Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter One: This is Not a Test
Well, I'm back – (flinches as many people run screaming to the hills) o.o; Ahem, um, anyway, I've got a new fic planed just as I said I would. This time, however, I've got one of my own original characters thrown into the mess. As opposed to Lynné or Liam who are fancharacters, this new character was thought of . . . . about a year ago, I think. Unfortunately, I have yet to post anything with this character because I do not think I have perfected the story yet. However, for anyone who cares to know more about this new character, you are welcome to read my fanfic 'Open Up Your Mind' if you want. It is of the Invader Zim genre but, in short, five of my own characters are taken into the IZ/SI world. I am told it is interesting. (shrug) In any case, enjoy the new story and, as always, don't be confused! If you are, it's just for plot's sake and everything will be resolved in the end – trust me!
--ESY/Sidney
"Do you know the consequences you're facing if anyone finds out?"
"Yes."
"No one must know, do you understand that?"
"Yes."
"If someone was to find out . . . it would be the end."
"I know – "
"People would want to test you, perform experiments. And if they somehow found about the island – "
"They won't."
The older woman surveyed the younger through frosty eyes. Her young charge held the gaze, her eyes just as steely. Fire of determination blazed within the young woman's brilliant green orbs.
"Very well," the aging woman said decidedly. "Go to the mainland and get help there. It won't do any good staying here; you have too many enemies."
"Thought none of them would carry out my death – "
"Though none would take the time to put a stop to your deat, either." She sighed when the young woman glared at her. "Child – "
"I'm not a child."
"Young lady, then," the old woman snapped irritably. Then she sighed again. "You need to go quickly. There is nothing holding you back here."
The young woman threw her a skeptical look but she waved her off with urgent impatience.
"Go!"
"What about – "
"They won't get anything out of me. Nothing coherent, in any case."
The young woman stared at her for a long while, but finally she nodded. She crossed the room, placed her hand on the door of the ancient cottage, and turned its knob. Stealing one last glance at the older woman, she could not help but notice how tired she looked. Tired with worry. With nothing more than a swish of her long green jacket, the younger woman was out the door and gone.
Thick, dark brown hair that had been messily piled on top of its owner's head now fell in long strands, blowing loosely in the cool, spring wind. Long, pale skirts swirled around as a pair of hands fingered the brim of a straw hat with polite impatience. One of the delicate hands reached behind and scratched the small of its owner's back in a very unladylike fashion. Though by the sound of the sigh that was heard afterward, the person who had done the scratching felt very relieved.
God – damn – corsets, Lynnéthought angrily, I should take a leaf out of what's-her-name's book and go jump off a cliff.
Her name was Elizabeth, a small voice sneered. No one else heard it. Only Lynné had that ability, after all, it WAS the little voice in her head. Everybody had one. Some called it their conscience. Others considered it to be their alternate personality. But to Lynné it was neither of these things. It was just the little voice in her head that came around every so often to contradict her every thought. And every so often would be every ten seconds, in Lynn's opinion.
And she didn't jump off a CLIFF, the voice continued. It was that . . . port . . . wall . . thing. I don't know what the hell it was but it wasn't a cliff.
Fiiiine, Lyn sighed, rolling her intense brown eyes that were so dark they could pass as black in certain light. But, seeing how there are no cliffs around here . . . I'd say I'm outta luck.
Not unless some ruggedly hansom pirate decides to save you, the voice mused dreamily.
Oh my Christ, not you, too, Lyn groaned to herself.
What? asked the voice indignantly. Everybody likes him.
YES, Lynné growled with vexation, clenching her teeth together. That's just it – oh, never mind.
She went back to fiddling with the wide brim of her hat. Or, to the unsuspecting, that is what she would appear to have been doing when in reality Lynné was really listening, keeping her ears sharp for any sound, any noise, anything that might give her a clue.
Narrowing her eyes at her surroundings, her patients wearing thin, Lyn sighed for the third time.
Now don't get me wrong, this place is much better than Mexico, but . . . who in their right mind would be holding their operations in Williamsburg, Virginia?
Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia, the voice reminded her. and I don't know. Maybe . . . history freaks?
History freaks with taste, Lyn noted approvingly. MUCH better than Mexico.
Except for the god – damn – corsets! she added as a furious afterthought.
Well, you were the one who wanted to go incognito.
And incognito she had gone. Lynné fit in perfectly with her surroundings despite the dress she was wearing. The gown was beautiful, she had to admit, making a mental note to thank the woman who had made it for her. Long and swish-y with many skirts, the dress was a clean, crisp white color and had little yellow rosebuds scattered here and there. A light fringe of lace around the quarter-length sleeves and neckline, along with a silky yellow sash that tied in the back completed the outfit. Surprisingly, white and pale yellow didn't clash with her hair as much as she thought it would.
But why the hell did you decide to wear the blasted dress in the first place? the voice had questioned several hours ago when she had been slipping into her old fashioned garments.
Well, why not? Everywhere around her, from tourists to the people that ran the Colonial village, people were wearing the kind of clothing one would have adorned during the days of the Revolutionary War. And as they say, when in Rome, do as the Romans do. Lynné, however, wasn't in Rome so that would require a costume adjustment. The light colors of the gown did not stop it from being swelteringly hot, however. Well, it was April, so what did she expect?
A clue, that's what. She looked up, following the sound with her eyes. And there they were: Two men – make that Neanderthals; these guys were huge . . . -- talking in gruff voices and carrying a large trunk between them. They too had gone for the Colonial look, Lyn noted as she casually began to stroll down the cobbled street. One was in dark blue, the other clad in black.
Like bruises . . . she observed thoughtfully.
Trying her best to look as though she was just a nice young woman playing the part of a random towns person and not a CIA agent who had at least four guns (all of various sizes) hidden within the folds of her voluminous dress, Lynné walked quietly down the street. Her eyes left the pair of thugs occasionally, but her ears never departed. She had herself trained well, almost too well.
Watch it, the voice warned, sounding incredibly bored, Sands just might have to shoot you for that.
Yeah, really, Lyn snorted with a little toss of her eyes as she came to a stop on the sidewalk directly across from where her prey was standing.
One of the goons looked up, nudged his buddy, and pointed at Lynné, just a short jab of him index finger. The other man muttered something that sounded like 'the girl.'
Oh, very observant, cheese-dick. What a bright little light bulb you are.
"What should we do?" the man in black muttered to his partner, trying and failing to move his lips as little as possible. Lynn's eyebrows arched.
"Just act normal, like we aren't doing anything," his fellow crony told him.
"But – "
"Shut up!" the blue-clad thug hissed, glancing around feverishly. He nearly dropped his end of the trunk when a young woman dressed in a gown from the 1700s appeared almost out of nowhere beside him, smiling pleasantly. He quickly covered how startled he was by putting on a mask of annoyance. She had sneaked up behind him; that's all. Still . . . the way she had been so quiet -- her footsteps were completely inaudible – was unnerving.
"Need a hand?" the young woman asked, peering curiously over Blue Goon's shoulder, straining to get a good look at the trunk.
"No," he answered shortly, intent on ending the conversation right then and there, but the girl wasn't about to let that happen.
"Are you sure?" she said skeptically. "It looks awfully heavy."
"We're fine, missy, I assure you," Black Goon snapped, shifting the trunk in his hands; the weight of it was obviously getting to him. "Now go away, we're kind of in a hurry."
"Oh. Really? I see . . . Well, I'm kinda of . . . in a hurry myself but . . . I at least had the decency to offer my hand." Lyn tsked, shaking her head sadly. "Clearly the days of chivalry are dead, along . . ." She reached into one of the many creases in her skirt, pulled out a pair of sinister black pistols complete with silencers, and pointed directly at each man's chest. ". . . with you two if you fail to answer a few questions."
The pair of men nearly dropped their cargo at these words, staring wide-eyed at the slim young woman who was holding them at gunpoint. Smiling ironically, Lyn cocked her two weapons in warning.
"Now, is that the money or do you still have the Martello vase? Speak," she ordered sharply as if talking to a pair of dogs instead of two burly thugs.
The goons before her shared a worried glance and tightened their hold on the trunk. It was then that Lynné realized that they had not reached for the guns they most certainly had. They couldn't, not unless they wanted to put the trunk down, that is. Lynné surveyed her targets as she waited for them to answer. The two cave men, however, didn't look like they'd be giving her information any time soon. Lyn sighed letting her annoyance with the men show.
"All right, since you two don't seem to be in the mood for chit-chat today, I guess it's up to me to do the talking." She eyed them for a moment, giving them a few seconds of time in case one of the idiots decided to spill his guts. No dice.
Looks like we're doing it my way, then.
Spare me, please, the voice begged mockingly.
"Okay, kiddies," Lyn said aloud, "here's what I think's going on. The vase is in there" – she pointed a gun at the trunk nonchalantly – "I don't think you've sold it yet, judging on how you're not too keen to put that trunk down."
Again the men exchanged looks. This time, Lyn was pleased to note, they looked concerned. Well, that pretty much confirmed her suspicions, however . . .
"Was I right?"
When they didn't answer, Lyn smiled.
"May I ask something?" She didn't wait for a response, perhaps because she knew she was not going to get one. "Why Williamsburg of all places? Can't say I'm complaining – this gig is a helluva lot better than my last job – but this place is so nice . . . why would you wanna spoil it?" Lyn shook her head. "Never mind. Don't ask me to figure out how a criminal's mind works. . . . Priceless artifact thief on the other hand . . ." She smirked again watching the men shift uneasily.
"Anyone else inside?" Lyn demanded suddenly, jabbing one of her pistols in the direction of the Colonial-style house she had seen the two men exiting from.
To her slight surprise, both men shook their heads vigorously, their eyes never leaving the guns she held.
Hmm . . . are they lying . . . or aren't they lying? That is the question.
"There – don't you see him?"
"Where?"
"Right there, next to – oh, never mind. He just turned the corner."
"You're sure? I still can't believe that he's a live – that either of them are."
"Both of them, of all things. Well, no one should've gotten their hopes too high . . ."
"Yeah, knowing those two, at least one of them was bound to turn up still breathing."
"Yeah . . . but did you hear what the cartel did to Sands in Mexico . . . ?"
"Told ya you'd be the topic of gossip. Seems you've been deemed worthy of discussion at the water cooler, how sweet," Lynné murmured as she walked bask two of her colleagues, both of whom were whispering intently to one another and frequently stole glances in her direction. "I'm envious."
Sands smirked at her, shaking his head and saying, "Don't be. I'm sure their interests would change if they knew about you."
"Which is not going to happen . . . unless you'd like to have your ass blown off," Lyn stated, calmly beginning to push open a door. It led to one of the main offices in the CIA.
"Nah," Sands told his sister as he followed her through the door. "I'm not into that kinky sorta thing. Fusco might be, though." He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the tall, blonde agent behind him. "Ask him; see if he'd take you up on the offer."
"What?" Liam asked faintly, stopping dead in his tracks and widening his eyes with concern for his own well being.
"Somehow he doesn't seem like the type," Lynné mused thoughtfully, "and even if he is, I'm not, so he's out of luck. Sorry, Fusco," she added, facing Liam, who looked thoroughly relieved.
"Oh, no, I'm – " But he was cut short when the door of the office was thrown open with such force that for a second it looked as though it would come unhinged. The head of the field agents' department stood framed in the doorway, glaring down at the trio of young agents furiously. His eyes narrowed as they prepped themselves for a lecture.
Told you this was just like pre-school, Sands heard a voice say. Damn, and he'd really been hoping that getting his eyesight back would cause the voice to flee. Not likely seeing how he had heard it since he was eight . . .
I thought I was the one who told you that.
Tomato, tomahto.
Sands rolled his eyes – ha, at least he could finally do that again – and managed to dampen the sounds of the voice for the time being. Right now, the head was saying something. Nothing important, but it probably wouldn't be a bad idea if he at least gave the impression that he was giving his full attention.
". . . tell you two about messing with rookies?" the head was demanding angrily. His blazing glare may have startled Liam, but it didn't move Lyn or her brother in the least. Quite the contrary, Lynné sauntered up to her boss, wearing an expression of carefully calculated innocence.
"And what did I tell you about it depending on what kind of . . . messing around . . .we were talking about, Latch?" she asked coyly.
"You wanted to see us . . . sir?" Liam broke in tentatively, wanting to prevent as much chaos as he could. Agent Latch seemed annoyed to be interrupted just as he was about to tell a person off, but he merely threw a glare of loathing at Lynné (which she returned with a humorless smirk) and switched his attention to Liam.
"Right," he began professionally, bringing himself up to his full, towering height, "Inside."
He gestured sharply, indicating that he wanted the three in his office without question. They obliged, following his pointed finger. Once inside, Lynné, Sands, and Liam all took up a seat on the worn couch in the corner, staring at Latch expectantly as he positioned himself behind his desk. Glaring at them in the most authoritative way possible, Latch began:
"First off, I'd like to congratulate you on a job well done, Lynné," he said, nodding to her. "Although I think you could've handled it with a little more care –"
"I was very careful," Lyn said indignantly, "It was those two goon who stole the thing that dropped it."
"After you'd shot one of them," Latch reminded her, glaring.
"You could consider that self-defense," Sands suggested mildly.
"See?" Lyn offered, gesturing to Sands, "And that little nick was nothing."
"Little ni – you're calling a two-inch crack a nick?" Latch thundered, outraged.
"Yes," Lyn replied simply, shrugging it off.
"Wasn't there something you wanted to tell us?" Liam said loudly, casting a nervous glance at Lyn. He didn't know what was on the woman's mind but she was certainly in the mood to push somebody to the limit – and the head of their department was not the someone to annoy.
"What?" Latch half shouted at him. "Oh . . .yes. Well, now that you are all . . . back in the fold, we're ready to give you a new assignment. You three feel up to it?"
Sands and his sister's eyebrows arched simultaneously in a 'come-off-it' expression. Liam, on the other hand, nodded vigorously, eager to prove himself to the agency.
"Good," Latch said, "then we'll just ge –"
"Where is it?" Sands cut in abruptly.
"Excuse me?"
"Where – are – we – being – sent?" he asked again, saying each word loudly and clearly as if he was speaking with a hyperactive three-year-old or a very deaf old man. He grinned cheerfully when Latch's eyes slanted. Their boss's eyebrows were knitted so closely together they almost formed on single mono-brow.
"France," he answered shortly, "you three will choose a team of agents you feel competent enough to take along – "
"Just us then," Sands muttered quietly. Lyn let out a short laugh, blatantly agreeing with him. If Latch heard them, he gave no indication.
"You're going there for protection," he informed them stiffly.
"Protection?" echoed Liam curiously.
"Protection??" Sands asked skeptically.
Lyn only blinked in disbelief. Insanity; that's what it was. She knew from the start that the 'I' in CIA couldn't possibly stand for 'Intelligence,' but she had always wondered what a good replacement might be. Central Insanity Agency certainly seemed to fit right now. They had to be more than a little crazy to send her off to France. Not that she was complaining about that, it was definitely a nicer assignment than the one she'd had in Mexico. But . . . Latch didn't say 'protection.' He couldn't have, he wouldn't. Hell, more than likely, she would be the one the person would need protection from.
What can I say? I'm not a people person.
"So this girl is being hunted down by a Mafia family . . . because her family's dead and she's the last one . . ." Sands shook his head after repeating this recently gained information. He opened the door of his D. C. apartment, waiting for Lynné to go through first. "If I didn't know any better . . . I'd say we were all trapped in a very tired cliché."
"Ohhh . . . probably," Lyn sighed, crossing the living room to get to the couch. "But what do I know?"
"Many useless things and an equal number of things you shouldn't know," Sands answered before getting back on track. "But she came to the CIA for help, and, they're sending her to Paris for her own . . . protection."
At this, Lynné let out a raucous laugh that dripped with sarcasm.
"But, in reality, we want the mob to find her so the CIA can bring them down, that right?"
"That's the idea," Lyn said, folding her arms over her chest casually.
"And the name of this woman is . . . I don't know what the hell kinda name this is for a person but . . . Zebbidy . . . Samhain?" he murmured as he strode through the room.
"SOW-when," Lyn corrected offhandedly, but she rolled her eyes nonetheless. "Irish, if I'm not mistaken."
"I didn't know you spoke Irish," Sands said as he threw open the door to his bedroom.
"I don't," his sister called from the living room. She was making herself comfortable in her brother's humble abode and had already pulled out her latest read: Stephen King's Four Past Midnight, a collection of four short yet horrific stories that kept her on edge of her seat. Well, the first one (The Langoliers) had anyway, but maybe that was because it was about airplanes. Hopefully the second story in the collection, one entitled Secret Window, Secret Garden, would be just as spellbinding.
"Then how do you explain 'SOW-when?" Sands called to Lyn from his bedroom.
"You know, I really don't know," she answered truthfully. "I think I read it in a book somewhere or something . . ."
Sands rolled his eyes at this comment, picking up and discarding a pair tennis racket that, he imagined, had been thrown into his trash heap of a closet randomly. He continued rummaging around the area for clothes and other various items of requirement: Walkman, CDs that contained good music, toothbrush and paste, fake moustaches and the like, and, of course, his third arm. Damn thing just about saved his life about five months ago in Mexico but where the hell was it . . . ??
Vaguely he wondered why Lynné was at his place instead of ferreting around her own home, looking for her goddamn disguises and vast assortment of outfits like Fusco had, but no matter. Knowing Lyn, she didn't have that much to pack, having just gotten back from her mission in Williamsburg, Virginia.
You're kidding, right? his voice asked. May I remind you that she's a woman, no matter how touched her little head might me. Therefore, despite the fact that her suitcases are probably already ready doesn't mean anything. She's gonna have to go out a by herself a whole new wardrobe for this trip, especially since it's in FRANCE.
Y'know, I think you've got something there, Sands told it. Straightening, he caught site of himself in the mirror hanging beside the closet door. He had his hair pulled back for reasons he didn't know (Lyn said it was because he was chauvinistic but he begged to differ). In any case, the lack of hair made his facial features more noticeable. Now his eyes stood out more with nothing to curtain them from the world.
Sands abandoned his search for his missing arm for the time being and tossed one of his tackier T-shirts (one that read: 'Man's Best Friend' and had an arrow pointing downward) into his opened suitcase. Instead he moved closer to the sliver of reflective glass on his wall and began to study his image.
'Oh, they're green? How does that look on me?'
'Sands, dear, I must be honest,' Lyn had said, reaching out and placing a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. 'It does absolutely nothing for your image.'
And she had been right, Sands had learned several months later. Once he had finally regained his sight (which was still more than a little blurred) he had had to wear glasses for about a month and during that time he had glanced at a mirror. As soon as he did this he saw that his sister's uncanny ability to always be correct had not wavered in the slightest. Green eyes did not work with him, no questions asked. They just didn't fit his face, his personality, him in general. Shortly after, he had convinced the man who had performed the surgery that had replaced his empty sockets with light green orbs to let him get contact lenses. Colored contact lenses, to be precise. And so his eyes were back to their original, dark, intense brown hue, and he plainly refused to have it any other way.
Sands faced twisted into a smile and he smirked at his own image in the mirror with something once might consider to be satisfaction. Blue could have worked, but . . . nah. He was defiant, he had to give himself that. And, upon seeing the time (7:00 PM) reflected backwards in his mirror, he would be late as well.
Turning away from the mirror Sands surveyed the miscellaneous mixture of things that were scattered throughout his bedroom. The rest of his house wasn't like this. Actually, apart from the bedroom, the rest of the apartment was quite organized. He supposed his sleeping quarters were just a mess simply because whenever he came home from a mission, he would throw off his shoes and whatever shirt he was wearing, chuck anything he was carrying in a corner, and promptly collapse on the bed. Taking in the wreck of a bedroom before him, Sands sighed in an 'oh well' sort of way. He had best get packing. They were supposed to be at the airport at 5:00 AM the next moring. And it was there that he would have the pleasure (and he used the term lightly) of meeting Miss Sam-when . . . Samhane . . . Sam-hen . . .
SOW-when?
Well, there you have the first chapter. I hope I made it enjoyable. Dunno where the Williamsburg thing came from, honestly. I really think I was just thinking about the time my family went to Colonial Williamsburg – word of advice: Very nice place, it's gorgeous and very informative too. u.u (history freak here, don't mind her 9.9) Oh, and if nobody caught that 'Secret Window' or 'Pirates of the Caribbean' references, I will scream. Seriously, guys . . . I will. .;;;
Oh, and a note about the title of this new fic. It is, in fact, also named after a song. A very good song that, in my opinion, reminds me more of Sands and Ajedrez's . . . relationship even more than 'Crazy Dream' by the Los Lonely Boys or 'Day Tripper' by the Beatles. Actually, 'Day Tripper' makes me think of Lyn more than anything else, as I said in TLWH. But anyway, once this story is done I'll post the lyrics in the last chapter just like in my previous OUaTiM story. ) Then tell me they don't make sense, why don't you. (yes, I'm looking at you, Gilatas Monster .O) R&R! Thanks!
o