| Subject: Identity Crisi (Part 4 / End) |
Author:
Nestra
| [ Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
Date Posted: 07:38:24 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
Nikita looks at him these days with contempt she doesn't bother disguising.
She'd built Mr. Jones up in her mind, pinning three years' worth of hopes on him, and now he's turned out to be nothing more than a paper doll with Mick Schtoppel folded over him like a cheap suit.
She batters him with questions that he can't answer. Why was I recruited? You know I was framed; did you arrange it? Why did you choose me?
He wants to tell her, "I didn't choose anything, Nikita, any more than you did. I can't tell you what you need to know. I wish I could."
He wants her to look at him like she used to.
************
Unexpectedly, Mick is resurrected. Section believes they need him for a mission, and in a move that surprises him, Center approves it. It's only been a few months, but the prospect of being Mick again is like finding a box of old souvenirs and keepsakes. Comforting, slightly bittersweet.
The limousine lurches as they hit a pothole, and he shakes himself back into the present. "Valenti’s promised the Collective twenty anthrax rockets by Friday. Fifteen minutes ago, she was informed that her supplier was detained at the Turkish border."
"That was us," says Nikita.
It's almost time. He sets down the laptop he's been examining and takes off his glasses. "Right about now she’s calling everyone she knows. What she doesn’t realize is that only man who can help her is Mick Schtoppel." Small adjustments, but they mean so much. The hat, placed just so. The way he carries himself in his clothes. The cologne that Mr. Jones would never stoop to wear.
"Demming, how are we doing?"
"We’re clear to our first mark."
Nikita, who's been absorbed in her own thoughts, looks over at him. "What are you doing?"
Showtime.
"What am I doing, luv? Huh. I’ll tell you. I’m becoming Mick. I am becoming Mick." Mick's familiar accents fill the rear of the limousine, warming the space between them. The stunned look on her face isn't exactly what he was hoping for, but he'll take it.
************
He realizes that he's made a terrible misjudgment right around the time Nikita pulls her gun on him. Arguing with a gun has never really gotten him anywhere, so he orders the driver to pull over.
"What do you want?" he asks, meaning please don't shoot me and what's happened to you?
"Some answers."
The next few minutes are a blur. She reaches up front and handcuffs his driver to the steering wheel. She shoves him out of the car. She scans him for tracking devices. She moves with cold purpose. He doesn't know what else to do but bluff his way through the interrogation.
"Why was I brought into Section?
"Because of your particular skills."
"I’m gonna ask the question again. Why was I brought into Section One?"
"I don’t know."
"Who’s my father?"
"I don’t know."
Even with the rest of the night's bizarre events, he's shocked when she slaps him, then grabs his collar and pulls him close.
"I’ve been waiting for seven years for an answer. I’m out of patience! You’re the only person who knows. If you don’t help…"
He's still confused by the fact that she slapped him. "I can’t help. I can’t help you." He repeats it over and over, hoping something will get through to her, to this person who looks like Nikita and acts like a callous stranger.
"That’s not what I want to hear, Mr. Jones."
He looks at her then, and he knows that she's about to seriously hurt him. What else can he say that will stop her? "I… I… I’m not Mr. Jones."
"Try again!" She sounds completely unaware that he's just uttered a phrase synonymous with a death sentence. Instead, she kicks him, the sharp toes of her shoes digging deep into him. Pain erupts everywhere -- in his stomach, his spine, behind his eyes.
"Why was I brought into Section?"
Air has become a precious commodity. He hopes the moisture on his face is tears and not blood. His fingers dig into the dirt by the side of the road, and when Nikita shoots at him, he clenches his fists so hard that he feels dirt and gravel wedge under his fingernails. Then he realizes that he's not dead, and he curls his arms around his head and pleads. "Stop! Stop!"
She ignores him and fires more shots. "Why was I brought into Section? Tell me!"
The bullets kick up gravel into his face, and the stinging, inconsequential pain breaks him. "I don’t know! I’m not who you think I am. I’m not Mr. Jones. I’m an imposter. My…my name is Martin… Henderson." He hasn't said that name, his own name, in four years. Not even to himself.
She kneels next to him, and he's afraid that she's going to snap, put the gun to his head and pull the trigger.
"Please," he begs, not caring how pathetic he sounds. "Just let me up."
"Get up!"
He stands and gropes his way to the back of the limo, so it'll be there if he needs something to lean or collapse against. He can breathe a little better now, but that just means he has more time to think about what's going on. And he wonders if Nikita has deceived him just as much as he's deceived her.
"Who are you?" At least she's still asking questions.
"Look…" Where does he start? What words can he use to explain the past six years of his life?
"What’s going on?"
"I know that this is… hard for you to believe. But… I… I… I’m… I’m an actor, that’s it." Nothing more. Not a spy. No one important. "I’m an actor. Hired to play a part. Many parts."
The sound of approaching cars coasts towards them, and Nikita turns to him with fury on her face.
"Where is it?
Until that moment, he'd forgotten about the last-resort tracker concealed in his tooth. "It’s here. It’s… it’s here." He pulls it out and places it in her grasping fingers. She ejects the clip from her gun, places the tracker on a bullet, and slams the cartridge back in. It sounds like the cars are nearly on top of them.
"They’re here," he protests. "That… that won’t work."
"You better hope it does."
She fires a bullet into the air and pulls him down behind the limo. The trucks rattle by, and do not stop.
He straightens up when she tugs on his jacket. She looks calmer now, and he feels the knot of panic in his chest ease slightly.
"You really aren't Mr. Jones, are you?" Her voice is quiet, no longer shrill.
"No," he replies. "I'm…nobody."
************
They climb back into the limousine. Thankfully, Nikita holsters her gun, and he's not sure if he sees regret in her eyes.
"So," she says. "Tell me."
He looks at her, sitting across from him, and curls his hands around his kneecaps. "It was about nine years ago. I was in a rep company in Wales. Shakespeare, some Shaw. Nothing fancy. No money." Two rooms over a bakery, and the wonderful smells could never disguise the dirt or chase away the cold, but as long as he had work, he didn't care. "I used to survive eating peas and stale… crisps. And…and then one day this bloke comes knocking on my door, and he offers me a steady job." If he closes his eyes, he can still see the man's unremarkable face, promising him the chance to be an actor, not just work as one. "It’s every actor’s dream. How could I know that the world would end up being my stage?"
"Who was in charge?"
He shrugs slightly. "The real Mr. Jones." He's learned that much from his time at Center.
"Did you ever meet the real Mr. Jones?"
"No."
"Tell me more."
She almost sounds like she wants to hear the story, not because of her own agenda, but because she knows he needs to tell it. He decides to pretend, and shifts over to sit next to her. "Two years learning the world and the languages… the people… and the nuances."
"Then you went into Center?"
"First I was Mick Schtoppel. I was Mick Scht…" He falters for a second. "I was… good as Mick Schtoppel. I was very good. It was so very easy for me that they gave me the plum role of Mr. Jones."
"How long ago?"
"Four years."
"And how does Mr. Jones communicate with you?"
"Through Michelle." The answer seems simpler than explaining the anonymous phone calls he used to get. Those had stopped since his…promotion to Mr. Jones.
"Michelle." Nikita frowns slightly, and he's in no way expecting the question that comes next. "Is she related to me?"
"I… couldn’t tell you because I don’t have the… clearance."
She leans forward and knocks on the partition separating them from the driver. "Take us back to Center."
"What are you doing?"
"We’re going back to Center. I have to speak to Michelle."
The car begins to move, and he panics. "No! No, no! Trust me…that would be…that would be…committing suicide."
"Why?" she asks.
Why? Is she stupid, or just insane? "If they know wh…what I told you, they wi…will kill us both. They will. Trust me. We…we get Valenti the anthrax. We go through with the deal, and afterwards we sort this out. Afterwards."
She stares at him, and he stares back, determined to stand up to her. Charging back in Center without Valenti, and with Martin Henderson instead of Mr. Jones will certainly mean his death, if not hers, and goddamnit, he's been kicked and punched and shot at and frightened and humiliated tonight, and he'll be damned if he'll finish that off with "dead".
"Do…do you understand me?" he says. "If we go there, they…they'll kill me. They'll know, and they'll kill me. If you want that to happen, you'll have to do it yourself."
"No," she whispers. "I don’t want that. Of course I don't."
"You were shooting at me a few minutes ago."
She winces. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…" Raising hollow eyes to his, she's the one stammering now. "You just…you don't know what it's like in Section now. I thought I was free, and they sent me back, and without Michael there…" She presses her lips tightly together, and her face freezes into a defensive immobility. After a moment, she recovers enough to knock on the partition again. "Back to Valenti's club."
The car slows for a moment, then changes direction. They sit together as silent minutes pass.
"I am sorry," she finally whispers. "I had no right to treat you that way, even if I did think you were Mr. Jones."
He takes a deep breath; his ribs feel bruised, but not broken. She doesn't miss the motion. "It's all right," he says, and tosses in a "doll", for the hell of it.
Her tentative smile warms the air.
***********
Valenti: secured. Anthrax: secured. Operations doesn't look too pleased to see either him or Nikita; maybe he expected them to fail.
"Take her to Containment." Two Section ops lead Valenti off to her eventual death, and Operations turns to him. "You want a simultaneous feed on her decomposition?"
"Please," he replies, reflecting morbidly that "decomposition" has an unsavory sound to it.
"You’ll handle it?" Operations asks Nikita.
She inclines her head slightly. "Yes."
Operations walks off without another word. Nikita watches him leave, her face the expressionless mask that he's seen her wearing so often recently.
"When do I talk to Michelle?"
"Tomorrow, to… tomorrow morning. I just have to make sure that there’s no fall out." Despite her apology, despite her desperate need for answers, he's got no intention of facilitating any contact with Michelle. He'll spend the night figuring out how to put Nikita off. Maybe he can give an edited version of the night's events to Center, warn them about Nikita's search for information without mentioning his confession.
"Meaning what?"
"We both know that if they find out that I broke…"
"I’m the only one who knows," she reassures him. "See you tomorrow."
Tomorrow. Tomorrow seems an impossible concept with everything that's happened tonight. He heads for the exit, wanting nothing more than to return to his small apartment at Center's headquarters and sleep for twelve hours.
"Hey," she calls after him. He tuns to look, and she's offering another apology. "I wasn’t crazy about Mick Schtoppel and Mr. Jones… but I think I really like Martin." She smiles again, a clear genuine smile that reminds him of simpler times.
************
The hood covering his head smells like new fabric, full of chemicals. He can't see anything, not even any light penetrating among the threads. His other senses are similarly dulled -- no sound reaches his ears, and he can't feel anything other than the ropes holding him down.
They'd grabbed him as soon as he returned to Center, and he knew then that he'd been a fool to imagine that he or Nikita could ever have any secrets from these people. He wonders if they'll kill him immediately or torture him to see if he's been hiding anything else.
After what feels like hours, he hears footsteps approaching. Someone pulls the hood off, and he blinks against the light. A quick look around identifies his apartment at Center. Two men stand behind him, typical operatives. But he's never seen the man sitting in front of him. Expensive clothes, mid-sixties, and utterly at ease.
"Well, Martin," the man says, "we seem to have a problem."
He swallows a few times to moisten his mouth. "Uh, yeah. I guess."
"You guess? You did tell Nikita who you really are, didn't you?"
"Yes." And because he figures he might as well get it out of the way, "Are you going to kill me?"
He can envision several responses to this question. The man could ignore it. The man could hit him. One of the operatives standing behind him could reach around and snap his neck on the spot. But he certainly doesn't expect the man to laugh at him.
"Kill you? That would be a tremendous waste of resources. Do you know how much money we've put into you?"
"Uh, no."
"I do. Down to a few decimal places. Training, surveillance, background cover-ups, to say nothing of clothing and feeding you for six years."
Despite himself, he relaxes a little. "Can you…can you tell me who you are, then?"
"Really, Martin, I expected better of you. Isn't it obvious?"
So he looks closer. Considers the operatives' attitude towards the man, and the man's own aura of confidence and power. And he can only think of one person who could act that way within the walls of Center. "You're the real Mr. Jones, aren't you?"
"I am," the man says. "I must say, I've been quite pleased with your performance over the years. You did very well."
"Uh, thank you?"
"You're welcome. Now, let's talk about your future."
"My future?" He's getting tired of hearing himself ask questions, but he's so off-balance he doesn't know what else to do.
"Well, we have to relocate you, now that Nikita knows the truth."
He'd barely spared a thought for Nikita. "Nikita? Is something going to happen to her?"
The man leans forward slightly, as if the subject interests him. "Yes. But not what you might expect. Don't worry about her. She'll be fine. I'll see to that. Now, as far as you're concerned, I was thinking that we'd send you to our Milan office."
"For what?"
"Oh, you might be surprised at how often they need an actor. You may help coerce information out of an informant. You may take someone's place at a meeting, as you so often did for me. A few hours here, a few hours there. And I suspect that they could also use your help with psychological evaluations. After all, who knows more about motivation than an actor?"
He's stunned, still not quite believing that he'll leave this room alive. "Are you serious?"
"Of course I'm serious, Martin. I don't have time for anything else." He pushes himself upright with the help of an ornately decorated cane. "Pack up, and Thomas will escort you to transport." Mr. Jones pauses, then walks over to him. "Are you all right? You look rather confused."
The tension of the past day flares inside him and prods him into anger. "Confused? Of course I'm confused. I've spent most of the past six years being Mick and being you. What am I supposed to do now?"
Mr. Jones smiles, and for a moment, the tilt to his mouth reminds him of Nikita. "Why, Martin. Just be yourself."
************
The first job he gets in Cardiff is a three-week run of Othello. The theater leaks, and the is only slightly better than nothing, but it's still a job. Every night, he puts on his makeup and steps on the stage, and it doesn't matter that the house is only half-full of eighty-year old women and reluctant students. The thrill still runs through him, the energy of live performance shuddering in his veins. He speaks words written five hundred years ago, and he can't imagine ever doing anything else.
--End--
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
] |
|
Feedback: 