M3: Strange Bedfellows.
Mar. 13th, 2003 03:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
coronaviridaeThis evolved (devolved?) from an idea I worked out between Matt and myself, and ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
duskpaw's thoughts on the matter.
I remember her death as clearly as if it were yesterday.
It has been exactly two weeks, three days, and seven hours since my daughter was killed; the date and time are branded into my memory as indelibly as stone. I will not forget it, no matter how many minutes, hours, days, weeks, months pass. I would not forget it even if the memory biochip were yanked from my skull.
Nor will I forget the exact moment of her murder. The exact crystalline purity is scorching in its intensity--the way she turned to smile at me, and then a scream, and then--nothing.
It was a sniper's bullet. My brother is a sniper. I knew before she hit the ground what had happened, before the crack of the rifle ever reached my ears, before I had to carry her home, broken and bleeding, as evidence to my security of their own incompetence. The upheaval that followed was not even cold comfort.
There is no solace for having outlived your own child.
Day in, day out. It's been nearly three weeks. An investigation was begun as a matter of course; I still have other duties to attend to. I can't afford to concentrate on this tattered hole in my life; the world turns, and there are other men's children who have died without so much as a promise of justice to their fathers. That is what I do. That is why I accepted my commission from McLaren.
Day in, day out. I live in Seoul now; San Angeles has nothing for me anymore. They failed, as well. Their vaunted police forces--failed. They failed, and I have taken down her drawings and every evidence of her life, and hidden it away. I still wear black; there is no more appropriate color, until they make something darker.
Day in, day out. The commute to my office is much shorter; security's fears have been ameliorated by my choice to live in the heart of their protection now. A pity I couldn't bring myself to do so before she died.
Day in, day out. Life progresses the same otherwise; cold coffee and the stale lies my departments tell each other are what I thrive on, as always. The Security Council still demands reports; I still deliver them in person, as I delivered the news of her death in person, as I have always delivered my reports in person. That is what I do.
Day in, day out. My secretary is still concerned--but she has learned not to ask for anything, when all I can request, with a smile, is any news of who killed my daughter. They say what harms their Director hits them just as hard; then why do they turn away from my pain, as if rejecting it out of hand? Stale lies, as always.
Day in, day out. I have no leads. This case has become my obsession, more pressing than hunting the Yakuza, more pressing than tracking Xiang. If one of them was involved in killing Melissa, then I will find the trail that leads back, and retribution will be swift and final. If they were not, I will deal with them in due time. That is my duty.
Day in, day out. Nothing changes. Nothing ever changes.
December 23rd, 2216. Two days before Christmas, three weeks after my life was torn apart. The world does not rest for either event, and so neither can I. I am a man driven by obsession, but I can lay even that aside in the interest of justice. Even against my wishes to avoid humanity utterly, there are still penitents who seek a piece of my time. All of them bow and scrape, demonstrating what they think is due respect to my grief.
I would prefer they not. I would prefer they tell me what they want from me, up front and without mincing words, then leave me be to do my work. That is all they have ever expected of me, and I don't disappoint, so why do they linger on this social tripe?
Humanity and I have never gotten along very well.
One more meeting for the day. I have already sent the second to last of my meetings away; again, with the murmured "I'm sorry for your loss, Director"--and why are you sorry? I want to snap back. Is this an indication of your guilt, your ineptitude, or your vile hope you can use my own pain against me? All three of them make you disgusting.
There is a knock on the door; "Come in," I say, simply. I have no need to lock it anymore; those who wish to intrude on my privacy will find their own way in, locks or no. This is no longer my concern.
I look up at the click of the door; the man who steps through is not unknown to me. He and I have been uncertain allies to defeat one of the larger thorns in my side for months now. Dr. Alexander Cheng, once of our Research division, warped by the hand of the man who once was his overseer. Xiang. How far his reach spreads. I wonder how he is taking the her death; she was a 'gift' from him, and I can only imagine how he regarded her.
"Dr. Cheng," I say, expecting to be forced to do away with his normal formalities--only to have him do away with mine.
He raises a hand, as if to forestall me from saying more. I wait; but not patiently. I do not have time for games.
"Director Abernathy," he replies, tone brusque. "I will be brief. I have information for you,"
Xiang. All his information is on Xiang and his activities; the Indian-giver, the bastard, why would he do something of this nature? I thought this was beyond him; I was led to believe he respected innocence; the liar, the serpent, playing God with ME--
"But I do not trust grief or your rage. I know you never go unarmed. If you will lay your weapons on your desk and give me your word you will hear me out, then I will speak. If you do not--"
Aposiopesis. His meaning is clear. I frown; could everyone have turned assassin on me? At the very least, he understands the stakes I play for, the rules I play by. Few enough have granted me that respect, either before or after her death. This information could be worth the risk. It could also be worth keeping this scrap of respect. I can't stand not knowing.
I take my pistol from its holster, lay it just within reach on the desk. "Talk."
There is a look in those odd eyes of his, as if he knows he had the proper carrot and stick to tempt me. I do not enjoy being used; but this is a situation in which I can't afford to resist. "I am not Alexander Cheng," he begins.
LIED TO--
"I see," I reply. "Then you are--" Only one liar it could be; only one man who had access to Cheng's files before they were erased by hishand--
"--Xiang," he finishes, as simply as he began. "Yes."
This whole time, my enemy, the man behind the ourobourus, the man who gave me Melissa, the perpetual thorn in my side, the betrayer--under my nose. In my office. Speaking to me.
Speaking to me now. I would reach for the pistol, but I gave my word, tacit admission or no. He is saved, on that alone. I hope he understands that. My voice is taut as I speak, with too much emotion unused. "And why have you come to me, Dr. Xiang? If you have some intent of making this harder for me--"
The look in his eyes gives me pause.
The same look I have seen in the mirror every day, since three weeks ago.
I can deal with this man.
"No, Director. I have given you your information, and I have only one question for you in return."
This is also part of the deal. "Speak. I will answer it as best I know."
"Who killed my god-daughter?"
Perhaps it is that I must admit again that I owe her whole existence to this man; perhaps it is because it is the very same thought I have been thinking, over and over, for three weeks; perhaps it is because I have found no answers except empty hands and frustration at every turn. Perhaps all these things; perhaps that's why his question unleashes all the rage I have been holding back for the past weeks.
I bolt to my feet; adrenaline sets my nerves on edge and turns my voice to a snarl. "If I KNEW who killed Melissa, do you THINK I would still be sitting here?!" An outburst, a single moment of all that pain and hate and fear and self-doubt and you were wrong and you could not protect the one thing you cared about most-- all that I have been hiding these past three weeks, all turned against him.
He does not flinch. To his credit, he does not flinch. He does not even move as I dissolve into a spasm of coughing, my lungs rebelling against me again. Nothing works anymore; I can rely on nothing and no one.
It merely means he is more self-controlled than I. He waits until I have gained control of myself, wiped away the flecks of blood that stain my hand. My blood. Not hers. "I do not know," I tell him, voice ragged and hoarse in my ears. "I don't know; every where I turn I have been stonewalled. I don't trust Interpol to give me the truth anymore, the bureaucrats--"
"--fools," he spits, more hatred compressed into that one word than I ever knew a human could carry. "They are fools.
"You have trusted me this far, Director. Give me the information from your investigation."
Under any other situation, I would protest the demand. Even from him. Especially from him. This not 'any other situation', however.
I have learned how to assess the tactical viability of every opportunity life gives me, no matter how repugnant. That is my job.
This man, no matter the blood between us, no matter that I swore I would kill him as soon as he fell within my reach, could be my only chance. My only choice.
"And what will I gain in return for helping you, doctor?" I know the answer before he speaks it.
"Revenge. That is all you want, isn't it?"
I turn the week's report over to him. "My word on it. Investigation will have orders to allow you free access to anything you ask."
There is a grim look of satisfaction in his eyes; he knows he's won.
I do not feel like I have lost.
January 7th, 2217. Five weeks, one day. Today is Russian Christmas. I have not asked after the details of Xiang's investigation, or what RDI knows of his activities. I have let slip the dog of war; and now I merely wait.
If he has betrayed my trust, I will find another avenue. Whatever the cost. I have already given up the opportunity to kill him, simply and cleanly as I had promised myself; there is little else I could think of that I would not freely part with.
If only for a measure of knowledge. If only for peace. I already feel I have that, now that this burden has passed into anothers hands.
The world does not rest today, either. I am in my office again, lingering over stale coffee and staler lies. They do not change much as time goes on; only the players change, and the veneer of details.
I think about escaping, just today. I will visit her grave; we never had the opportunity to celebrate Christmas, either one, together. I owe her that much. The world does not need me while I go visit my daughter for two hours.
As I am about to leave, there is a knock on the door. I answer it. It's my secretary; she seems puzzled, as she presses a thick envelope into my hands. She does not say a word; once she has delivered the envelope, she turns to leave, her manner disturbed.
I look down. The envelope is sealed with a design, red on black--an ouroborous encircling a yin-yang. The symbol of renewal with the symbol of karma. Xiang's symbol.
He has sent me the odd report, in the fifteen days he has been carrying out his investigation. I have read them; they are short on details. I must assume, after dealing with me for nearly a year now, his paranoia has only increased.
What the envelope contains is not short on details.
I flip through the photos, graphic and stomach-turning as they are. Six men, one woman. A sniper, his getaway driver, the mole within my own ranks, the four who ran cover-up for the entire operation. They have been laid out with Xiang's usual precision, though the tortures they have been put through are exquisite.
I had wished their deaths to be clean, at one point, but I am satisfied. With this, I am satisfied.
I shuffle through the photos once more, savoring the looks of agony, the horrified realization of just what they had gotten into. You killed my daughter, I think. You sewed the seeds, now reap the whirlwind.
It is on the second pass through the gruesome pictures that the note falls out, two terse sentences written in an impeccable hand. 'They did not work alone. This is merely the beginning. -X'
What strange bedfellows war forces together, I think, as the note crumples in my hand, as tears run down my face. What strange bedfellows.
muse
duskpaw's thoughts on the matter.I remember her death as clearly as if it were yesterday.
It has been exactly two weeks, three days, and seven hours since my daughter was killed; the date and time are branded into my memory as indelibly as stone. I will not forget it, no matter how many minutes, hours, days, weeks, months pass. I would not forget it even if the memory biochip were yanked from my skull.
Nor will I forget the exact moment of her murder. The exact crystalline purity is scorching in its intensity--the way she turned to smile at me, and then a scream, and then--nothing.
It was a sniper's bullet. My brother is a sniper. I knew before she hit the ground what had happened, before the crack of the rifle ever reached my ears, before I had to carry her home, broken and bleeding, as evidence to my security of their own incompetence. The upheaval that followed was not even cold comfort.
There is no solace for having outlived your own child.
Day in, day out. It's been nearly three weeks. An investigation was begun as a matter of course; I still have other duties to attend to. I can't afford to concentrate on this tattered hole in my life; the world turns, and there are other men's children who have died without so much as a promise of justice to their fathers. That is what I do. That is why I accepted my commission from McLaren.
Day in, day out. I live in Seoul now; San Angeles has nothing for me anymore. They failed, as well. Their vaunted police forces--failed. They failed, and I have taken down her drawings and every evidence of her life, and hidden it away. I still wear black; there is no more appropriate color, until they make something darker.
Day in, day out. The commute to my office is much shorter; security's fears have been ameliorated by my choice to live in the heart of their protection now. A pity I couldn't bring myself to do so before she died.
Day in, day out. Life progresses the same otherwise; cold coffee and the stale lies my departments tell each other are what I thrive on, as always. The Security Council still demands reports; I still deliver them in person, as I delivered the news of her death in person, as I have always delivered my reports in person. That is what I do.
Day in, day out. My secretary is still concerned--but she has learned not to ask for anything, when all I can request, with a smile, is any news of who killed my daughter. They say what harms their Director hits them just as hard; then why do they turn away from my pain, as if rejecting it out of hand? Stale lies, as always.
Day in, day out. I have no leads. This case has become my obsession, more pressing than hunting the Yakuza, more pressing than tracking Xiang. If one of them was involved in killing Melissa, then I will find the trail that leads back, and retribution will be swift and final. If they were not, I will deal with them in due time. That is my duty.
Day in, day out. Nothing changes. Nothing ever changes.
December 23rd, 2216. Two days before Christmas, three weeks after my life was torn apart. The world does not rest for either event, and so neither can I. I am a man driven by obsession, but I can lay even that aside in the interest of justice. Even against my wishes to avoid humanity utterly, there are still penitents who seek a piece of my time. All of them bow and scrape, demonstrating what they think is due respect to my grief.
I would prefer they not. I would prefer they tell me what they want from me, up front and without mincing words, then leave me be to do my work. That is all they have ever expected of me, and I don't disappoint, so why do they linger on this social tripe?
Humanity and I have never gotten along very well.
One more meeting for the day. I have already sent the second to last of my meetings away; again, with the murmured "I'm sorry for your loss, Director"--and why are you sorry? I want to snap back. Is this an indication of your guilt, your ineptitude, or your vile hope you can use my own pain against me? All three of them make you disgusting.
There is a knock on the door; "Come in," I say, simply. I have no need to lock it anymore; those who wish to intrude on my privacy will find their own way in, locks or no. This is no longer my concern.
I look up at the click of the door; the man who steps through is not unknown to me. He and I have been uncertain allies to defeat one of the larger thorns in my side for months now. Dr. Alexander Cheng, once of our Research division, warped by the hand of the man who once was his overseer. Xiang. How far his reach spreads. I wonder how he is taking the her death; she was a 'gift' from him, and I can only imagine how he regarded her.
"Dr. Cheng," I say, expecting to be forced to do away with his normal formalities--only to have him do away with mine.
He raises a hand, as if to forestall me from saying more. I wait; but not patiently. I do not have time for games.
"Director Abernathy," he replies, tone brusque. "I will be brief. I have information for you,"
Xiang. All his information is on Xiang and his activities; the Indian-giver, the bastard, why would he do something of this nature? I thought this was beyond him; I was led to believe he respected innocence; the liar, the serpent, playing God with ME--
"But I do not trust grief or your rage. I know you never go unarmed. If you will lay your weapons on your desk and give me your word you will hear me out, then I will speak. If you do not--"
Aposiopesis. His meaning is clear. I frown; could everyone have turned assassin on me? At the very least, he understands the stakes I play for, the rules I play by. Few enough have granted me that respect, either before or after her death. This information could be worth the risk. It could also be worth keeping this scrap of respect. I can't stand not knowing.
I take my pistol from its holster, lay it just within reach on the desk. "Talk."
There is a look in those odd eyes of his, as if he knows he had the proper carrot and stick to tempt me. I do not enjoy being used; but this is a situation in which I can't afford to resist. "I am not Alexander Cheng," he begins.
LIED TO--
"I see," I reply. "Then you are--" Only one liar it could be; only one man who had access to Cheng's files before they were erased by hishand--
"--Xiang," he finishes, as simply as he began. "Yes."
This whole time, my enemy, the man behind the ourobourus, the man who gave me Melissa, the perpetual thorn in my side, the betrayer--under my nose. In my office. Speaking to me.
Speaking to me now. I would reach for the pistol, but I gave my word, tacit admission or no. He is saved, on that alone. I hope he understands that. My voice is taut as I speak, with too much emotion unused. "And why have you come to me, Dr. Xiang? If you have some intent of making this harder for me--"
The look in his eyes gives me pause.
The same look I have seen in the mirror every day, since three weeks ago.
I can deal with this man.
"No, Director. I have given you your information, and I have only one question for you in return."
This is also part of the deal. "Speak. I will answer it as best I know."
"Who killed my god-daughter?"
Perhaps it is that I must admit again that I owe her whole existence to this man; perhaps it is because it is the very same thought I have been thinking, over and over, for three weeks; perhaps it is because I have found no answers except empty hands and frustration at every turn. Perhaps all these things; perhaps that's why his question unleashes all the rage I have been holding back for the past weeks.
I bolt to my feet; adrenaline sets my nerves on edge and turns my voice to a snarl. "If I KNEW who killed Melissa, do you THINK I would still be sitting here?!" An outburst, a single moment of all that pain and hate and fear and self-doubt and you were wrong and you could not protect the one thing you cared about most-- all that I have been hiding these past three weeks, all turned against him.
He does not flinch. To his credit, he does not flinch. He does not even move as I dissolve into a spasm of coughing, my lungs rebelling against me again. Nothing works anymore; I can rely on nothing and no one.
It merely means he is more self-controlled than I. He waits until I have gained control of myself, wiped away the flecks of blood that stain my hand. My blood. Not hers. "I do not know," I tell him, voice ragged and hoarse in my ears. "I don't know; every where I turn I have been stonewalled. I don't trust Interpol to give me the truth anymore, the bureaucrats--"
"--fools," he spits, more hatred compressed into that one word than I ever knew a human could carry. "They are fools.
"You have trusted me this far, Director. Give me the information from your investigation."
Under any other situation, I would protest the demand. Even from him. Especially from him. This not 'any other situation', however.
I have learned how to assess the tactical viability of every opportunity life gives me, no matter how repugnant. That is my job.
This man, no matter the blood between us, no matter that I swore I would kill him as soon as he fell within my reach, could be my only chance. My only choice.
"And what will I gain in return for helping you, doctor?" I know the answer before he speaks it.
"Revenge. That is all you want, isn't it?"
I turn the week's report over to him. "My word on it. Investigation will have orders to allow you free access to anything you ask."
There is a grim look of satisfaction in his eyes; he knows he's won.
I do not feel like I have lost.
January 7th, 2217. Five weeks, one day. Today is Russian Christmas. I have not asked after the details of Xiang's investigation, or what RDI knows of his activities. I have let slip the dog of war; and now I merely wait.
If he has betrayed my trust, I will find another avenue. Whatever the cost. I have already given up the opportunity to kill him, simply and cleanly as I had promised myself; there is little else I could think of that I would not freely part with.
If only for a measure of knowledge. If only for peace. I already feel I have that, now that this burden has passed into anothers hands.
The world does not rest today, either. I am in my office again, lingering over stale coffee and staler lies. They do not change much as time goes on; only the players change, and the veneer of details.
I think about escaping, just today. I will visit her grave; we never had the opportunity to celebrate Christmas, either one, together. I owe her that much. The world does not need me while I go visit my daughter for two hours.
As I am about to leave, there is a knock on the door. I answer it. It's my secretary; she seems puzzled, as she presses a thick envelope into my hands. She does not say a word; once she has delivered the envelope, she turns to leave, her manner disturbed.
I look down. The envelope is sealed with a design, red on black--an ouroborous encircling a yin-yang. The symbol of renewal with the symbol of karma. Xiang's symbol.
He has sent me the odd report, in the fifteen days he has been carrying out his investigation. I have read them; they are short on details. I must assume, after dealing with me for nearly a year now, his paranoia has only increased.
What the envelope contains is not short on details.
I flip through the photos, graphic and stomach-turning as they are. Six men, one woman. A sniper, his getaway driver, the mole within my own ranks, the four who ran cover-up for the entire operation. They have been laid out with Xiang's usual precision, though the tortures they have been put through are exquisite.
I had wished their deaths to be clean, at one point, but I am satisfied. With this, I am satisfied.
I shuffle through the photos once more, savoring the looks of agony, the horrified realization of just what they had gotten into. You killed my daughter, I think. You sewed the seeds, now reap the whirlwind.
It is on the second pass through the gruesome pictures that the note falls out, two terse sentences written in an impeccable hand. 'They did not work alone. This is merely the beginning. -X'
What strange bedfellows war forces together, I think, as the note crumples in my hand, as tears run down my face. What strange bedfellows.
muse
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2003-03-13 09:29 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2003-03-13 09:35 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2003-03-13 02:06 pm (UTC)I quail before your m4d skillz. (And here I thought -I- could angst well...)