FIC: Operation: On The Swell 2/?
Apr. 9th, 2012 03:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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x_projectAnother instalment from our sea-faring [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com].
“Good to know dat we honoured guests now.” Remy considered his words. “Is dis Fionna de same Fionna wit’ de IRA? Explosives expert, professional thief?”
“That’s only half of it.” Michael said, and smiled again. “So, Remy, you called, which surprised me because I was told that you’d been killed years ago.”
The problem with meeting with former intelligence operatives was that they still thought like intelligence operatives, and tended to do their homework before walking into an uncertain situation. It was to be expected, and often, the best response was to show a few of the cards you held in return.
“Funny, since I heard you’d been burned. Which makes me ask myself what a talented, trusted agent wit’ as much hotspot field experience as you could have possibly done to get burned. Sex scandal wit’ de wife of a diplomat? Caught wit’ a Swiss account dat isn’t part of Agency coverage?”
“Michael’s sex scandals have been sadly circumspect.” The diminutive red-head took a seat to his left, eyes hidden behind her tan overlarge sunglasses. “Unless you’re here to offer, which is altogether more interesting than I thought this lunch would be about.”
“Down, Fi.” Weston leaned back, weighing Remy and Ororo up for a moment. People liked to talk about reading the tells of an opponent. How great poker players could size each other up and learn their individual ticks and telltale movements that showed what they were thinking. The thing most people didn’t know was that while the tell has become the province of the card table, the thinking behind it was developed by duelists; be they noble lords or gunfighters, they learned to see the move of an opponent in their eyes, and the ones that didn’t learn didn’t live long enough to understand what they missed. Money sharpens the skill quickly, but nothing beats your life on the line to properly etch it in.
“I don’t know exactly why I was burned. It seems to be the first step in a recruitment scheme from some mysterious shadow agency, but I haven’t gotten deep enough to really track them down. It’s got major resources, plenty of political pull, and some kind of civil war at the heart.” He took off his sunglasses. “It was able to burn me with a fake file so good that I come out looking like one of the greatest monsters of the last twenty-five years in the intelligence community.”
Remy let out a low whistle. Weston wasn’t wrong. That required serious juice in the influence department. They either really wanted Weston or hated him enough to pour those kinds of resources into him.
“We can assume you actually aren’t one of these monsters, Michael?” Ororo said sweetly.
“Michael is a hardly the monster type. He’s to busy trying to save the world to, say, bury people in the bottom of a dumpster with a round behind the ear because they’re a danger to him. It’s a real failing in his line of work.”
“But not you?”
“I like to think of myself as efficient. Reasonable.” Fionna gave them a hard look. “Decisive.”
“Fi.” Michael said warningly.
“No, Michael. I’m simply answering the questions of your friends here. Maybe we’ll all be best friends by the end of lunch.” Fionna waved at the waitress and pointed to Ororo’s drink. “We’ll need two more of these here.”
“Good to know dat we honoured guests now.” Remy considered his words. “Is dis Fionna de same Fionna wit’ de IRA? Explosives expert, professional thief?”
“That’s only half of it.” Michael said, and smiled again. “So, Remy, you called, which surprised me because I was told that you’d been killed years ago.”
The problem with meeting with former intelligence operatives was that they still thought like intelligence operatives, and tended to do their homework before walking into an uncertain situation. It was to be expected, and often, the best response was to show a few of the cards you held in return.
“Funny, since I heard you’d been burned. Which makes me ask myself what a talented, trusted agent wit’ as much hotspot field experience as you could have possibly done to get burned. Sex scandal wit’ de wife of a diplomat? Caught wit’ a Swiss account dat isn’t part of Agency coverage?”
“Michael’s sex scandals have been sadly circumspect.” The diminutive red-head took a seat to his left, eyes hidden behind her tan overlarge sunglasses. “Unless you’re here to offer, which is altogether more interesting than I thought this lunch would be about.”
“Down, Fi.” Weston leaned back, weighing Remy and Ororo up for a moment. People liked to talk about reading the tells of an opponent. How great poker players could size each other up and learn their individual ticks and telltale movements that showed what they were thinking. The thing most people didn’t know was that while the tell has become the province of the card table, the thinking behind it was developed by duelists; be they noble lords or gunfighters, they learned to see the move of an opponent in their eyes, and the ones that didn’t learn didn’t live long enough to understand what they missed. Money sharpens the skill quickly, but nothing beats your life on the line to properly etch it in.
“I don’t know exactly why I was burned. It seems to be the first step in a recruitment scheme from some mysterious shadow agency, but I haven’t gotten deep enough to really track them down. It’s got major resources, plenty of political pull, and some kind of civil war at the heart.” He took off his sunglasses. “It was able to burn me with a fake file so good that I come out looking like one of the greatest monsters of the last twenty-five years in the intelligence community.”
Remy let out a low whistle. Weston wasn’t wrong. That required serious juice in the influence department. They either really wanted Weston or hated him enough to pour those kinds of resources into him.
“We can assume you actually aren’t one of these monsters, Michael?” Ororo said sweetly.
“Michael is a hardly the monster type. He’s to busy trying to save the world to, say, bury people in the bottom of a dumpster with a round behind the ear because they’re a danger to him. It’s a real failing in his line of work.”
“But not you?”
“I like to think of myself as efficient. Reasonable.” Fionna gave them a hard look. “Decisive.”
“Fi.” Michael said warningly.
“No, Michael. I’m simply answering the questions of your friends here. Maybe we’ll all be best friends by the end of lunch.” Fionna waved at the waitress and pointed to Ororo’s drink. “We’ll need two more of these here.”
