Oct. 13th, 2007 03:30 pm
zabytsya: (Default)
[personal profile] zabytsya
I know I was right, to hold things back, even from the soft-spoken man with the kind face and the warm brown eyes of a Labrador.

I just didn’t hold enough back.

Intuitively, I sensed that he meant me no harm.

In fact, he only wanted to help.

But there was too much I didn’t know, about the man, about the situation, about myself.

In all honesty, though, I’m more confused than lost.

I woke to a miasma punctuated by half-formed images, impulses, instinctive assumptions, embryonic thoughts.

I shouldn’t be here. Something horrific had happened. I needed to do something, go somewhere, find someone.

Then slowly, everything had sharpened, like a movie brought into focus.

I still can’t remember the past few hours – days? – but I no longer feel like I want to. Better it stay lost. The horror of that revelation still lingers, lurking like a shadow in my peripheral vision.

I can’t think about that. Not now. And not stay sane. I feel like something more fundamental than my identity has been stripped away, taken from me.

Something I’ll never get back.

Somehow it feels like I’ve been diminished, and I’m less than what I was.

But at the same time…

I have a mission.

I have to remember that.

It came back to me because I needed it to return, I needed something to focus on, to drive the shadows back.

I have a mission, and a name, and a home I left behind.

The thing is, I’ve already said too much. I let it slip like water through my fingers, back when I was struggling, grasping for purchase.

The KGB pathologist knows two things about me that could easily get me killed.

When I woke up, I was speaking English.

Later, when he questioned me as to why I was here, I told him the exact reason:

I’m looking for someone.

Smooth. Some spy I am. Nice way to botch my first deep insertion stealth mission.

What he’ll do with the information, I have no idea. He could be reporting it to his superiors at this very moment, and they’ll burst in here and haul me off for interrogation.

Top secret Soviet military bases don’t take well to the intrusion of CIA agents, after all.

When I was sent on this mission, I remember they told me again and again that it was to be a purely stealth mission. To be seen by no one, to leave no traces of my passage. To let no one know that I was here.

Get in, find out what happened to Snake, get out.

They told me that so many times, I almost laughed.

Not deaf. Not stupid, either. I know what a stealth mission is.

Guess I’m sure as hell not laughing now.

Now that I’ve failed that six ways to Sunday, I need to figure out what to do.

Disappear? Cut out, run home with my tail between my legs, and tell them I failed, send someone else? That something happened to me out here that –


That’s not an option, is it.

I’m not in good enough physical condition to go sneaking around base right now, hiding from the guards, looking for Snake.

Poison, the KGB pathologist said.

I’ve been wounded as well. Deep wound on the chest, another on the back.

And then there’s the…the other thing that happened to me.

And if I’m caught sneaking around out there, I’ll really look like a spy then.

Time for Plan B.

There’s hiding, and there’s hiding in plain sight.

I think I can milk the memory thing for a while, since I honestly do have gaps, entire reels that are still out of focus. Not such a stretch to say I can’t remember anything at all, even though I’m starting to remember everything.

I guess that ultimately, though, what happens right now is out of my hands.

It all depends on what the KGB man, this Rakitin, decides to do.

Was I wrong about him?

Or does it even matter if I’m right?

One of my instructors back at Langley told me once that there’s no such thing as luck, and that the only thing that matters is skill.

At the time, I believed it, but now I’m hoping he was wrong.

I could use a little luck right now.

December 2007

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