| Subject: Identity Crisis (Part 1) |
Author:
Nestra
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Date Posted: 07:12:35 07/03/02 Wed
In reply to:
Nestra
's message, "It's done. Mostly done. I hope." on 07:08:43 07/03/02 Wed
"I – I'm not sure I understand. You're offering me a – a job?"
"I'm offering you the kind of job every actor dreams of. All your expenses paid -- you'll never have to worry about money or food again. The chance to build characters from the ground up and inhabit those characters twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Don't you want that?"
"Yeah, but…honestly? It sounds too good to be true."
"Well, there are a few conditions…"
************
Whoever they are, they call themselves "Center". He works for Center. He belongs to Center. His old life ceases to exist. He spends the next two years preparing to be Mick Schtoppel.
He discovers that he has a gift for languages. He never knew that, never would have thought about pursuing it, but over the course of his training, he picks up French, Italian, German, Spanish, and even Japanese. Enough Greek to order a meal of souvlakia and ouzo. Enough Russian to keep himself from getting killed.
Other parts of the training are less fulfilling. Lessons in political history and geography, which are constantly being revised as countries and regions shake apart and reshape themselves. Weapons handling. Etiquette lessons for nine different cultures – when to smile, when to stand, when to sit, when to speak, when to accept gifts, when to refuse them.
But he's always got enough to eat, and he doesn't have to worry about making rent or being able to buy new clothes when his old ones wear out. They find him a new apartment in every new city, and whatever he needs, they provide.
He doesn't want it to end.
************
"Are you ready?"
"For what?"
"For an assignment. We're going to put you in contact with a man named Ilya Benko. You'll pose as a small-time crook who specializes in gathering information and passing it along to more powerful men."
"And what -- what am I supposed to do?"
"Just tell Benko anything we give you, and learn to fit in. We'll give it a few months and see if you're successful. If so, we'll proceed to the next stage."
"And if I'm not? … Hello? Are you still there? Hello?"
************
Real guns are heavier than prop guns, obviously, but he's always surprised when he picks one up and feels its weight pulling on his hand. He's never had to actually shoot anyone, and he desperately hopes that he's never forced to. Besides, it wouldn't really be like Mick. Mick talks his way out of things. Mick's a lover, not a fighter.
He's starting to get comfortable in Mick's skin. His mannerisms are becoming second nature. Mick's accent takes over naturally, words tripping over themselves, witty and irreverent.
Mick doesn't stutter. Not even when he sees her for the first time. Tall and blonde, stalking toward him like she means to knock him out of her way and get on with her life. His job is to make contact with Gray Wellman, but this woman isn't going to let him near Wellman. And then he tries threatening her, and she calls down gunfire on his head.
He's never met anyone like her before.
************
He transitions into being full-time Mick. Section captures Benko, of course, and they bring Mick in too, but they're much more interested in what Mick can do for them. He's grateful for that and absolutely willing to cooperate. Just to make sure, they show him what they do to Benko to make him talk. It makes him sick to his stomach, but he hides it as well as he can.
Then they let him go.
The phone rings every couple of days, and the disembodied voice on the other end gives him enough information to keep him in business. He's never sure whether what they pass along true information, but it doesn't really matter. It's all true to Mick. Trust your pal Mick. Would Mick ever steer you wrong?
He sets up permanent residence in Paris. They let him decorate his own apartment, apparently figuring that he'd know Mick's tastes. Money's no limit, and it's a heady feeling. He can simply point to a sofa in a display window or a pair of end tables, and he doesn't have to check the tags. Just waves a platinum credit card at the salespeople.
He strikes up casual acquaintances with his neighbors. When they call him Mick, he answers. He dodges questions whenever he can. Where are you from? What do you do for a living? Got any family? If the questioner persists, he dispenses bits of Mick's backstory. Newcastle. Work in a bank. A sister in London.
Then he retreats back into his empty apartment and closes the door.
************
"We need you to play another role."
"Another one? But I thought -- I thought I was going to be Mick for quite a while."
"You will. We're not getting rid of Mick. We just need a face to go with a name. Ten minutes of work, at the most. Someone will pick you up in four hours. Be ready."
"Wait! What do I do? Who's this new character?"
"We call him Mr. Jones."
************
Section contacts him a few times a month. Nothing serious, usually. Most of the time they just want information that he already has. Once in a while he has to contact Center to find out the answer to Section's question. Very rarely, they drag him along on a mission, when they need him to make direct contact with someone. And frankly, the missions scare the shit out of him, but he likes the unfamiliar sensation of the adrenaline making him shaky and brave.
He sees her – Nikita – again. He sees her in a skimpy outfit that makes his heart race. He sees her face down a woman with a gun.
He sees her with Michael. And he knows what's between them. Even if they don't.
************
"Uh, hello?"
"What is it?"
"Section called. They want to move me out of this
apartment and into one in Nikita's building. Across the hall, I think."
"Did they say why? Do they suspect you at all?"
"I don't think so. They said something about rotating me around so I'm always near a Section operative, but I think they might actually want me to keep an eye on her. Just a feeling I got."
"Do it. Pass along any questions that Section asks about Nikita, especially if they display a particular interest in any aspect of her life."
"Anything else?"
"Be her friend, if you want. We don't really care."
************
Moving in next to Nikita signals a change in his relationship with Section. They use him more often, send him on more missions. He learns a painful lesson early on, though, when he puts a source into a car with a man that Section's supposedly transporting to a safe house. He doesn't see the explosion, but he feels the ground shake, and the difference between that moment and the next is the sudden knowledge that he sent a woman to her death.
He didn't know, but that's no excuse. He should have known. He'd allowed himself to get complacent. Comfortable.
He goes to talk to Nikita that night, completely expecting that she'll turn him away. She gives him tea instead, and they sit on her couch and don't talk about dead people. He gives her a version of his background that's less full of lies than usual, and she talks about her childhood and chuckles at his dumb jokes. She even touches on her recruitment into Section, but he can tell from the haunted look in her eyes that he shouldn't push the subject. And when the conversation trickles and sputters into silence, he thanks her for the tea and the hospitality and heads back to his own apartment.
She laid a comforting hand on his shoulder as he left, and he can still feel the warmth lingering there.
************
Mr. Jones speaks with a cultured, crisp accent. He wears tailored clothes, mostly suits, very unlike Mick's looser, hipper, slightly sleazy style. He chooses his words for maximum effect, and he's accustomed to power. Mr. Jones infuses quiet threats into phrases like "I'm certain you'll be happy to cooperate with us" and "really, we're very disappointed in your failure."
He learns to enjoy his stints as Mr. Jones. It's never for more than a few hours every few months – just enough time to fly somewhere exotic and intimidate a few people. It's almost like a vacation. He plays at being Mr. Jones, and then returns home to Mick.
Center's careful to make sure that no one makes any connection between Mick and Mr. Jones. The chances are pretty remote as it is – the two men move in different circles, and it's unlikely that the men Mr. Jones deals with would ever bother with someone as low on the totem pole as Mick.
He's not sure if a real Mr. Jones exists or not. But real or fake, he's an important man.
************
Deep breath, knock on the door. "You in there, luv?" He waits, knowing that she's staring at his image on the viewscreen, lips probably twisted into an expression that's both annoyed and affectionate.
The door flies open with restrained violence. "What do you want, Mick?" She looks fabulous, as always. Casually rumpled and effortlessly gorgeous. Luckily, as Mick, he's allowed to appreciate that, and he's allowed to manufacture excuses to see her as often as possible. It's right there in his orders. He doesn't know why, but he's not stupid enough to question.
"Got any coffee? I ran out yesterday, and I simply cannot face the world without caffeine." He makes a move to enter her apartment, but she doesn't budge. Doesn't look particularly welcoming either.
"Christ, there's a Starbucks right down the street, and three more within the next two blocks."
"C'mon, luv, you can't spare a few beans for your old pal Mick? Withdrawal is not a pretty sight." He wheedles. He smiles ingratiatingly. He even bats his eyelashes. She's immovable.
"I got in at four o'clock this morning," she says. "I'm going back to bed. Goodbye, Mick."
The door shuts in his face, but he doesn't take it personally. Doesn't matter if he gets the coffee or not. Actually, it's better this way, because now he has an excuse to knock on her door again this evening. He heads back to his apartment to plan the rest of Mick's day.
************
"Jesus!" The exclamation slips out before he can help himself, but that's okay. It's something Mick would do. Mick has never quite gotten used to blood. Corpses are okay most of the time, as long as they're not too messy. He can pretend that corpses are props, but blood is never anything but blood. Sticky and rank and a shocking red as it gushes out of some poor idiot's body.
Section's kills aren't usually so messy, but sometimes things get chaotic. One last shot, and another body hits the ground, and Nikita calls out for him. "Mick? You still alive?"
He stands up, somewhat shakily, and a few stray pieces of glass drop to the floor. "Yeah, no thanks to you lot. What is this, 'shoot first, ask questions later'?"
Michael looks up from the other side of the room, where he's efficiently relieving a dead man of his arsenal. "No. We didn't bother asking questions."
"Oh, funny. Mr. Stone Face decides that now is a good time to grow a sense of humor." Michael gives Nikita a half smile, and she smiles back at him in a way that is reserved only for Michael. Must be one of their good days.
No one ever smiled at him like that.
************
He sees Michael and Nikita together more often than not. Any time he goes on a mission, it's likely to be with the two of them. And he's far more observant than they probably realize. He can tell how things are going between them by judging tiny signals. Body language – does Nikita face away from Michael whenever she can? Does Michael move with his usual grace? Word choice – a quietly muttered 'sir', or complete silence from Michael. He can even tell by how smoothly the mission goes. When Michael and Nikita are in sync, nothing can stop them.
When they're unhappy, he stays out of their way. Misery is contagious.
************
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