Chapter Six: Ready or Not

Just as Mace had said, the morning after Alfonso Monteleone's botched assassination the negotiations had resumed with only a little more suspicion on both sides of the table. Auggie had been a little more than apprehensive that Mace would bring up their conversation at first, but as the days turned to months, it became less and less probable.

In fact, the only sign that anything had changed was that Mace's criticisms, while still as direct as they always had been, had evolved passed showing up at Auggie's door to make sure he packed correctly. Now Auggie would most likely arrive at his new desk at the very front of the bullpen and find an Italian crossword and a silent order for him to solve it, as he had more than once over the last few months. They'd also begun to spend their lunch breaks together—or at least, eat at the same time and share a table or, every once in a while, a park bench—sometimes speaking about an operation, but mostly just eating. Either way, it had become the little "suggestions", rather than the big gestures, and Auggie was no longer envious, or really enthralled by bitterness, every time he laid eyes on (or heard yet another story about) Philip Mace.

So Auggie was understandably offended when Mace had gestured for him to follow him to a bar half-an-hour out of Baltimore to "practice".

"In less than a week you will become Augusto Aspesi for who knows how long."

"I know and I've been—" Auggie tried to argue, but as usual, Mace had already anticipated his response and prepared an appropriate rebuttal.

"There is more to a cover than the know-how. For the mission you are about to undertake you need more than just that two-dimensional shell you paraded for a while. Augusto Aspesi should not be just an alias; he needs to be a life."

In the shadows cast by the dim lights above their heads and the steady beating of music and fifty-plus people crammed into a room with alcohol and the prayer of companionship, Mace appeared even more covertly omniscient. Auggie felt he was talking to some god—if gods hung out in bars, lived on meaningless one-night stands, and could shoot a gun.

"It's time for a test-drive," Mace took a sip of his favorite scotch and twitched his head, quickly adding, "of Augusto Aspesi one-point-oh."

"Two-point-oh," Auggie corrected automatically.

~OOOOOO~

Auggie stood, charting the path of least resistance to the bar and trying to convince his consciousness that Mace was right, that this was necessary. Buffered by the knowledge that it would do him good, he coxed Augusto Aspesi into his being, starting with his walk (a slumped, less assuming gait) and, by the time he reached his targeted barstool, the thick, charming accent of a first-generation, off-the-tarmac Italian.

"Glass of Merlot, signore," he ordered, speaking as loudly as he could without being too overt.

"You French?" the bartender asked as he wrenched the cork out of the bottle. "We don't get too many requests for red wine 'round here."

"Italiano," Augusto replied, his eyes scanning his neighbors, gauging his options. The bartender started to say something about his cousin having a friend who'd visited Venice, but thankfully for Augusto, he was called to fill another drink at the other end of the bar, and so Augusto was spared.

Augusto took a sip of his wine and decided it was all right, if not good. As part of Auggie's preparations, Mace had "suggested" he learn to identify and describe wine (he'd stated something about the stereotype, once again) and Augusto had done it now without a second thought. He let the after-flavor permeate his taste buds as he narrowed his choices.

Once, it had not been unusual for Auggie to take a couple of walks-of-shame a week, but that was before. Those had been his college years when he wanted to refute the stereotype that MIT students didn't get any "action"; his years after college during training when he was assigned as the tech-guy and he felt he had to prove that he wasn't just a nerd who should carry a squirt gun; and his post-op periods when intercourse was the only really normal thing he could do. Those years were over. Despite what Mace had told him all those months ago, he'd managed to convince himself that he had no time for womanizing, what with the higher-ups doubting his abilities, the ever-growing reams of paperwork, and the sudden challenge of being a black-op soldier in a civilian world. But Augusto was not Auggie—he was as innocent as the man who'd boarded the army transport that first time.

The noise of the room lulled for a bit and Augusto caught a snippet of conversation. His keen hearing zeroed in on the woman's voice. Without showing any sign of comprehending she and her friend were talking about him—the friend trying to convince her to strike a conversation with him—he eavesdropped.

As casually as a snake sunning, he turned and glanced at the two women.

The best friend was in a steady relationship, if her steadfast determination to get her friend a date was anything to go on, and for the better. She had mousy brown hair that frizzed around her head and plain features with a heart shaped face—not at all Augusto's type. Her victim, on the other hand, wore a hint of raspberry-toned lipstick that complemented her lush, bewitching coloring. Augusto had found his target.

He expertly spun off his stool and approached the table, a hint of a smile decorating his lips.

"You are Romanian, yes?" Augusto asked. Auggie was more partial to the more direct flirtation, but August Anderson was not the personality in charge.

She glanced at her friend. "On my mother's side. They were gypsies who left before the first world war. How did you know? Surely those genes have been watered down by—"

"Why don't you sit?" her friend interrupted. Augusto's smile widened and he sat on the only other seat. "I'm Susan and this is Katrina."

"Augusto Cortinio Aspesi," he replied graciously. He made a split-second decision and decreased his accent by a notch.

"Where in Italy are you from?" Katrina asked, her confusion forgotten with a swift glare from Susan.

"In a small, ah, I think you say district? No…" Augusto struggled to find the word for a second before moving on. "Roma."

"Rome is beautiful. I spent a semester in Florence," Katrina replied.

Augusto brightened and his smile freshened. "Sì, but its beauty is a much pallid comparison."

A hint of red graced Katrina's features.

Susan looked between the two of them. Making up her mind but failing to be subtle, she looked at her watch and asked Katrina if she was okay to get home. She didn't wait for a reply before blowing her best friend a goodbye kiss and waving to Augusto. He pretended he didn't see her mouth "good luck!" to Katrina as she left.

A bit of Katrina's spunk dissolved when Susan cleared the exit, but Augusto was rebuffed. He turned up the charm Auggie had perfected so long ago.

They were leaving the bar—where they were going still undecided—when Augusto reached into his jacket pocket to pay the tab and his fingers clasped around an unfamiliar card of plastic. He took it out and a strange feeling bubbled up from his gut into the back of his throat as he read the note, beautifully transcribed in Mace's smooth, cursive Italian. Room 734 across the street. If you keep it up through the night, you are ready.

~OOOOO~

In the same dark, forgotten corner of the tavern, Philip Mace watched his chosen protégée. His intent green-grey stare focused on the man he'd spent ten-plus months prying out of his self-made shell. He leaned back into his chair, his gaze unwavering as August confronted his alias in a silent, unconscious battle. For a moment, his breath hitched while his student fought against his instincts, but then air rushed into his lungs and a small, self-satisfied grin, hidden behind the half-full glass of scotch, appeared as Mace caught the instant when August and alias molded together to form a three-dimensional Augusto Aspesi.

As he stared, a singularly unfamiliar emotion, a warm sort of prickly sensation, crashed over him in waves. He saw Augusto flirt, heard as he spoke in broken cadence, felt his student take the final step toward becoming a master.

Long after the ice had melted and the last dredges of liquor had been sucked from the glass, Mace sat at his table, his thoughts free for what felt like the first time in a hundred years. Had he really been here for so long? So much had changed—nothing was the same. The iron fist of the Cold War had crumbled; the Agency was getting weak…

Mace looked back at the table that hours before had been occupied with the next generation, and part of him was soothed. There would be someone strong, someone great, someone who could pass on the essence of his country after he left.

"Would you like another?"

There were only a few people remaining in the tavern, Mace suddenly realized. How long had he been there? He looked down at his watch before addressing the overworked waitress. He pursed his lips slightly, subtly shaking his head. "No, no, I'm done."

A/N: Well, there you have it. No, this story will not have Auggie's mission in Italy. This was never meant to be an action fic. And considering the fact that it took my Creative Writing class and I nearly an hour to come up with the basic pit-two-families-against-each-other plot, and now I'm alone, I doubt I'll be able to come up with a good enough story-line for the sleeper mission. (If you wish to know how the mission turns out, read "Close and Continuing" or, for a less in-depth mention, "Just Another Monday". )That being said, I have had a suggestion to make this pre-series, semi-canon, set of stories a series. I will tell you, however, if I do find the inspiration to write the mission and more, it will be posted within the next few weeks. If I don't, then don't expect more. Why? Because I leave for my student exchange in Belgium in six weeks! I'll be gone for a year, so there is an excellent chance this is the last fanfic you'll see from me in a very long time, if ever. If that's true (or not, either way), I want to thank, once again, mandy58, girlwithoutfear, Beth-Geek Chick, JJ Rust, and everyone else who has made my journey on this site so meaningful, either by reviewing, reading, editing, advising, or just telling me to get my butt moving and write/post. Truly, my writing, my self-image, everything, is ten times better because of you.

Au revoir pour maintenant!

Comic.