrayal of faith, but it was Nadia's condition for returning and....
I must have taken up the quest again after Nadia died, obviously. And yet. And yet. To obtain the Horizon, you have to die. Not by your own hand, and not naturally; by violent means. It is the ultimate test of belief, of couse, but it, too, is an indication that I must have had help. Now I have always been rather particular about my demise. I always thought that either Jack or Sydney would kill me; anything else would be a rude usurpation by someone not even remotely qualified. I was sure they would see it the same way; I still am.
This would indicate they believe I am dead, of course. And yet I did not find myself buried. One of the fragments of the past after shooting Nadia is does contain the sense of being underground, true, but not in a grave. I remember breathing considerable amounts of air, though I could not move my legs for some reason. I also remember talking to someone, but not to whom. Nothing before or after; just darkness, and talking to someone who was there with me.
Then Paris - why Paris? I like the city, but it was never one of mine in the way Florence was, or Zurich -; a rather mediocre hotelroom in Paris, and the letter. I must have gotten there after whatever procedure was undertaken to remove my memories; must have written the letter before that; someone must have left me behind. Together with a better than avarage letter opener, definitely sharp enough to investigate the Horizon claim, as that someone must have known I would.
I asked the concierge; he remembers me arriving alone, though he says I had a visitor. He can't recall anything about this person, not even whether it was a man or a woman. The night watchman who was on service when the visitor arrived has disappeared. Either I was very thorough in advance, or someone else was.
Never go back.
Back to where? Los Angeles? Russia? That place under ground, wherever it was? Go back to Rambaldi or go back to - but then, if there were Jack or Sydney to go back to, I would not have achieved the Horizon. I cannot believe I would have triggered the necessary circumstances leading to either of them killing me unless something had happened to separate me from them for good.
Well. I have all the time of the world now, it seems; and in the beginning at least, it might be useful to play along. With myself, and whoever else put me on this new path. Aquiescence can be as good a method to unsettle your opponent as any.
I should know. I had help.
March Topic: Champagne
Mar. 18th, 2007 04:38 pmIn victory, you deserve champagne; in defeat, you need it. - Napoleon Bonaparte.
When Sydney went up against Anna Espinosa for the first time, she failed. It wasn’t completely unexpected; Sydney had been field rated for a year by then, and had shown herself truly gifted, but Anna Espinosa was one of the best, both in terms of experience and ruthlessness, and it said something about Sydney that she had survived at all. Sloane didn’t comment on this during the debriefing; he listened, impassively, and sent her away without condemnation or praise.
Later, he told her he needed her to escort him to a meeting with one of the clients Credit Dauphine did actual business with in order to maintain credibility. When the less than interesting negotiations about investments were concluded, Sloane took Sydney to a bar and ordered champagne.
“I don’t understand, Sir,” she said.
“In victory, you deserve champagne,” Sloane replied, quoting Napoleon. “In defeat, you need it.”
“I botched it,” she burst out. She had her father’s chin and her mother’s dark, compelling eyes, but that youthful mixture of wounded pride, vulnerability and self-directed ruthlessness was all her own.
“I am aware of that, Agent Bristow,” Sloane said, not refuting her analysis. “Do you intend to leave it at that?”
Her eyes narrowed. “No, Sir,” she said slowly. “I’d like to request permission to go after Espinosa again.”
The champagne arrived: Veuve Cliquot, his favourite. Sloane had always thought Dom Perignon to be overrated. He signalled the waiter to leave, poured in both their glasses expertly, and handed one to Sydney.
“Permission granted.”
He raised his glass to her. Her expressive face showed surprise, determination and curiosity in short order. She opened her mouth as if to ask whether they’d be toasting to her past defeat or the future victory she had just promised him, but then she closed it again, and raised her own glass, all those emotions draining away until she showed the blank, perfect mask of an agent on assignment.
“Anna Espinosa,” she said instead, and Sloane concluded, with none too surprised satisfaction, that she had evidently understood that past defeat and future victory were one and the same.
When Sydney went up against Anna Espinosa for the first time, she failed. It wasn’t completely unexpected; Sydney had been field rated for a year by then, and had shown herself truly gifted, but Anna Espinosa was one of the best, both in terms of experience and ruthlessness, and it said something about Sydney that she had survived at all. Sloane didn’t comment on this during the debriefing; he listened, impassively, and sent her away without condemnation or praise.
Later, he told her he needed her to escort him to a meeting with one of the clients Credit Dauphine did actual business with in order to maintain credibility. When the less than interesting negotiations about investments were concluded, Sloane took Sydney to a bar and ordered champagne.
“I don’t understand, Sir,” she said.
“In victory, you deserve champagne,” Sloane replied, quoting Napoleon. “In defeat, you need it.”
“I botched it,” she burst out. She had her father’s chin and her mother’s dark, compelling eyes, but that youthful mixture of wounded pride, vulnerability and self-directed ruthlessness was all her own.
“I am aware of that, Agent Bristow,” Sloane said, not refuting her analysis. “Do you intend to leave it at that?”
Her eyes narrowed. “No, Sir,” she said slowly. “I’d like to request permission to go after Espinosa again.”
The champagne arrived: Veuve Cliquot, his favourite. Sloane had always thought Dom Perignon to be overrated. He signalled the waiter to leave, poured in both their glasses expertly, and handed one to Sydney.
“Permission granted.”
He raised his glass to her. Her expressive face showed surprise, determination and curiosity in short order. She opened her mouth as if to ask whether they’d be toasting to her past defeat or the future victory she had just promised him, but then she closed it again, and raised her own glass, all those emotions draining away until she showed the blank, perfect mask of an agent on assignment.
“Anna Espinosa,” she said instead, and Sloane concluded, with none too surprised satisfaction, that she had evidently understood that past defeat and future victory were one and the same.
Shall we say I believe it an ever after and leave it at that?
Apparantly not.
Well. A wise man once said that the problem of every single story was this: continue them long enough, and they inevitably end in death. It does not matter whether the death in question is a violent one, or a heart attack during sleep, a long, painful torment caused by an illness or indeed the death of a child which never draws more than a few breaths; the event occurs. Granted, it may occur at a point where one feels weary of life, or at least at peace of the series of accomplishments and failures that formed said life. It might even contribute to prolonging someone else's story. Which would make it the least of various possible evils. But it most certainly does not qualify as "a happily ever after".
Interestingly enough, there is no reverse for this. A lack of death does not mean happiness. But then, only someone naive would expect happiness from immortality. What the lack of death does make possible, however, is the chance for change, productivity, new angles, and, in tandem with all of this, what new insights there are to gain. They might come with misery, but then, the Greeks meant to curse a man when they told him to know himself. In any event, all of this means - continuity. Not happiness. But an ever after.
Whether or not I believe in it is no longer an issue. After all, it is an inherent criterium of faith to believe in something that remains unproven.
Apparantly not.
Well. A wise man once said that the problem of every single story was this: continue them long enough, and they inevitably end in death. It does not matter whether the death in question is a violent one, or a heart attack during sleep, a long, painful torment caused by an illness or indeed the death of a child which never draws more than a few breaths; the event occurs. Granted, it may occur at a point where one feels weary of life, or at least at peace of the series of accomplishments and failures that formed said life. It might even contribute to prolonging someone else's story. Which would make it the least of various possible evils. But it most certainly does not qualify as "a happily ever after".
Interestingly enough, there is no reverse for this. A lack of death does not mean happiness. But then, only someone naive would expect happiness from immortality. What the lack of death does make possible, however, is the chance for change, productivity, new angles, and, in tandem with all of this, what new insights there are to gain. They might come with misery, but then, the Greeks meant to curse a man when they told him to know himself. In any event, all of this means - continuity. Not happiness. But an ever after.
Whether or not I believe in it is no longer an issue. After all, it is an inherent criterium of faith to believe in something that remains unproven.
Topic 58: Another self
Jan. 29th, 2007 10:41 amIf you could be someone else, dead or alive, for a day. Who would it be? Why?
It was one of Judy Barnett's questions that were part of her attempt to provide psychoanalysis and intimacy at the same time, and naturally, I deflected it. Judy professed to disbelief.
"Not even Jack Bristow?" she asked. There was that element of challenge and annoying bit of truth in her voice which was the reason why my relationship with her was never just for one reason.
"Why, Dr. Barnett," I said. "What an interesting suggestion. I can see why you would assume this to be the case, of course..."
"Given the paternal role you insisted on playing for Sydney and what you told me about yourself and his wife, one could hardly avoid the conclusion," she said, daring me to refute it. Who was I to disappoint her?
"There is one obvious problem with actually being Jack, unfortunately," I said, leaning back and regarding her in her assurance she had found her key. It occured to me that being Judy for a day would be interesting for the fact that both Sydney and Jack trusted her enough to confide in her alone, but unfortunately, I was reasonably sure she had to listen to the dreary woes of Agent Vaughn as well, which was a definite deterrent.
"Even for a day?"
"Even for a day. If I actually were Jack, as opposed to... occasionally stepping in for him... I would not know him, would I? He would not exist."
To my surprise, she suddenly looked satisfied.
"And you could not live with that," she said. "Even for a day. Why, Arvin. What an interesting suggestion."
One should never underestimate benevolent psychiatrists.
It was one of Judy Barnett's questions that were part of her attempt to provide psychoanalysis and intimacy at the same time, and naturally, I deflected it. Judy professed to disbelief.
"Not even Jack Bristow?" she asked. There was that element of challenge and annoying bit of truth in her voice which was the reason why my relationship with her was never just for one reason.
"Why, Dr. Barnett," I said. "What an interesting suggestion. I can see why you would assume this to be the case, of course..."
"Given the paternal role you insisted on playing for Sydney and what you told me about yourself and his wife, one could hardly avoid the conclusion," she said, daring me to refute it. Who was I to disappoint her?
"There is one obvious problem with actually being Jack, unfortunately," I said, leaning back and regarding her in her assurance she had found her key. It occured to me that being Judy for a day would be interesting for the fact that both Sydney and Jack trusted her enough to confide in her alone, but unfortunately, I was reasonably sure she had to listen to the dreary woes of Agent Vaughn as well, which was a definite deterrent.
"Even for a day?"
"Even for a day. If I actually were Jack, as opposed to... occasionally stepping in for him... I would not know him, would I? He would not exist."
To my surprise, she suddenly looked satisfied.
"And you could not live with that," she said. "Even for a day. Why, Arvin. What an interesting suggestion."
One should never underestimate benevolent psychiatrists.
Topic 55: Time Machine
Jan. 10th, 2007 02:58 pmYou have a time machine but you are not allowed to change your past, so what time period do you go to and why?
If anyone ever decodes this journal, it will probably surprise him - or her, but as the most likely candidate is Marshall Flinkman, I shall go with the masculine term, shall I? - that the answer to this question lies not in a trip to the Renaissance and Milo Rambaldi. There is a rather obvious reason: any encounter with Rambaldi, no matter how it would turn out, would irrevocably alter my past, something which is precluded in the condition of this little mind game.
No, if there was a time machine at my disposal - and there might be some day; he has invented so many other things not deemed possible by the rest of the world, so why not this? - I would not visit any of the various periods of history that have always intrigued me, either. I would venture into the future. It is the possibility to escape the limits of one's life, the last mystery, the very thing we aim to shape and form by our every day actions, in large or small measure; it was the last justification which remains for our deeds.
It is the unknown. And in the end, the unknown, the mystery, has been the one thing which remains.
If anyone ever decodes this journal, it will probably surprise him - or her, but as the most likely candidate is Marshall Flinkman, I shall go with the masculine term, shall I? - that the answer to this question lies not in a trip to the Renaissance and Milo Rambaldi. There is a rather obvious reason: any encounter with Rambaldi, no matter how it would turn out, would irrevocably alter my past, something which is precluded in the condition of this little mind game.
No, if there was a time machine at my disposal - and there might be some day; he has invented so many other things not deemed possible by the rest of the world, so why not this? - I would not visit any of the various periods of history that have always intrigued me, either. I would venture into the future. It is the possibility to escape the limits of one's life, the last mystery, the very thing we aim to shape and form by our every day actions, in large or small measure; it was the last justification which remains for our deeds.
It is the unknown. And in the end, the unknown, the mystery, has been the one thing which remains.
