JayBee

Fic: Missing and Present (Spooks/MI-5, Ros/Lucas, R)

Sun, 11 Jan 2009 02:04:32 GMT

Title: Missing and Present
Fandom: Spooks/MI-5
Characters/Pairing: Ros/Lucas
Rating: R
Wordcount: Approx. 1800
Spoilers: Set in the immediate aftermath of 708, so contains spoilers through the end of Series 7
Summary: Ros bears burdens for colleagues both missing and present. But maybe she's not the only one.

Written for PetiteEtoile22 for Yuletide '08. She asked for Ros/Lucas hurt-comfort. I'm not sure if I quite managed the hurt-comfort, but I aimed for a similar kind of mood.

It's not quite panic that seizes Ros when she learns that Harry is missing. Panic is a species of emotion, and Ros can't seem to summon up any feeling whatsoever. Rather, she's gripped by an absence of feeling, a lack of reaction, a kind of numb stupor that shuts down all attempts at cognitive function. Her mind spins uselessly but ever more rapidly, orbiting in irresistibly descending spirals around a fact that she refuses to acknowledge or believe.

What she's heard cannot possibly be. And so the earth stops turning, her heart stops beating, and time itself halts in an agonising moment of denial that she strains to prolong for eternity.

Then the universe jerks free from her control, the magnetic poles shift, and everything begins to move again. Harry's missing, and they must find him: it's brutal, unavoidable truth. Ros looks over at Lucas. His expression is grim, his thin face pale. Moments ago, they were celebrating yet another near escape in the never-ending series of near escapes they've come to call their lives; now, they stand in dejected silence, covered in grime, blood, dust, and pulverised traces of human remains.

"You need to have your wound seen to," she says. She's matter-of-fact, because anything else would be beneath them.

"Right," he answers, just as matter-of-fact, and then he looks away.

They don't speak again until they reach Thames House.

***

Ros reports what little she knows to the Home Secretary, filling in details from Malcolm's debrief. The Home Secretary is concerned and supportive, or so he says in that self-consciously statesman-like manner of his, and he offers to do anything -- anything at all -- he possibly can to help. She knows he won't, in the end: a politician's promise, however sincere, always crumbles beneath the weight of expediency. But for the sake of preserving his illusions about his own integrity, she stands and thanks him in crisp, professional tones as she leaves. The door closes behind her, solid and dismissive.

She tries to call in favours at Vauxhall Cross, but that's a futile effort. There, she's tainted, forever Collingwood's girl and thus a source of institutional shame. Many of her former colleagues won't speak with her at all. A few others drop not-so-subtle hints that Harry wouldn't be in such straits had he refrained from encroaching upon their jurisdiction in the first place. They send her on her way, rebuffed and empty-handed.

Back at Section D, Dolby lingers distractingly by desks, hovers over shoulders like a sallow-faced sentinel, and engages in an elaborate pretence of supervision -- but he can't bring himself to look Ros in the eye. Whenever there's anything concrete to do, he cedes operational control to her, retreating to Harry's office to thumb through papers and talk in muffled whispers to the JIC on the telephone.

Everyone else seems to look to her for reassurance -- even Malcolm, who's been on the Grid since the dawn of time. The hopeful pleading in their eyes nearly makes her knees buckle, but she straightens her shoulders, lifts up her chin, and projects a confidence that she doesn't actually feel. It doesn't matter if she wants to scream, cry, or curl up in a foetal position in a corner; she's their leader and she must set an example.

Suddenly, she knows what it must feel like for Harry, day after day after day: surrounded by colleagues, but utterly alone.

***

That night in bed, she lies motionless, eyes wide open in the dark because closing them doesn't bring on any increased desire for sleep. Eventually, she switches on the lamp and opens a novel. When she finds herself mindlessly reading the same paragraph four times in a row, she sets down the book, throws off the duvet, and gets up.

By the time she showers, dresses, and hails a taxi, it's three in the morning. The security screeners at the entrance of Thames House rouse themselves from their lethargy to let her pass.

"The early bird catches the worm, eh?" ventures the chattier of the two. She silences him with a stare.

The Grid itself is hushed and dim, lit only by a handful of computer monitors that cast a blueish hue throughout the room. She has it all to herself for a few hours, or so she assumes, until she spots a lean figure slouched in a chair.

"Lucas," she says.

"Ros." He tilts his head towards the far side of the room. "There's fresh coffee."

"Thank you." She approaches his desk and glances down at his screen. "Find anything interesting?"

"Not yet."

She leans in and takes a closer look. He's reading raw transcripts of FSB communications intercepted overnight by GCHQ.

"They won't mention him," she says. "They know we're listening."

"I know," he replies. "Still, it might be useful to see who's talking to whom."

She nods in acknowledgement. Spotting a familiar name in the transcript, she murmurs, "Vasiliev. Look there, it says he's been called in to Moscow. That may be something."

Lucas does a half-turn in his chair and cranes his neck to look up at her. "Your Russian's quite good." His tone is approving and more than a bit surprised.

She smiles. "I learnt to speak some as a child. I lived there for a few years."

"Really? What were you doing in Russia?"

"My father was the British Ambassador, you know." She waits for the inevitable, "Oh, that's right," but when it doesn't come, she realises from his curious expression that no, he doesn't know.

She'd assumed that he would know -- that he'd looked up her file, that he'd gossipped with Jo or Ben, or that somehow he'd simply known, just by looking at her, because she carries responsibility for her past crimes around like a shield to ward off anyone foolish enough to get too close. It hadn't occurred to her until now that perhaps he'd had too many of his own ghosts to contend with over the past few months to bother looking for hers.

It's an odd relief to be talking to someone who doesn't know her whole sordid life story. He doesn't know about the coup attempt; he doesn't know that her father is in prison; he doesn't know that she betrayed Harry and had to die and be reborn as penance. He doesn't know any of that. For him, she's just a new colleague. A blank slate.

A fresh start.

***

They find themselves in the conference room where Adam once hurled a chair in rage over her betrayal. It's something akin to rage that she unleashes now, lashing out at Lucas the way she destroyed her hotel room -- except better and more satisfying, because Lucas fights back, matching her blow for blow, bite for bite, scratch for scratch.

The table is cold and hard and unforgiving against her bare spine; Lucas is all bones and sharp edges and taut, inky skin. She rakes her nails deep along his back and hopes she leaves her own, permanent marks; he yanks her hands away and pins them painfully above her head. She curses, maybe in English, maybe in Russian, maybe in garbled incoherence -- she's not even sure whose voice it is that cries out, hers or his.

He's not Adam; he never will be, and maybe that's the point. He has no expectations for her to disappoint; he can't judge her because he has no knowledge of her past self to compare her to. At the same time, he can't offer forgiveness, redemption, or inner peace. But he's here, and he's now, and he wants her -- and that's more than enough for the moment.

Adam was danger, impossible choices, and the helpless inability to say no even though they both knew better. She could say no to Lucas if she chose. But there's something about him that draws her to him: he's loss and involuntary exile; he's bitterness swallowed, turned inward, and finally overcome; he's rebirth, homecoming, and a rediscovered sense of purpose. He's not so different from Ros, in fact. And what they both are, what they've become, at last, is Section D.

She's made her choices, and in the end, they were the right ones. She suspects his were, too.

***

Afterwards, they gather their rumpled clothes from the floor. They don't apologise, or offer awkward excuses, or make promises that neither of them could possibly keep. Instead, they simply get dressed and return to work.

She settles down at a workstation. He hands her a mug of coffee before he sits down in a nearby chair. He sips his own drink, cupping his hands around the sides.

"Eight years may have felt like forever, but it isn't really all that long a time to be gone," he says. "And yet the only people left from those days are Malcolm and Harry." In the subdued light, she thinks she sees a trace of wistfulness cross his face. "Sometimes I feel like I've awakened from a coma and found my whole life already gone by. There's a history here, and I'm not part of it anymore."

"I could try to fill you in," she offers.

"Did you know Tom? Tessa?"

"No. Malcolm mentions Tom now and then. I've never heard of Tessa."

"Brilliant woman. Quite the political operator. I thought she'd be here forever."

"There are several people I could say that about."

He sets down his mug, and his gaze sharpens. "Maybe we'll be gone in a few years, too."

She holds his stare, unblinking. He's right, of course, but it's defeatist to think that way, and she refuses to allow him, or her, or anyone to give in to that sort of pessimism. "There's a difference between us and the rest of them," she says, insistent. "We all left -- but the two of us came back. It sets us apart. It means we're meant to be here."

For the first time she can recall since she met him, he laughs. A real laugh, with the corners of his eyes wrinkling in mirth. "So we're fated, then? Or is it doomed?"

She shrugs. "Is there a difference?"

He doesn't answer. Smiling, he picks up his coffee and walks away.

She turns her attention to the computer and opens a file. They'll find Harry. She's certain now. He may be gone, but he'll be back, too, just like Ros and Lucas -- because like them, he's meant to be in Section D. He is Section D, more than any of them.

When the others begin to straggle in to begin the morning shift, sleep still creasing their faces, she's able to greet them with a smile. This time, her confidence is genuine, not merely forced out of a sense of duty.

Suddenly, she knows what it must feel like for Harry, day after day after day: surrounded by colleagues, and thus never alone.

For those who prefer visiting the Yuletide archive itself, my story is here.

Fic: Gifts (Spooks/MI-5, Rated PG)

Sat, 20 Dec 2008 20:47:56 GMT

Title: Gifts
Fandom: Spooks/MI-5
Rating: PG
Wordcount: Just over 2000
Characters/Pairing: Juliet, Ruth, Harry, and Oliver Mace; references to Ruth/Harry, Juliet/Harry, and maybe even Mace/Harry if you squint
Spoilers: Set during Series 4, although there are no particular spoilers aside from who the characters are.
Note: Written for green_bottles for the Spooks Secret Santa 2008 Challenge. She asked for Juliet, Lucas, Ruth, Harry, or Mace as characters (I managed 4 of the 5!) and Juliet/Harry, Ruth/Harry, Malcolm/Ros, Malcolm/Colin, or Harry/Mace as pairings (I got in 3, well, maybe 2 1/2 of 5), and her prompt was "biting piece of chocolate with dry exterior". I hope you like it!

Spooks Secret Santa Masterlist here.

The first week of Juliet's new job, Oliver Mace pays an unannounced call, carrying a box covered in shiny silver wrapping paper.

"An office-warming gift," he says, handing it to her with a pinched smile that makes him look more pleased with himself than genuinely congratulatory.

"How thoughtful." Juliet accepts the box and gives it a quick, appraising inspection. It's heavier than she would have expected, but as far as she can tell, it's not ticking. "Shall I?"

"By all means." He lowers himself into one of her chairs -- making himself far too much at home for Juliet's taste -- and watches as she pulls off the wrapping.

A crystal paperweight. Solid and well-made, it has a nice heft as she rolls it around her palm. It's even engraved with a rather attractive, abstract design. "Thank you," she says, placing it on a prominent spot on her desk. "You shouldn't have."

"You'll need it, now that you've got a comfortable desk job. Lots of paper pushing to do."

"You should know," she says, with an eyebrow arched for emphasis.

He smiles again, more broadly this time; he even shows a flash of teeth.

"It will be nice to have someone sensible in this post, at last," he says, ignoring her quip. "Someone who understands the complexity of the times we face. Someone who knows the importance of cooperation. Of compromise. Of give and take."

"Oh, you know me. I'm the very model of cooperativeness. As long as I get my way."

"Droll, as usual. I expect no less." He stands, to her relief. "Well, I must be off. Let me know if you need any help settling in."

"I'll be sure to."

"By the way," he says, pausing just short of the door, "something came to my attention that you might want to be aware of. Ruth Evershed is nosing about in records that she shouldn't."

"Ruth Evershed?" Juliet frowns.

"One of Harry Pearce's gang of buccaneers."

It takes a moment for Juliet to match the name with the person in her memory, but when she does, she bursts out in laughter. The mousy analyst who stares at the floor whenever spoken to?

"Honestly, Oliver, isn't this a bit beneath both our pay grades? If this woman's committed a security breach, there are channels to deal with that sort of thing."

"Oh, quite. But the reason I bring it up is because, apparently, one of the unauthorised files she's accessed is your personnel record."

Juliet blinks. "Is it, now?"

"I expect she's just being curious. No real harm done." He bestows one last smile, this one the broadest yet. "But you should keep a close eye on that one. She's more than what she seems."

***

Juliet pays more attention to Evershed the next time she's on the Grid. During Juliet's meeting with Harry, Ruth taps on the door and carries in a towering stack of documents that threaten to spill from her arms before she can deposit them on Harry's desk. Her demeanour seems timid, as if she expects Harry or Juliet -- or both of them -- to rip her head off for the interruption, but then there's a look in her eye that belies the surface lack of assertiveness. It's only a furtive glance Juliet's way, but it's unmistakable: hostility, mixed with suspicion, laced with what can only be described as territoriality.

Well, well. So Ruth Evershed isn't just the drab tea lady after all. She openly dislikes Juliet, in fact. And Juliet has a good idea why.

Juliet could set the woman's mind at ease if she really wanted, but what would be the fun of that?

***

Juliet doesn't give Ruth a second thought for months after that. Not until she has another encounter with Oliver Mace. He and Juliet spend an hour arguing about some secret committee or other that he wants to establish. She's not, on principle, opposed to secret committees -- they do have their uses -- but she wouldn't trust him in charge of any such thing. Not that she tells him that, of course, Instead, she makes noises about procedure and transparency and her favourite all-purpose excuse of late, accountability.

"I have to think about the PM's reputation should this leak to the press," she says, feigning concern.

"For God's sake, Juliet," he says, then sighs in exasperation. "You've been spending too much time listening to Harry Pearce. He always was a bad influence on you."

"Oh, don't blame Harry just because your idea's rubbish," she replies. "Talk to me again when you have something workable to propose."

On the way back to her office, she wonders about Oliver's absurd tendency to blame Harry for everything that doesn't go his way. It's unhealthy, really, how often Oliver brings up the other man. He'd been like that in the old days, too. Except back then it had been more of an obsequious currying of favour, as if Harry was a kind of golden boy whose charm would rub off on Oliver if only he could get close enough.

She'll never forget that time she and Harry had been in the café in Paris. Stupidly -- thanks to self-absorbed recklessness fuelled by far, far too many drinks -- they'd been holding hands across the table, when out of nowhere Oliver appeared. They snatched their hands back, but not quite fast enough. Oliver pretended that he hadn't seen what they were doing; they pretended that they didn't mind him joining them for dinner; and they all pretended like they got along wonderfully. Oliver insisted on paying for all of them; he was all smiles and jokes and chummy anecdotes about their mutual acquaintances. As the evening wore on, he wound up up leaning in so close that his cologne began to make Juliet's nose twitch with a horrible desire to sneeze.

She was saved when Oliver excused himself to visit the toilet. As soon as he was beyond earshot, Harry rolled his eyes in disgust. "I can't believe he's so blatantly chatting you up, when I'm sitting right here," he exclaimed.

"Me?" replied Juliet with a little snort of surprise. "I don't think I'm the one he fancies."

Harry turned pink, then scarlet, then a dark shade of purple, and by the time Oliver returned to the table, Juliet was wiping her eyes in hysterical laughter.

She teased Harry about that for weeks afterwards. In retrospect, that may have been the beginning of the end. Harry didn't take well to being mocked, and his growing annoyance only made Juliet perversely more inclined to do so. If they hadn't been forcibly separated shortly thereafter, she's convinced that their relationship would have died a natural -- and quite possibly acrimonious -- death anyway. Not that she ever got the chance to find out.

She's always wondered whether it was Oliver who turned them in. It seems fitting, somehow. If he had, he'd done her a favour, really. Oh, in the short run, it nearly derailed her career completely. For more years than she cares to think about, she almost lost herself to bitterness and resentment over the double standard in the way it was all handled. In the end, however, nothing could dampen her ambition. It was a setback, nothing more, and a lesson. A lesson about how to pick herself up and start over again, about how to avoid such traps in the future. She was lucky it happened when it did, when the stakes were relatively low. Yes, she had to put up with disdainful looks from her female colleagues and snide jokes from the males, but that just taught her not to care too much what people thought of her. After all, there was very little embarrassment that couldn't be lived down if one just had the nerve to brazen it out.

Ruth Evershed hasn't learnt those sorts of lessons, Juliet is quite sure. Ruth wears her emotions on the surface, where anyone who isn't either blind or named Harry Pearce can see them, plain as the Swiss Re building on the skyline. It's so utterly, so painfully obvious what's going on, Juliet's tempted to pull Ruth aside and give her some frank advice. Certainly no one else will. All Ruth's colleagues are too kind-hearted. But being kind-hearted isn't actually a kindness. Sometimes only someone who isn't a friend, someone who doesn't care about hurt feelings, can offer you the true kindness of telling you what you need to hear.

The next time Juliet gets the opportunity, that's exactly what she'll do. She can spare someone else from making the same kind of mistakes she did. Why, it can be her good deed for the year. Far better than her usual choice of tossing a few coins into a charity bucket.

***

When Juliet next happens to pay a visit to Section D, she inadvertently walks in on the middle of some sort of Christmas party. There's food; there are snowman-themed decorations strung up along the workstations; and there appears to be a punchbowl full of something bright red and no doubt alcoholic.

When they all turn to see who's passed through the pods, their expressions are crestfallen.

"Just call me the Ghost of Christmas Future," she announces. "I've come to show Harry all the dreadful things that will come to pass if he doesn't change his stubborn ways. The rest of you, do carry on with your celebration."

Harry exchanges a quick glance with a smirking Adam, then ushers Juliet into his office. As promised, she proceeds to elaborate upon all the dire scenarios that can be expected if Harry doesn't miraculously conjure up several prominent victories for the PM to impress the Americans with. He makes sour faces and grumbles about politicians; she crosses her arms and tells him she doesn't care if he likes it as long as he complies. Their usual ritual. Strangely enjoyable, although she'd never admit it.

As she takes her leave and heads towards the exit, Adam stops her, a glass of punch in his hand.

"You are welcome to join us," he says, extending the glass.

She glances towards the pods, then hesitates. "Well. It is the season, isn't it?"

After engaging in a surprisingly pleasant conversation with Adam for several minutes, she finds herself in a corner with Malcolm and that new girl who looks like she can't be any older than sixteen. Jenna? Jeana? Whoever she is, she's far too earnest and energetic for Juliet to take for much longer without another stiff drink. Juliet breaks away to pour herself a second glass of punch, and then it occurs to her: this is the perfect moment to have her little sisterly tête-à-tête with Ruth. She can grab her by the arm, steer her up to the roof, and then tell her logically and precisely why -- for her own good -- she should absolutely avoid any romantic entanglement with Harry Pearce.

She sets down her glass and looks purposefully around the room. Ruth is at her desk, talking with Harry -- but there's something in the expressions on their faces that makes Juliet stop short.

She knows what flirtation looks like. She knows what infatuation looks like, too. What she sees isn't either of those things. It's...oh, Lord, it's worse than she thought.

No. However much Ruth might need to hear some blunt advice, Juliet can't make herself go through with it. Not everyone is like her, capable of growing a thick skin. Not everyone needs to be like her, when she really thinks about it. She'll leave things be. If Ruth is to be disillusioned, Juliet won't be the cause. Besides, not everything necessarily has to turn out as disillusionment, after all.

She hopes, in this case, that it doesn't.

She turns back to Malcolm. "I'm afraid I have work to do. Thanks for the punch."

"Happy Christmas, Juliet," he answers.

"The same to you."

On her way out, she spots a box of chocolates on someone's desk. She reaches in and steals one with a powdery, coconut exterior. Then she wraps her scarf around her throat and heads off into the cold winter afternoon.

As she steps out onto the street, she bites into the chocolate. It's bittersweet, just as she expected.

Fic: The Monster At Home (Spooks/MI-5, Juliet, Genfic, Rated R)

Fri, 07 Nov 2008 04:00:04 GMT

Title: The Monster At Home
Fandom: Spooks/MI-5
Rating: R (for references to violence and strong language)
Characters: Juliet-centric genfic, with appearances by Harry, Ros, and Adam, among others.
Spoilers: Contains spoilers all the way through the end of S6; certain scenes and snippets of dialogue borrowed from numerous episodes scattered throughout S5 and S6.
Wordcount: Approximately 7700
Summary: How could she have failed to notice such a dangerous threat? She hadn't thought to be vigilant for it, that's how. She'd spent too many years in Washington: she hadn't paid enough attention to the monster lurking at home.
Disclaimer and thanks: The characters and settings belong to the BBC and Kudos. Thanks to msgenevieve for the handholding and encouragement and to petite etoile22 for the beta! This is a new fandom for me, and constructive criticism is more than welcome!

The first time Juliet lays eyes on Ros Myers, she mutters to Harry, "Well, she'll get the attention of the red-blooded males."

It comes out sounding envious, which thankfully Harry is gentleman enough to ignore. But it's not quite envy, is it?

She sets the question aside. There are far more pressing things to think about at the moment, like the fuel depot bombings, three men dead oozing tears of blood, a country in the grip of a media-inflamed panic, and God only knows what might happen next.

Yet as they all shake hands and make their introductions, she finds her attention oddly fixed on Ros. There's something about the woman that both attracts and repels: the white-blonde hair, the tastefully tailored grey suit, the pair of black heels that could puncture a steel plate, but most of all the rigid glaze across her face that doesn't crack even when she smiles. Juliet has a knack for making snap judgements about people, but Ros defies categorisation. She's empty; she's a cipher; she's a vacuum that somehow resists being filled.

Pleasantries exchanged, they all take their seats. The meeting goes nowhere, as expected. It's a pissing match between Michael Collingwood and the Home Secretary, which would be amusingly ludicrous in an overgrown schoolboy sort of way if there weren't a genuine crisis to cope with. As it is, however, there isn't time to waste with such nonsense; since Juliet's job title does, after all, contain the word "coordinator", she takes advantage of an awkward lull in the hostilities to jump in and move things along.

For her trouble, Collingwood interrupts her -- twice -- but just as she's on the verge of ripping off his testicles, she reminds herself that his real target is the Home Secretary. She just happened to get in the middle of them, figuratively, and got elbowed out of the way. Against her usual instincts, she stifles her temper while Harry and Adam finally steer the meeting onto a more productive track. As they take over, she observes Ros, who hasn't uttered a word. Ros just sits and watches, the corners of her mouth lifted ever so slightly, like she knows something the rest of them don't and finds it oh-so-comical.

Interesting. Ros is up to something, she and Collingwood both, and it's not simply taunting Cabinet Ministers for sport. Whatever it is, let them get on with it: Juliet can duel with the best of them, as can Harry Pearce, so Collingwood and his tartish blonde lackey had better watch out.

***

Juliet can scarcely believe what she's hearing.

It's disorienting enough watching Harry and Adam stalk back and forth like caged tigers across her living room carpet at two in the morning, but what they've come to tell her verges on the surreal.

Conspiracies within the government don't exactly faze her; after all, she's dabbled in one or two herself. But the scope of this one beggars belief: elements within MI6 deliberately provoking terrorist incidents, assassinating high-ranking political advisers, and now attempting to abduct the Prime Minister's son? She's tempted to summon an ambulance and have both men committed to a mental ward -- except that they've brought proof. Evidence directly implicating Michael Collingwood and Ros Myers, no less. Perched on the edge of her sofa in a dressing gown and slippers, Juliet examines the documents and photographs for several silent minutes, then looks up.

"Jesus Christ," she exclaims, unable in the initial fog of her shock to think of anything more intelligent to say.

"They've murdered one of my officers," says Harry, and his gaze fills with a volcanic loathing. If it were aimed at Juliet, her skin would blister. No, she would be incinerated. She instinctively shrinks out of the way.

"We want to confront them tomorrow," says Adam. "Once they know we're on to them, they'll be forced to advance their timetable. If they're in a hurry, they might make a mistake."

"Or they might just crush us before we can figure out their next move," counters Juliet.

"We can't let them," says Harry. As if it's as simple as that.

After they leave, she bolts the door, then leans her back against it and closes her eyes. She's dizzy, and not just from being abruptly awakened. She takes a few deep breaths to steady herself, and then she heads to the kitchen and pours herself a more-than-generous serving of gin. She finishes it in one gulp. The warm flush gives her the illusion of courage, if not the reality.

What it doesn't give her is any comfort. She's always prided herself on her connections, on knowing everyone and everything, on sensing changes in the political weather before the wind can even begin to shift. But she hadn't seen this coming.

How could she have failed to notice such a dangerous threat? She hadn't thought to be vigilant for it, that's how. She'd spent too many years in Washington, had convinced herself that the American hegemon was the source of all evil. She'd only looked outward, not inward.

She hadn't paid enough attention to the monster lurking at home.

***

In the depths of Whitehall, where one tries not to imagine what spectres may dwell, the military intelligence bunker smells stale from decades of accumulated must. As Juliet descends the rickety stairs with her colleagues, she doubts it's been used since the Suez crisis.

Downstairs, Collingwood, Ros Myers and Millington -- that little gnome of a so-called media mogul -- await in a menacing-looking line to greet their adversaries, like characters from a low-budget gangster film. It's all so sordid and melodramatic that she really should laugh, and yet at the same time it sets her heart pounding.

They take their seats, enemies facing off on opposite sides of the table, but the place directly across from Juliet is empty. Its occupant keeps them waiting just long enough to ratchet up the anticipation, and then makes his belated entrance: Sir Jocelyn Myers, the real driving force behind everything, the "final piece in the jigsaw puzzle" as Harry so aptly puts it.

Sir Jocelyn pats his daughter's shoulder as he claims the empty seat; Ros smiles back at him with a wisp of filial pride. Their resemblance is striking, but so are the differences. What's ambiguous in Ros is overt in Sir Jocelyn. She's guarded, a frosty enigma; in contrast, he's warm and direct. He may hide what he's up to, but never who he is. It's a sign of his power -- and the confidence that accompanies it -- that he doesn't need to bother.

Juliet, too, has always felt free to be herself, but in her case only because it's actually the best disguise. In America, she was openly contemptuous of everyone she worked with, and they merely found it charming. As long as she ticked all the right ideological boxes -- strident Cold War veteran, pro-free trade -- she could insult them to their faces and still win their adoration. "It's the accent," confessed a helmet-haired Oklahoma Congresswoman at one especially stultifying state dinner. "You can say the most outrageous things and still sound so elegant!"

She sees the same kind of contempt in the expressions of the four people across the table now. She knows better than to be charmed.

The two sides finally engage, and the verbal fencing quickly draws blood. Harry does most of the talking for her camp, but when Millington launches into a pompous speech about how their self-enriching little coup will save the country for everyone's grandchildren, Juliet finally has enough.

"That is no reason to dismantle our democracy," she protests, and she hates them for provoking her to be so embarrassingly sincere, like some earnest schoolchild delivering an oral report on the Magna Carta.

Sir Jocelyn nearly laughs aloud, and for that she hates him even more. "I wonder why we fetishise democracy so much," he says, smirking. "It's a system that's a blink in the eye of history."

No, it's not, she thinks, and she suddenly doesn't feel any shame in being sincere. Democracy is something precious. Something to be proud of. Something worth fighting for. And as long as she -- and Harry, and anyone else with even a shred of decency and principle -- can stand up to these bastards, there will be a fight.

***

The ride in the car is nervous but quiet. In the rear seat, Juliet shuffles through papers without actually reading anything. Beside her, the Home Secretary sputters in outrage for a few moments, but other than agreeing with the obvious that yes, yes, they simply must do something, Juliet doesn't know what to say. They've got one week to come up with some sort of response, but the trouble is that she doesn't trust the PM not to buckle under to Sir Jocelyn's demands. There has to be a way to outflank their opponents, but she needs time to think, to gather her wits, to plot out a strategy to strike back.

Whatever course she decides to take, she'll have to find a way to warn her Yalta colleagues. She's too high-profile to steal away unnoticed, even if she hadn't resolved to stay and fight, but the rest of them might have enough time to flee the country, or at least to--

It takes a few moments for it to register that the escort's gone missing. Just as she mentions it to the Home Secretary, her phone rings. It's Adam. "Juliet, get out of the car!" he shouts, his voice high-pitched and frantic. "Get away from the vehicle!" She freezes, unable to process what he's saying, until he yells again, "Just do it, now!"

Apprehension swells into panic. She begs the driver to stop and they all scramble out the doors. The adrenaline makes her run faster than she ever has in her life.

It's not fast enough.

***

By her hospital bedside, Harry's sombre and, God help her, kind -- which means the news is dire indeed. He makes a half-hearted effort to be optimistic, but she's having none of it. She's been rendered helpless, like a fly dangling in the strands of a spider's web, and all she can do is dwell on the worst.

"They're stronger than us. They're going to finish us off," she says, giving into her gloom, and he doesn't even try to argue otherwise. They both know she's right.

As he leaves, he pauses by the door, then makes a half-turn to look back at her over his shoulder. "By the way, it was Ros Myers who sent Adam the warning about the car bomb," he says, brow wrinkling. "I'm not sure what to make of that."

She's not sure, either. Quite the family, Ros and Sir Jocelyn Myers: the father nearly killed her; the daughter saved her life. Between the two of them, they brought her to this.

She'll never forgive either one. That much she is sure of.

***

Outside, the country is falling to pieces. In between MRIs, pin prick tests and catheter cleanings, Juliet watches the news on television.

One of the security detail tells her in a whisper that Harry's been arrested. She nods stoically, but the back of her throat burns when she tries to swallow. Gallant, foolish Harry Pearce. She hopes they don't make him suffer.

She wonders, idly, if any of the hospital staff might be in Collingwood's employ. Not that there's anything she can do to defend herself, if so. A toxin surreptitiously added to her drip might very well succeed in achieving what the car bomb failed to do. Then again, perhaps not. After all, Collingwood and Sir Jocelyn hadn't even bothered approaching her to see if she would join them. That either meant they knew better -- in which case she hadn't done a good enough job cultivating her right-wing reputation -- or that they thought her irrelevant.

Strictly speaking, the former explanation should be more of a worry. Somehow, however, it's the latter that stings more.

***

She hasn't had visitors for quite some time now. Everyone she knows is in hiding or out in the streets. Even the hospital seems nearly empty; the few staff who pass by her room are silent and fearful. They forget to bring her lunch, but she's not hungry anyway.

When the police begin herding the protest marchers to slaughter, she mutes the sound but can't quite make herself turn off the set. Instead, she keeps watching, fingers tight around the remote control, while she whispers obscenities to herself. Then, somehow, nothing happens, and the tension slowly dissipates, floating away like the remnants of tear gas that drift off in the breeze.

She turns the sound back up, but the announcers are as confused as she is. All she can tell is that it's over. Over. Just like that. She's not sure how, and she hates not knowing. It's her business to know things. It's her business to know everything. Not knowing is impotence, insignificance -- paralysis.

An apologetic attendant finally carries in a dinner tray. She switches off the television and stares into space until the food grows cold.

***

Eventually, she ceases to be an afterthought, and a trail of visitors forms to deliver flowers, well wishes, and briefings. The last comes across more as ritual courtesy than anything else; the planet has resumed its regular rotation, but she remains trapped in stasis.

The Home Secretary is one of the first to stop by. His face is ruddy with triumph and mutual congratulations, as if the two of them had accomplished something other than being rendered superfluous. Like him, she'll gladly take credit for helping thwart the coup; that's just political common sense. The difference between them is that he actually believes it's true.

He is, however, full of useful details that the others have omitted. "Ros Myers switched sides at the eleventh hour," he tells her, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "According to Adam Carter, she was instrumental in bringing things to a peaceful conclusion."

How very heart-warming. The contemptible woman had no qualms about installing a Latin American-style dictatorship, but apparently the prospect of bloodshed made her squeamish. Was backing out of the plot at the last possible moment supposed to make up for everything else? Turn her from a criminal into a heroine, just because she was too gutless to see her misdeeds through to their ultimate consequences?

Juliet isn't impressed in the least. She actually respects Collingwood more. Madman though he was, he understood that committing to a cause means going all the way. Harry, in contrast, appears to think a lack of conviction is something to be rewarded. He's actually hired Ros. Juliet is appalled, but she'll deal with that later. One Myers at a time.

***

Twenty years for Sir Jocelyn. The PM dithers about offering a deal for half that, but Juliet is adamant.

He can't tell her no. She's a living martyr to democracy, after all. She can tell by the way he rigidly holds his gaze above her shoulders that the mere presence of her wheelchair shames him, rebukes him for his cowardice. In the end, he gives her what she wants, and she lets him believe he's absolved.

Her weakness is a potent weapon. She intends to make the most of it, even as sensation seeps back into her thighs like a prickling tide.

***

Her muscles are atrophied from lack of use. With the physiotherapist, she makes a token effort at doing the mobility training drills, but quickly pleads exhaustion. "At least you can get in and out of the wheelchair without assistance," he says, with a cheerfulness more mechanical than genuine. He dutifully notes her lack of progress in her medical chart, all too willing to let her give up.

At night, however, she lies propped up in bed religiously doing every exercise. After weeks of trying, she manages to flex the muscles around her knees. She repeats the movement so many times she nearly vomits with the effort. When the cramps bring her to tears, she stops -- but only long enough to wipe her eyes.

Sir Jocelyn will die in his prison. She vows to escape hers.

***

"I don't need your pity," she tells Harry during her first week back at work, and perhaps with him, it's true. But in fact, pity is precisely what she counts on.

She wheels around Whitehall at whim, free as a ghost who can pass through walls. She's become utterly invisible, not because they don't notice her, but because they're trying so hard to pretend that there's nothing to notice.

Being invisible means no one asks questions. Being invisible means she acts with impunity. Being invisible means she can go places and look at things that she really has no right to.

It opens her mind to new opportunities.

For Yalta, in particular.

She sees now that they've lacked the proper ambition. They thought it was enough to worm their way into positions of power; they assumed that afterwards, as insiders, they could change the course of history by the miraculous effect of moral suasion. In reality, all their supposed influence has accomplished nothing. They're little more than a glorified debating society, dressed up with a clever name and a secret handshake. She's disappointed in them -- no, to be honest, in herself -- for having harboured such a passive, utopian fantasy.

It took her enemies to teach her another, nobler way. A way of action, rather than of wishful thinking. Sir Jocelyn, Millington, Collingwood: they may have been morally wrong, but they were also bold. They knew what they wanted, and they risked everything to achieve it. They failed, true -- but only just.

Her gamble is going to outdo even theirs in sheer audacity. She might fail, too, but failing is better than merely pretending to try.

***

Certain members of Yalta express discomfort with her new vision. "Incompatible with our principles," some protest. "Crossing a dangerous line," argue others. She concludes, most reluctantly, that these doubters must be silenced. She doesn't want to hurt anyone, least of all comrades, but there's too much at stake to tolerate dissent.

"Did you hear about Campbell?" Harry asks as he escorts her from a late-morning meeting with the DG.

"Shocking," she says. "Whatever possessed him to drive in such a bad storm? I always thought he had more sense."

"As did I." He presses the button to summon the lift, then gives her a downwards glance. "You didn't have him killed for some nefarious reason you're not telling me about, did you?" His mouth twists in a repressed smile.

"Oh, Harry," she says, placing her hand above her heart, "I'm touched that you think I still have it in me to be nefarious."

They both laugh, and he drops the subject.

Such a pity she can't recruit him. Yet. But there's really no need at the moment. He's fighting the good fight right out in the open, and he's more valuable there than anywhere else. She'll bring him on later, after she racks up a few victories -- maybe even a few at his expense -- and they'll have a good laugh together at how long she fooled everyone. It will be like old times. She misses those days, more than she likes to admit. They were young and thought themselves invincible, and lying for a living -- much like lying to their spouses, much like lying to each other -- was just a droll little game.

No longer young, and far from invincible, she's lost her taste for games.

The lift arrives with a ding and a rumble of opening doors, and she waves him off. "I know how to see myself out."

To her secret disappointment, he stands back and allows her to roll away by herself.

***

At home, she's had a treadmill installed. In the evenings, she straps braces on her legs and drags herself along in agonising, slow-motion steps. She barely manages to cover any distance to speak of, but the effort makes her gasp and sweat like a marathon runner.

Across the room, a news report drones. Flooding has devastated parts of Costa Rica for the second week in a row; a rail workers strike looms in Italy; rising unemployment figures are no cause for alarm, claims the Chancellor. Juliet only halfway pays attention, until a familiar face flashes across the screen.

"The Court of Appeal has upheld the record twenty-year sentence of energy magnate Sir Jocelyn Myers for accounting fraud and tax evasion," announces the newsreader. "Myers had pleaded guilty in a bid for leniency, and appealed the sentence as disproportionate. He's scheduled to begin serving his prison term next week."

She should feel vindicated. And she does, but she also feels unexpectedly sorry for the man. He'd come so close to victory, yet when he reached that final step below the summit, he stopped in his tracks and headed back down. Whether it was out of fear, a twinge of conscience, his love for his daughter, or whatever other human weakness might have made him hesitate, Juliet will never know for sure.

She can't allow herself that sort of weakness. She won't allow herself that sort of weakness. She won't allow herself any weakness.

With renewed determination, she increases her pace, but her foot lands at an odd angle. She lacks the ankle strength to compensate, so she topples to one side and starts to fall. Just in time, she catches herself on the handrail. She hangs there for a few moments, panting with exertion, then grits her teeth and hauls herself up to begin again.

She'll begin again as many times as it takes.

***

She can't just drop by Section D unannounced anymore. Instead, she has to make appointments. It's not nearly as informative or as diverting: nothing quite entertains like impromptu inspections of Harry's flock in their native habitat.

This time, she makes do with a meeting in a conference room on a lower floor of Thames House. Officially, her purpose is to convey the latest policy directives; in reality, she simply wants to know what they're up to. As is her custom when she has no particular agenda in mind, she lobs random insults to see what sort of reaction she can spark. And as is their custom when they have nothing in particular to hide from her, Harry answers with exasperated scowls, Adam with macho posturing, and the others, unless directly called upon, don't answer at all.

Throughout the meeting, Juliet makes a point of observing Ros. The body language is telling: her colleagues respect her, but they don't like her. Ros, in turn, pretends she doesn't care.

How intriguing. Ros doesn't belong in Section D. She doesn't really belong anywhere, as far as Juliet can tell. But she wants to. Yearns to. Perhaps more than she even realises herself. She's empty; she's a cipher; she's a vacuum that craves being filled.

The meeting concludes with a flurry of shoved-back chairs and beeping mobiles. As Juliet rounds the table and wheels towards the door, she catches Ros's eye and bestows a broad smile.

***

Only a few months after Juliet's return to work, she composes her resignation letter. Yalta's projects have progressed to the point where it's wise to sever her ties to officialdom, and so, after an entire adult life spent in service to Her Majesty's Government, sever them she does. She'll lose her security clearance, inconveniently enough, but that's a necessary sacrifice: when the Americans inevitably realise what's happening, she'd prefer not to be the first person under scrutiny.

That same afternoon, she invites Harry to meet her at a modestly fashionable bistro. She insists on an outdoor table with a shady umbrella; it's not quite the same as their old riverside walks, but it comes close.

"You're buying me lunch," he says, after the waiter takes their order and whisks away the menus. "An expensive lunch, no less. To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?"

"I may as well come right out with it. I'm resigning, effective next month. I thought I owed you the news in person."

"Resigning?" He sets his glass down, his expression wary. "Is there some scandal I should be aware of?"

She waves a hand in laughing denial. "No, no, nothing like that. I've simply decided it's time to move on."

He frowns, clearly puzzled. "You're still young, Juliet. I expected you to be terrorising hapless Cabinet Ministers for many years to come. What prompted this?"

"Truthfully? I'm tired. This job has taken, well, rather a toll."

She doesn't elaborate. She doesn't need to.

"I see." An uncomfortable shadow crosses his face. "I'm very sorry to hear that."

"Oh, please. You'll be popping the champagne cork as soon as you get back to the Grid."

He shakes his head. "They'll only replace you with someone worse. Better the devil you know, as they say."

"I'm sure you'll manage."

He sits back in his chair, and something in his demeanour changes -- visibly relaxes -- as if her announcement has wiped away whatever traces of awkwardness still hung between them. Decades-old guilt, rivalry and recriminations, faded but lingering, finally slide into oblivion. Will there be new recriminations later? Probably. But for today, she can pretend they're gone forever.

"So, what on earth are you going to do with yourself?" he asks, openly curious, but no longer on guard. "Somehow I can't see you in a country cottage doing crosswords by the fire."

"Charitable work, I think." At his snort of disbelief, she smiles. "Don't scoff, Harry. For all you know, I might just bring peace to the Middle East someday."

***

She buys the property in Norfolk using a Yalta shell company and a Caribbean bank account. The house is isolated and inconspicuous, without actually being very distant from anything at all. It's near enough to the sea to allow flight by motorboat in an emergency; when the wind is right, she can smell salt in the air from the bedroom window.

The wiring is worse than primitive, so it takes several weeks to install the security system and satellite uplinks. The prior owners left behind unwanted furniture and fixtures strewn from room to room: an out-of-tune piano, dusty books piled on tables, brass candelabras, even a gong. The effect is spartan with a veneer of lost opulence; it suits her current tastes, so she leaves it as it is.

She moves in with a single suitcase and a cadre of armed guards for company. Other Yalta members come and go -- albeit discreetly, and never for long -- but it's her new home, and they respect it as such.

As for the wheelchair, she puts it in storage. She hasn't needed it in over a month, but she can't bring herself to get rid of it. It's like an outer skin that she shed, the husk of an earlier self sloughed off after metamorphosis into an entirely new creature. She keeps it as a memento of what once was.

Her present incarnation is better, stronger, more resolute. She prefers not to think about what qualities may have died with the old.

***

Eventually -- no, inevitably -- Juliet decides to target Ros for recruitment.

She has her excuses. They're even quite logical. Without Juliet's security clearance, they need a new way to monitor Section D's activities and ensure that there's no threat to Yalta's operations. Planting bugs in Harry's office is no assignment for the timorous, but if there's anyone with the right combination of talent and recklessness to pull it off, it's Ros Myers. That's what Juliet tells her colleagues, at least, and maybe they even believe her.

However, she can't truly pretend there's not an element of the personal involved. Ros is an irresistible temptation, a trophy to be won -- not just from Sir Jocelyn, but from Harry Pearce himself. If she can bring Ros into the fold, give her that place to belong she's been seeking, replace that chilly cynicism with faith in a cause, she will have been able to accomplish what they could not.

The idea teases, then intrigues, then tantalises, then obsesses. It's no longer enough that Sir Jocelyn is rotting in prison; it's no longer enough that Harry languishes in happy but ineffectual ignorance while Yalta saves the world under his nose: Juliet has to take away the one thing that used to belong to both of them. It makes her smarter, more talented, more deserving; it makes her right, because winning over the unwinnable is the ultimate proof.

It won't be easy. But that only makes Ros all the more desirable a prize.

***

They start with an initiation. They'll tell Ros afterwards that it was all just a test, but there's no way she can possibly fail. Whatever she does, however she reacts, they'll express amazement and pseudo-grudging approval -- then dangle the prospect of something even more rewarding on the horizon. Punishment, praise, then promises: the induction sequence of secret societies since the dawn of time, and with good reason. However, the ritual needs to be customised for optimal effect.

"Tell her the story about your father in Hungary," Juliet urges Sholto before he leaves for London. "Be maudlin, if you like."

"Why?" he asks. He's an intelligent man, in his own understated way, but he lacks Juliet's instinct for jabbing at the emotional jugular.

"She has Daddy issues," she explains. "We can exploit that."

It works better -- and faster -- than she'd even expected. When it comes time to set up the next rendezvous between Ros and Magritte, Juliet can't resist writing the coded letter to Ros herself. I hope this letter finds you well, she begins, then fills the page with invented reminiscences, chatty descriptions of prison life, and hopeful-sounding predictions of an eventual Myers family reunion that Juliet has made sure will never, ever happen.

She signs "Love, Daddy" with a flourish.

***

When the nuclear trigger arrives safely in Tehran, Juliet opens some vintage champagne she's discovered in a corner of the cellar. Sholto's still in London, scrubbing away any evidence that can be traced directly back to them, so Juliet and Magritte finish the entire bottle themselves.

"To a better world," Juliet says, raising her glass.

"And our role in it," adds Magritte.

They drink, and the champagne bubbles stream down Juliet's throat. It's a cool evening, so they've set a fire on the hearth across the room. Dancing flames glint orange in their glasses; a log pops and sizzles.

Alcohol and several stressful days without sleep are a potent combination. Just as Juliet starts to nod off in her chair, Magritte breaks the silence.

"What's to become of Ros?" she asks. "We don't really need her anymore." It's hard to read her expression in the subdued light, but her voice sounds oddly constricted.

"You don't like her, do you?"

"I don't trust her. She might turn against us now that she knows we lied to her."

She might indeed. But the fact that her loyalty isn't so readily held, that it can spill from one's grasp like droplets of mercury, is part of her allure.

Magritte won't understand that, so Juliet simply shrugs. "We'll see. She might still be of use."

Magritte's jaw tightens, and she turns her head away to stare into the fire. She's jealous, Juliet realises with a mix of amusement and disdain. She's worried that her place in Yalta's hierarchy is threatened.

She may be right.

***

Just at the moment of Yalta's triumph, everything unravels.

It isn't due to Section D, or the CIA, or Mossad. That would somehow be easier to take. But to be brought down by a single, lone-wolf infiltrator is worse than a defeat, it's an affront. It makes them look like amateurs, like desiccated aristocrats play-acting at espionage to spice up their frivolous and parasitic lives.

How on earth did such a reactionary lout get access to them in the first place? Juliet would kill the idiot responsible for vetting and recruiting him -- except the CIA's already taken care of it for her. Far less brutally than she would have done, more's the pity.

"Glogauer's dead," announces Sholto as he joins her for breakfast in the dining room, but she already knows. The news feed on her laptop ran the story five minutes before; she'd nearly spilled scalding coffee down the front of her blouse in her shock.

The peace accords gutted; Yalta exposed; American air strikes on the verge of being launched against Iran. And now, six members of their London network murdered in less than thirty-six hours. She closes her eyes for a few moments and then opens them with a resigned sigh. They're all done for, almost certainly, but there's no point being histrionic.

"I sent warning to our comrades in France," she says, and she struggles to keep the bitterness from her voice at the thought of all their work so disastrously undone. "They'll pass word to the others to go into hiding."

"Have you packed your bags?"

"Not yet." At his raised eyebrows, she adds, "I won't leave until we've exhausted all our options."

"I'm afraid we have."

"There's still Floodland," she insists. They'd saved it as a last resort, hoping never to use it at all, but surely looming Armageddon must qualify.

"Not without Glogauer," he says. "He's the only one who knows where the activation code is. Knew, that is," he quickly corrects.

"We can search for it. We have nearly twenty-four hours left." She rises to her feet and begins to pace. The movement helps her focus; the worst thing about her injury was being left behind when her thoughts raced out of control. "We can't just let this war happen," she says. "Not while there's anything in our power to do to stop it."

"It's going to be rather difficult for us to do much of anything with this CIA foxhunt going on. The hounds are baying from every direction."

"Then we'll use Ros. She's still under Bob Hogan's radar. She can take advantage of MI5's resources while the rest of us stay out of sight."

She stops pacing and gives him a stern look that makes it clear the matter is no longer open to debate. He's still sceptical, she can see it in his eyes, but he's nothing if not a loyal field marshal.

He takes out his phone and flips it open. "I'll tell Magritte to contact her."

He's right to be doubtful. She has no illusions about their chances. Even if they succeed, the Americans will never rest until they hunt them down. They can flee the country, change their names, get plastic surgery, beg the Iranians or the Chinese for asylum if they're desperate enough, but it's only a matter of time.

It doesn't bother her. It never has. She's always known that daring to remake the world carries a price.

***

Against Juliet's more rational expectations, Ros actually delivers the Floodland code -- suspiciously ahead of schedule, and after having her cover blown to microscopic bits. It's all too good to be true, nigh on miraculous in fact. There's an air swirling around this lucky congruence of events that utterly reeks of Harry Pearce's aftershave, and so Juliet decides to inspect the code -- and its messenger -- for herself.

Her entrance into the room renders the imperturbable Ros Myers wide-eyed and momentarily speechless. It would be a moment to savour at any other time or circumstance; instead, Juliet settles for a few stinging verbal slaps to leave no doubt whatsoever about who's in charge, and then gets down to business.

She seizes the laptop and swings it round on the table to take a look, but the string of numbers and letters appearing there tells her nothing. Is it the genuine code? That's a wild gamble, no matter what glib assurances Ros utters. However, when Ros offers up none other than Harry as a gesture of good faith, the odds start looking distinctly better.

In fact, in a small corner of her mind, Juliet might even call herself optimistic.

***

While the guards retrieve poor Harry from whatever clever hiding place he thinks he's safe in, Juliet escorts Ros to an upstairs bedroom to wait -- and to consider her options.

She leaves her there unsupervised -- aside from Magritte in the operations room a few doors down -- but with the code now in Juliet's possession, there's not much mischief Ros can accomplish. The freedom is more symbolic: it's an offer to join them, really join them, as a volunteer and an equal. As someone committed to something grander and more meaningful than herself: no longer anyone's lackey; no longer the sheltered daughter; no longer the colleague more respected than liked.

Juliet opens the door and ushers Ros inside. Sunlight from the windows pools on the floor. On the bed, Juliet's suitcase lies, neatly packed and ready for a voyage into exile and the pages of history. There's a place for Ros on that journey, a rewarding one in fact, if she cares to accompany her.

"Feel free to leave," Juliet says as she turns to depart downstairs, and whatever Ros may think, she actually means it. "But like you say," she adds, "where have you got to go?"

***

Harry struggles and kicks even as the guards deposit him in the chair. He looks rather badly roughed up, which wasn't Juliet's intent at all, so he must have put up quite the fight. She stifles a smile at the thought: she always has admired his spirit.

Gallant, foolish Harry Pearce. She hopes she won't have to make him suffer.

After his initial open-mouthed double-take at seeing her standing at the far end of the room, he reacts with alternating insults and gallows humour. She recognises it's his way of coping with being so badly outmanoeuvred, so for once she indulges him without responding in kind. He seems to notice the difference in her manner, because he, too, eventually turns serious.

"Juliet, what are you doing?" he pleads.

"We're preventing a catastrophic war."

If only she can explain it to him, surely he'll understand. They're on the same side, the two of them. They always have been, even if he hasn't known it.

"And how many lives do you intend to take in the process?" he asks.

"The point is to save lives."

"Like the lives you risked when you planted toxins in the water supply?"

This catches her by surprise, and she breaks into laughter. "Oh, Harry, you disappoint me."

She gives him a moment to reconsider, but he merely glares at her in indignant silence.

"There wasn't any toxin," she says, finally. "We planted a harmless device and tampered with the monitoring system. When the device was triggered, the system gave a false alarm." At his look of dawning realisation, she continues, "The point was to keep you lot occupied long enough for the plane to travel outside European airspace before you brought it down. Your people got the moral satisfaction of being heroes, and we bought ourselves some time. A win-win, I'd say, wouldn't you?"

His glare softens, maybe wavers, but doesn't entirely vanish. Can he really misjudge her so badly?

"Did you really think I'd poison thousands of British civilians?" she asks. "What kind of a monster do you take me for?"

"I don't know any longer, Juliet," he says, shaking his head with an expression she can't quite decipher. "That's the problem."

***

Inside the Norfolk house, a late afternoon breeze stirs the curtains. Hundreds of kilometres above, Floodland is spreading: America's orbiting death machine begins to transform, piece by vulnerable piece, into mere scrap metal hurtling uselessly through the exosphere.

There won't be an attack on Iran tomorrow, that much at least is certain. Whatever else may come to pass is up to the Americans themselves. The shock to the system may just bring them to their senses, persuade them to forego their bellicose dream of New Rome and rejoin the company of civilised nations.

It's a beautiful prospect. But Harry doesn't seem to appreciate the new world that's emerging. He tries to persuade Juliet to bring it all to a halt: he reasons; he wheedles; he even appeals to her patriotism.

"Like it or not," he says, "the defence of the realm is linked to America. If they're blind, so are we. If they're helpless, so are we."

He doesn't stop to consider that she's weighed these arguments already and found them wanting. He doesn't stop to consider that she's spent years thinking everything through, or that her choices are based on ethical principles just as firmly held as his own. She suspects he's forgotten that anyone else even has principles, he's been the lone voice of integrity in the bureaucratic wilderness for so long. The problem is that in the process, his moral sense has shrunk to the boundaries of the personal; it's stunted, cautious, and, in the end, essentially conservative.

"The iconoclastic Harry Pearce, trotting out all the conventional platitudes," she taunts. "I see that knighthood's gone to your head."

When a voice sounds from the doorway, they both start. It's Ros. She hasn't fled the house, despite every opportunity, which means she's chosen something other than herself.

She's chosen Yalta, as it turns out. Juliet feels a twinge of pity as she watches Harry's face fall.

***

That liar. That poisonous, double-dealing cunt of a charlatan. Ros set them up, like the treacherous, reptilian thing that she is and always has been -- and now the laptop is gone.

If Juliet catches the creature, she'll destroy her. She'll rid the planet of that odious presence, once and for all.

***

The laptop has disappeared forever. By now, Adam and the rest of Section D must be invoking their technical magic to shut Floodland down. They might even succeed. It doesn't matter so much, in the end: it's the attempt that Juliet's most proud of, not the outcome.

Ros, however, isn't so fortunate in her effort to escape. She and Harry sit bound to their chairs -- impotent, defenceless, and paralysed in place. Much like Juliet herself was, once upon a time, when her vision wasn't as clear or her resolve as unwavering. Her true paralysis wasn't ever physical, she's finally come to understand: what held her back was hesitation, compromise, restraint.

At this point, it's obvious to Juliet that Harry won't join her, but she gives him one last chance for old times' sake. In thanks, he scorns her as a "self-appointed saviour."

"All I've done," she explains, although her patience even for him is wearing thin, "is all we've ever done: put Britain first."

Across the room, Ros snorts in disgust. Juliet grits her teeth. How dare this cold-blooded cynic question her motivations? What would she know about love of country? She couldn't even be loyal to her own father, much less the nation.

Juliet could give Ros a bullet to the head, but the two-faced turncoat doesn't deserve a quick death. No, she deserves to suffer, knowing in her last moments that she brought it all on herself. She could have chosen sides honestly, like a person with principles, or she could simply have left and saved herself. But Ros doesn't believe in causes, so she couldn't choose; she doesn't believe in herself, so she couldn't be saved. She's empty; she's a cipher; she's a vacuum that can't be filled and must therefore be sealed off.

"I gave you the opportunity to walk away and you didn't take it," says Juliet, methodically screwing the vial into the syringe mechanism. "You betrayed this operation and you betrayed Harry's." All she knows how to do is betray people. It's sickening. "You never found your place in the world, did you, Ros? You never found your place, and now...now you don't have one. I'm sorry."

But she's not sorry, not really. When she approaches Ros, Ros cries and cringes; while she tries to be brave, Juliet sees that she's really a coward. The defiant facade is a falsehood, just like everything else.

Juliet gives Ros a sharp yank by the hair to expose her neck, then positions the syringe, finger poised on the plunger. As the needle pricks the surface, Ros grips the arms of the chair and squeals in terror. From a vast distance, maybe from the other side of the universe, Harry's voice faintly echoes. He cries out; he protests; he shouts encouragement, praise, and exhortations to courage. My outstanding officer, he calls Ros, as he commands her not to be afraid. Is he deranged? The woman's a traitor, a compulsive betrayer, an amoral monster who must be annihilated for everyone's good, and-- God, shut up, Harry, with your incessant righteous outrage. You can't stop this. It's already done.

Done.

When Ros finishes gasping and seizing and slumps forward in the chair, Harry stares at Juliet with a volcanic loathing. It should blister. No, it should incinerate. And yet it doesn't; the wave of heat strikes her and freezes on contact as if her body temperature's dropped to absolute zero. She's finally impervious to his judgement, it seems. She's beyond rebuke, beyond shame, beyond guilt, beyond regret, beyond the petty, moralistic small-mindedness that people like Harry choose to indulge in. She's beyond everything now, and she won't look back.

She's beyond it all, and she has the Myers family to thank.

Sir Jocelyn Myers once tried to kill Juliet; Rosalind Myers had saved her life. Between the two of them, they brought her to this.

She'll never forgive either one.

Thinky thoughts about the season finale of House

Wed, 21 May 2008 00:55:55 GMT

House, Amber, and character arcs - contains spoilers for the season finale!

We've been told by TPTB -- repeatedly -- that Amber is House in a skirt. (I know that some people don't buy it, and by no means is it a perfect parallel, but the series definitely made enough of this theme that it's worth chewing on.) After seeing the finale, the interesting thing for me is not that Amber was (past tense! *sob*) a female House, but that she was a better-adjusted House. In other words, Amber was the person House could have become had he learned certain lessons earlier in life.

I thus see a distinct difference between Amber the fellowship candidate and post-firing Amber, and I don't think it was necessarily all due to the magical healing power of Wilson's lurrrrve. Fellowship candidate Amber, better known as Cutthroat Bitch, would do anything to win, do anything to be right, and she didn't care what the consequences were to the people around her. Post-firing Amber was still aggressive in going after what she wanted (Prompt seating at restaurants! Mattress discounts!), but she also seemed to have developed a more nuanced sense of perspective. She insisted, for example, that Wilson stand up to her, that he fight for what he wanted from their relationship instead of just capitulating to her every whim. (House does this in his professional life -- he's made it clear multiple times that no matter how often he belittles his team's opinions, what he really wants from them is to be argued with -- but in his personal life, he's unrelentingly needy.)

House, appearing shocked, told Amber that she'd changed; she herself ascribed the change to having discovered (thanks to Wilson) that it was possible to have both love and respect at the same time. I think she was partly right in saying so. In my opinion, however, she never would have been open to Wilson in that way had she not first learned another lesson: that sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you still *fail* -- and that the world doesn't come to an end when you do. If she hadn't gone through that experience, she might very well have approached her relationship with Wilson in the selfish, manipulative manner that Cuddy tried to warn Wilson about. Instead, Amber learned that "you can't always get what you want" (as dead!hallucination!Amber told House on the bus-to-the-afterlife). That experience changed her to the point where, by the end of the season, she had matured enough as a person to realize that she didn't want her last moments alive to be wasted feeling angry and bitter, no matter how justified that reaction might be. Cutthroat Bitch would have been angry; Amber, however, chose not to be.

Unlike House, Amber learned this lesson early enough in life to make a difference (thus resulting in the inevitable end of her character arc, but that's another discussion!). The irony is, of course, that it was House himself who taught her the lesson by firing her.

The question that remains, then, is whether House can learn this lesson, or whether his neediness, misanthropy and -- ultimately -- self-loathing are too ingrained. He's certainly had many instances of "not getting what he wants" throughout his life, but instead of learning to accept it and move on, he engages in self-pity disguised as misanthropy. He's had ample opportunity to see how his behavior can wreak havoc in the lives of the people close to him, and yet he never really changes -- not even after the Tritter experience, which should have been an enormous wake-up call. Despite what appear to be repeated epiphanies that lead one to believe that maybe he'll finally change this time, he reverts back to his old habits. And thus, by the end of the season, we found him alone, drunk and feeling sorry for himself at a bar, expecting Wilson -- once again -- to drop everything to come take care of him. Whining and acting petulant when it was Amber who showed up instead. Stiffing the bartender on the tab. Staggering off onto a bus while Amber paid his bill, without even bothering to think or care that she might feel responsible enough to follow him.

This is why House feels guilty. He didn't kill Amber as House, the doctor -- the episode made a great point of letting us know that there was nothing he could have done, medically, that would have made a difference. Instead, he killed Amber as House, the fucked-up person -- not directly, but because his refusal to change his old, familiar habits -- his refusal to grow as a person -- set in motion the circumstances that led to her death. And while Wilson might have -- eventually -- forgiven House for a medical error, he's been asked to forgive House for his personal flaws so many times already, that well may finally be dry.

This is House's greatest fear.

It may also be his last chance to really change.

If he can face up to his own failings as a person, if he can learn from this experience instead of just falling back into the same old pattern, then maybe Amber will have taught him a lesson, too. In which case the character arcs will be complete.

We'll see next season.

Back from traveling

Mon, 24 Mar 2008 21:40:04 GMT

I got back from Yosemite last night. It was as beautiful as ever, of course! However, I learned the hard way that snowshoeing is not necessarily very kind to my verging-on-messed-up knees. Maybe on a perfectly flat surface it would be fine, but tramping over lumps and sloped surfaces? Ouch.

On a fannish note: one of my travel companions brought a book along to read before bed. I did a double-take when I saw the author was the one and only Lee Goldberg! I stifled my cackle of glee because I knew it would be impossible to explain fandom_wank to a non-fan, but I did manage to sneak a look at it: a Monk tie-in novel, written at what looked to me like a 5th grade reading level. It was every much as trite as one might imagine. (Mind you, I find the TV series itself insufferably annoying, so I might not be a very impartial judge.) Still, it was exciting (if a little disconcerting) to stumble across an actual Lee Goldberg reader among my own acquaintances!

Weekend trip

Thu, 20 Mar 2008 19:50:11 GMT

Real life has been kind of kicking my ass lately, in more ways than one, so I haven't done a lot of posting.

However, I leave tomorrow morning on a 3-day trip to Yosemite. I'm looking forward to waterfalls at their fullest, and hopefully avoiding the bears. ;-) This should be a nice little break, and I look forward to returning with a little more energy for online fun. Unfortunately, I'll miss the IJ content party tomorrow, but I'll catch up when I get back!

Character Meme - answers

Thu, 21 Feb 2008 05:29:56 GMT

I collected some wonderful questions in response to my posting the 10 Character Meme the other day, so I'm now posting my answers. I'll combine questions from people on both my LJ and IJ flists, because the answers are too hilarious not to share.

The characters are:

1. Bree Hodge (Desperate Housewives)
2. Amanda Tanen (Ugly Betty)
3. Jack Bauer (24)
4. Angel (BtVS and Angel)
5. Glinda (Wicked)
6. Laura Roslin (BSG)
7. Mark Antony (Rome)
8. Sydney Bristow (Alias)
9. T-Bag (Prison Break)
10. Lisa Cuddy (House)

From yahtzee63 on LJ: If 3 and 8 had to perform a karaoke duet, what song would they pick? Which one of them would pick it out? How much would they love or hate this?

Dear Lord. Jack Bauer and Sydney Bristow: karaoke partners! OK. This somehow becomes necessary in order to capture a dastardly villain who operates a karaoke bar as a front for hiding a previously-unknown Rambaldi artifact that will, if activated, unleash an onslaught of glowing red balls upon Los Angeles within the next 3 hours, 13 minutes and 28 seconds.

Sydney dons some sort of leather-corset-and-fishnet-stocking-number along with a shocking electric blue wig, while Jack wears, well, the same rumpled outfit that he's had on for the past 18 hours ever since he first received that frantic phone call from Chloe. The object of the karaoke performance is to distract the bad guys long enough for Marshall to hack into their computers and crack the password to disable the timer that will set off the bomb that will burst open the bunker that will trigger the release of the artifact that will, uh, do something terrible to the hapless denizens of LA.

Jack lets Sydney pick the song (she opts for "I Got You Babe", as it's a duet), because Jack Bauer does. not. sing. Ignoring the melody, he'll just shout the words hoarsely as he stalks up and down the stage glaring at the audience. Sydney will have to carry the performance by dancing around in her provocative outfit -- unfortunately, all of this will be interrupted when Jack, losing patience mid-song, leaps from the stage, snatches the baddie by the throat and pounds the man's head repeatedly into a table, screaming "TELL ME THE PASSWORD NOW OR ELSE MILLIONS OF PEOPLE WILL DIE!!!!!!!!!" This causes an all-out brawl to erupt, but thankfully Sydney karate-kicks their way out of the nightclub to safety.

Sadly for Los Angeles, they fail to stop the Rambaldi device in time, and thousands of bouncing red balls descend from the skies upon the city, resulting in a writers' strike.

From caramelapples11 on LJ: Would 1 and 2 have a shot together if they paired up?

Bree Hodge and Amanda Tanen? Alas, I think this romance is doomed. At first, everything seems to be going wonderfully: Amanda works for a fashion magazine (a job of which Bree approves) and her wardrobe and personal grooming are *impeccable*. Amanda, in turn, is flattered by how Bree waits on her hand and foot and brings her cookies where the frosting is actually color-coordinated to match the doilies on the dining room table.

However, it all begins to go sour when Bree begins to suspect that Amanda is even lazier and mouthier than Bree's own daughter. One morning over a perfectly done artichoke and mushroom frittata, she archly suggests that perhaps Amanda might consider setting down her bottle of nail polish just this once and giving Halston a bath, as the dog is beginning to smell, well, a trifle mangy, shall we say. Amanda stiffens haughtily and replies, "OMG, I can't believe you just spoke that way to *Faye Summers' daughter*", which causes Bree to smile sweetly and say, "I wouldn't consider being the bastard offspring of a promiscuous anorexic and a man who wears makeup to be much of a bragging point, if I were you." Aaaaaand things would pretty much deteriorate from there.

However, Bree wouldn't allow Amanda to leave until she handed over Marc's phone number, because Bree thinks he would be *perfect* for Andrew!

From catsma on LJ: If #'s 3, 6 and 7 decided to have a threesome, who would direct the action?

Jack Bauer, Mark Antony, and Laura Roslin. Wow. This is like the all-star battle for supremacy! I'm going to call it for Roslin, in the end: both Antony and Jack can behave like children, and Roslin would outwit them with her clever schoolteacher tricks. Or else she'd threaten to toss them out an airlock, which would immediately bring them in line. (And between you and me, I think that would kinda turn Jack on.)

Why do 1 and 8 dislike each other so?

Bree Hodge and Sydney Bristow hate each other? I don't know how anyone could hate Sydney. Unless! Unless Bree isn't *really* Bree, but rather a devoted Rambaldi follower who has been turned into a *look-alike* of Bree and goes about Wisteria Lane sneaking mind-control serum into the water supply until Sydney, acting on a cryptic tip from a Tibet-pilgrimaging Arvin Sloane (who may or may not have ulterior motives), has to show up and stop her. Evil!Bree and Sydney then engage in an epic battle of flung crockery that completely destroys the Hodge house.

4 and 9 decide to go to a LOTR con. Who turns out to be the tinhat and why?

Angel and T-Bag. LOL! This is possibly the most unlikely scenario EVER. Let me think about this. All right. Angel decides to go because a string of mysterious disappearances leads him to believe that the planning committee of the Con is actually populated by SOUL SUCKING DEMONS, and he brings T-Bag along because…because…oh, I don't know, because T-Bag likes killin' things, and because he's so creepy that Angel suspects he might terrify even demons. T-Bag agrees to join him because he secretly kind of *admires* the idea of soul-sucking demons, and he plans to betray Angel as soon as possible, assuming that the demons agree to pay his price. Which is a first class airplane ticket to someplace where there is no extradition treaty that would send him back to a certain prison in Illinois.

To everyone's surprise, however, T-Bag becomes entranced when a Con attendee shows him a Domlijah photomanip, and he breaks down into tears about how CRUEL IT IS THAT SOCIETY WON'T JUST LET THEM BE TOGETHER OMG! Angel is thus forced to battle the demons alone. Broodingly.

From swatkat24 on LJ: 6 wants to take over the world. 7 is their sidekick. How do they proceed?

Laura Roslin wants to take over the world, and Mark Antony is her sidekick? OMG THIS ACTUALLY WORKS. *Is terrified*

Madame President can be totally Caesar-like and cunning yet nobly devoted to the people, and Antony can do all her dirty work as her loyal-and-maybe-a-little-corrupt-but-so-charming-you-don't-care henchman. Until he's captivated by Six, however, and lured over to the Cylon side. Which for some reason requires him to wear lots of kohl smudged around his eyes. Lee and Vorenus, in the meantime, engage in an angst-competition-to-the-death, while Pullo and Kara drink, gamble, and have a hot, sweaty quickie in the pilots' locker room.

If 1, 8 and 9 wrote fic, what would they write?

Bree Hodge, Sydney Bristow, and…T-Bag. Oh, dear. My brain hurts even contemplating this. Bree is secretly addicted to mpreg (under an alias, of course!) or maybe pseudo-mpreg where one of the characters goes around with a prosthetic pregnant tummy strapped on under his clothes; Sydney writes super-angsty hurt-comfort where everyone is constantly having amnesia or being turned into a zombie and having to be s3xxored back into health; and T-Bag, um, writes tentacle pr0n. Yes, definitely tentacle pr0n.

From deborak: #7 and #3 are in the cast of a current blockbuster Broadway musical. Which musical, and what are their roles?

Mark Antony and Jack Bauer! (Why does everyone want Jack Bauer to sing?) Oh, I am not very knowledgeable about musicals, but I'll say Spamalot. With Jack as Lancelot and Antony as Sir Robin.

#5 decides to spend the rest of their life in a religious order. What church do they join?

Glinda. Hmmm. The canon choice would be the mauntery of Saint Glinda, of course! But bringing it to our universe…is there a religious order that allows its members to wear enormous, glittery gowns? I'm thinking she'd opt for something New Age and vaguely self-affirming where they'd play tinkly harp music and harness the power of crystals.

#6 plays matchmaker. Pick the two people on the list s/he would target as the best match.

Oh, Laura Roslin would so totally love playing matchmaker! But are there *any* compatible people on this list? Hmmm. Oh! Amanda Tanen and Mark Antony! They're both gorgeous and shallow and self-centered and insufferably vain but sometimes funny and charming, and they'll get along marvelously! That is, until a jealous Atia sneaks poison into Amanda's lipstick. Luckily for Amanda, Betty accidentally knocks it onto the floor and cracks the tube open, exposing the lipstick to the light and neutralizing the poison. Amanda is grateful for all of about ten minutes, and then she goes back to mocking Betty's poncho with Marc. Antony, in the meantime, has forgotten all about Amanda and is ensconced in a hot tub with a bevy of supermodels. Amanda decides that she doesn't mind, because as hot as Antony is, it's kind of embarrassing dating a man who doesn't know how to drive a car, much less own one.

At this, Roslin throws up her hands in dismay and vows never to play matchmaker ever again.

#4 auditions for American Idol. What song does s/he sing, and what does Simon say?

Angel auditions for American Idol. Ha! He sings…Total Eclipse of the Heart. Paula squeals, clasps her hands to her heart and starts to cry -- in agony or happiness, it's impossible to tell. Randy shrugs and says, "Yo Dawg, I wasn't feeling that. It was just a'ight." Simon scoffs, "It's like boy-band met goth and had a hideous out-of-tune orgy." The votes: one yes, two no. Rejected!

Fannish rodeo! #1, #8, #9, and #10 compete in bull riding. Who stays mounted the longest, who immediately falls off, who gets severely injured, and who finds Brokeback love with a rodeo clown?

Sydney Bristow absolutely stays mounted the longest. Lisa Cuddy immediately falls off, which is a good thing, because then she can tend to Bree Hodge's severe injuries. T-Bag will find Brokeback love (that is, if "threatening to shank with a rusty razor glued onto a toothbrush" counts as "finding love") with the rodeo clown. The poor terrified clown will be clutching T-Bag's turned-out pocket in no time.

#2 is stalking you. What tokens of love do they leave in your house to demonstrate his/her absolute devotion?

Amanda Tanen is stalking me? Well, I’ll know right away it's her because she is SO not subtle. However, deciphering her intent may prove more challenging, because she's prone to scrawling lipstick messages on my mirror asking: DO U KNOW WHO MY FATHER IS? along with MEET ME IN MOM'S SECRET SEX DUNGEON, which quite frankly kind of sends sort of confusing (and worrying) signals. Occasionally when she doesn't really feel like making the effort to actually *stalk*, she'll get Marc to break into my house for her, but he's not very enthusiastic about it, to say the least, and all he manages to do is leave half-eaten candy that he's swiped from Betty's desk drawer.

Her infatuation doesn't last long, however, and eventually I receive another scrawled lipstick message: I WENT THRU UR CLOSET. U HAVE WORSE TASTE THAN SUAREZ! I never hear from her again.

From zulu: 3 & 5 frequent a restaurant run by 2. 9 is their waiter and 7 is their chef. Why are they there? What sort of food is served? What do they order--and what wacky hijinks ensue?

So….Jack Bauer and Glinda (!) frequent what must surely be the WORST RESTAURANT IN THE WORLD. With Mark Antony as the chef, the menu is likely to feature such delectable Roman delicacies as dormouse platter. (Mmmmmmmm, goooood!) The waiter, T-Bag, sports a hand that was hacked off with an axe, carried around through the woods, and finally sewn back on by a terrified vet, and so he's prone to losing his grip and dropping plates of food in customers' laps. When customers complain to Amanda Tanen, who runs the place, she merely rolls her eyes and goes back to filing her nails.

I admit to being somewhat perplexed as to what they are doing there. Jack can be on the run from the Chinese (again) and has chosen the restaurant because it is the last place on earth anyone would look. Glinda has found a way to travel to our world in search of Dorothy, whom she wants to bring back to Oz as a unifying figurehead ruler, but she took a seriously wrong turn on her way to Kansas and wound up at Chez Amanda.

I think all they dare order is bread, but when T-Bag drops even that, Glinda quickly levitates it so it won't fall to the floor. Unfortunately, Jack becomes convinced that this power is a new secret, terrorist weapon, and before she knows it, Glinda is locked in the back storeroom getting to know his not-so-subtle interrogation techniques.

From sk56 on LJ: 1 is running for office -- what position, and what's the major part of their platform?

Bree Hodge…runs for mayor after the unfortunate (but very conveniently timed) death of the incumbent Victor Lang in the tornado. Her platform is stridently Republican: new zoning to shut down all adult-oriented businesses, and a repeal of laws restricting gun sales within city limits. Just when it looks like she is about to triumph, however, her campaign goes down in flames when it is discovered that her newest child isn't actually *hers*.

2 is cooking dinner -- what are we having?

Amanda Tanen is cooking (this, like Jack Bauer singing, seems to be a recurring theme!). I think we wind up having a couple of sliced celery sticks, if she feels like making an effort, or she'll toss us a -- still frozen -- package of Lean Cuisine and tell us to go to the microwave ourselves.

3 and 4 want to have lunch together -- what are the options?

Jack Bauer and Angel want to have lunch together. You know, Angel doesn't have a whole lot of options, and Jack, well, while gore doesn't exactly faze him, I think he might actually draw the line at *drinking blood*. I think they would compromise with a steakhouse: Angel could get a slab of raw sirloin and squeeze drops of blood into his mouth, while Jack would get a T-Bone, well done. Angel, however, would insist on changing the time to dinner instead of lunch.

5 is buying a birthday present for 6 -- where are they shopping, and will 6 like what they get?

Glinda is buying a birthday present for Laura Roslin? Roslin is probably *thrilled* at the opportunity to shop for any new clothes whatsoever, given that she's been limited to the meager (and dwindling!) supplies from the handful of civilian transport ships that happened to be carrying women's business attire at the time of the Cylon attack. However, when Glinda waves her wand and Roslin suddenly finds herself in a satin ball gown with a lengthy train, she has to run and change -- but not before everyone on Colonial One erupts into hysterics.

7-9 are planning a surprise birthday party for 10 -- will this be successful, and if not, how will it blow up in their faces?

Mark Antony, Sydney Bristow and T-Bag are planning a surprise birthday party for Lisa Cuddy. Poor Cuddy! T-Bag's idea of a "surprise" is to jump out from around a corner, slit Cuddy's throat, dismember the body and stash the head in a freezer. Antony's version involves tosses her into bed and having his way with her while slaves bring them refreshments. While Cuddy might actually enjoy the latter, Sydney cleverly distracts them by suggesting that T-Bag and Antony go and buy a birthday cake and then, while they're away on the errand, secretly whisking Cuddy off to the safety of a witness protection program.

Character meme

Sat, 16 Feb 2008 02:44:32 GMT

This one's stolen from deborak because I saw what hilarious results she got:

Me: 1) Make a list of 10 characters.
Me: 2) Assign each character a number.
You, O Members Of My Flist: 3) Without knowing who's on the list or the character's assigned number, ask what you would like to know about these characters. (IE: "If 3 and 4 were trapped in a cave together with only a blanket and a toothpick, what would they do?" (The more random, bizarre and ludicrous the better!)
Me: 4) Post the answers and who was who on the list.

The more questions the better, so ask as many as you'd like.

Yuletide

Fri, 04 Jan 2008 21:56:27 GMT

I participated in the Yuletide ficathon for the first time this year, which was quite fun although somewhat intimidating! Now that the author reveal has happened, I can post a link to the story I wrote.

The fandom is Kill Bill, and my recipient is Hikario, who asked for Bride aka Beatrix Kiddo/Elle Driver/Go-Go Yubari/O-Ren Ishii, and added that "It's Kill Bill; violence, blood, introspection, s'all good. Character exploration would be especially nice." I made sure to include all these characters and did my best to include a bit of both blood and introspection. It was fun to write (my first fic in this fandom, so it was also hard and I was very very nervous!), and Hikario left me the nicest comment EVER. You rock, Hikario!

Rating: Maybe R for violent imagery. Spoilers for Parts I and II, plus some speculation about possibilities afterwards. Genfic, multicharacter.

Link is here: Dreams.

Back home!

Wed, 02 Jan 2008 23:10:00 GMT

I had a wonderful holiday visit with my family and managed to suffer only one O'Hare-related flight cancellation (resulting in an extra night's stay in Michigan), so hooray! And what with all the Tiger Mauling!OMG coverage on CNN, I felt like I hadn't left home at all.

Of course, what is coming to welcome me back to the Bay Area? What the news is calling the biggest storm system to hit in years, starting tomorrow! Whee! I guess I'll be donning my wading boots and heavy raincoat for my commute tomorrow morning, and hoping that I don't arrive at work looking like a drowned rat. It's only a ten-minute walk from my apartment to BART, but there are several street crossings that flood at the slightest hint of rain. Ack.

I love winter (not!).

One last day of shopping...

Sat, 22 Dec 2007 00:30:00 GMT

I'm scurrying to get work done at the office tonight, will be doing last-minute errands tomorrow, and then it's off to SFO tomorrow night for a red-eye east for the holidays! I have to change planes at the dreaded O'Hare, so please wish me good airport karma (as I think I'll need it)!

I'll be back home after the 2nd, so Happy New Year, all!

Fic: Passing (La Femme Nikita, Madeline, Gen, PG-13)

Tue, 27 Nov 2007 23:13:48 GMT

Title: Passing
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Characters: Madeline
Prompt: 065. Passing
Word Count: Approx. 1340
Rating: PG-13 (for references to violence)
Summary: Everyone cheats on tests sometimes.
Author's Notes: This is set vaguely mid-Season 4, but there are no particular spoilers of note. Written for the Fanfic100 challenge over on LJ, which I am finally getting started on!

Traffic is heavy and the weather is bad, so the driver concentrates on the highway. In the forty minutes since they left the airport, he hasn't glanced even once into the rear seat. To test his reaction, Madeline makes a point of fussing with her purse. Will the noise and activity attract his attention? She rummages inside and snaps the clasp shut loudly. Nothing.

It's probably safe. Or as safe as it's going to be.

She lets a few moments pass, then reaches to the floor and opens the purse again. This time, instead of lipstick and a mirror, she removes a syringe and vial. She has to be quick and discreet, but she's good at that. Lots of practice makes it easy.

She draws the liquid from the vial, hikes up her skirt a few inches, and jabs the syringe into her thigh. It stings as she depresses the plunger.

Done. She hides the empty syringe and vial under the seat for retrieval later, then settles back against the leather upholstery to watch the rain smear the bulletproof windows.

***

The entrance to Oversight has three security checkpoints. First, stern-faced men with dogs and hand-held mirrors inspect the underside of the car for explosives before they descend into the garage. Next, at the glass-enclosed elevator lobby, she offers a palmprint and hands over her coat, purse, and gun to the guard. Once on Level 12, she stops at a kiosk for an automated retinal scan; the polished steel doors slide open and admit her to Reception.

"Good morning, madame," says the receptionist from his perch behind the desk.

"Good morning, Yves." She's made a point of remembering his name from the year before. She never omits these small gestures of courtesy, particularly with someone who might become an informant someday.

Yves gives her a smile and waves toward a chair. "Have a seat, please. They'll call for you in a moment."

"Thank you." She's about to sit when she sees a figure approaching from a nearby corridor. George.

"Why, Madeline," says George, and he kisses her cheek in his customary greeting. He smells of whatever aftershave it is that men of his age and income stratum wear: something nautical-themed, perhaps, with heavy overtones intended to convey resilience and virility but which in reality evoke mothballs. Or embalming fluid.

Regardless of what the ingredients may be, the scent is too intimate, a reminder that underneath the staid jacket and tie is frail human flesh. Every time she smells it she imagines, with Pavlovian irresistibility, what it would be like to slit his throat with a razor as he kisses her, to watch the shock on his face and feel the spray from his jugular drench her hair and clothing as she lets him fall, convulsing, to the floor.

The visualization enables her to smile warmly, as always. "So good to see you, George."

He pretends to be surprised to see her, and she pretends to believe him. "What brings you here today?" he asks, as if he doesn't know.

"It's time for my annual psych screening."

"Ah, yes." He nods knowingly, then indulges in one of those dramatic pauses that he's so overly fond of. "I hope it goes well. Then again, you have to cope with so many things. An impossible schedule, a lack of resources and manpower at One, a rather difficult commander. You face almost superhuman demands. It takes its toll, doesn't it?"

It's a threat. Or a warning. Or a taunt. Or some combination of the three. She can't tell, but it doesn't really matter. She can feel the drug circulating through her bloodstream now, wrapping around and around her mind like soft, cushioning gauze, and she no longer cares about anything. Least of all George.

"It's all in the line of duty," she replies with bland indifference, and she sees his face fall.

***

There's a new psychologist this year. Dr. Wright, "but you can call me Dan," he says with a grin that shows his dimples. He looks about ten years younger than she, and he's from the chatty, sweater-wearing school of feel-good therapists. She would find him loathsome, except that it isn't worth the trouble of bothering to form an opinion of him at all. Instead, she decides to be charming, and so she laughs at his jokes and leans in a little closer to him than is entirely clinical.

They proceed swiftly through the objective and subjective tests. Afterwards, he winks. "That was easy, wasn't it? But you do this for a living. I bet you can play the results like a concert pianist."

She forces a chuckle. "You flatter me."

"Not at all." He opens a cabinet door and begins to remove some medical equipment. "This next portion of the test will be a little harder to manipulate, though. Not that I'm accusing you of any such thing, of course."

"Of course not," she says.

He holds her gaze far longer than necessary. It's supposed to establish his authority, to warn her that she can't hide anything from him, but all it does is reveal how very little he really knows. If she had the energy, she'd be amused. All she does now, however, is give him what he wants: she breaks off their mutual stare first, glancing quickly at the floor.

Satisfied, he seats himself on a rolling stool and wheels himself over next to her. He takes her arm, pushes up her sleeve, and fastens a blood pressure monitor to her wrist and fingers. He switches it on, and she feels it clench and release, hissing rhythmically. Next, he attaches a series of microsensors along her skin -- at the temple, the ankle, the neck, the chest.

For the next thirty minutes, she solves puzzles under increasingly rapid time constraints, interrupted by random noise and flashing lights. None of it distracts her in the least. She coasts through it all on a shining road of chemically-induced clarity. If anything, she's bored. Except no, she doesn't really feel that, either.

She finishes the final question and waits. Dan sits quietly, frowning in concentration as he reads the data on his computer screen. Finally, he blinks, shakes his head, and returns to her side to detach the microsensors.

"You know, I'd heard about your reputation, but I thought it must have been exaggerated. I see it wasn't." The amazement is apparent in his voice. "You're the calmest subject I've ever tested." He finishes unstrapping the blood pressure monitor, and she flexes her fingers as the blood begins to flow freely again. "What's your secret?" he asks, and he sounds sincere. A tiny bit jealous, even.

She runs her hand over her thigh as she rises to her feet. There's a twinge at the injection site. "Meditation," she replies with a smile. At his questioning look, she adds, "I studied at a temple in Japan years ago. They taught me a few techniques."

***

Back in the car on the way to the airport, she retrieves the syringe and vial and puts them back in her purse. She leans back and closes her eyes in relief.

It's over. But not really.

The day before, at Section One, she had administered the same tests to herself -- without the benefit of sedation. The results disheartened but didn't surprise her: statistically significant deviation from the baseline in three separate categories. Diagnosis: unfit for duty.

It's unfortunate news. But she'll cope with it somehow. She can self-medicate. Cover up mistakes. Pass the blame to others, if things get dire enough. All she needs is time to get past what she's certain is a temporary affliction. She'll overcome it, by sheer force of will if nothing else, because she has no other choice. Because failure -- in this -- means not only death, but disgrace. The former is acceptable; the latter, unbearable.

No one else need know. Not Paul. Not her subordinates. Especially not George and Oversight.

After all, she passed their test. Even if she had to cheat.

Wheee, an earthquake!

Wed, 31 Oct 2007 03:47:13 GMT

I was sitting in my office doing exciting filing and sorting of my travel expenses this evening, when the building started moving around quite distractingly!

It wasn't too bad, really, just a 5.6 a little farther south of me, but it's always a reminder to stock up on emergency supplies. *Resolves to rotate water storage soon*

Yay, cheap snacks!

Fri, 26 Oct 2007 20:33:43 GMT

How boring is my life when the most exciting thing to happen this week is that a new Trader Joe's opened within walking distance of my home?

Still. I am psyched!

Fic: The Pirate Queen and the Governor's Daughter (Femslash, House)

Tue, 11 Sep 2007 04:20:06 GMT

TITLE: The Pirate Queen and the Governor's Daughter
AUTHOR: jaybee65
FANDOM: House, M.D.
PAIRING: Cuddy/Cameron
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: If there's one thing Governor Cameron has taught his daughter Allison to do, it's to hold her head high. No matter what the circumstances.
A/N: Written for Prompt #255 of the cuddy_fest on LJ: "The Pirate Queen abducts the governor's daughter. But Allison never wanted to be a governor's daughter anyway. Sexy swashbuckling adventures ensue." This is fluffy, silly crackfic.

If there's one thing Governor Cameron has taught his daughter Allison to do, it's to hold her head high. No matter what the circumstances.

She holds it high now, defiant and dignified, as she balances on the edge of the pitching ship's deck. She does her best to ignore the wretched man waving the cutlass around in her face, although she does manage to notice that he clutches a cane to steady himself on his wooden leg. If she kicks it out from under him, he'll topple right off the side of the deck and plunge into the sea. It's tempting, except that alas, she's far too kind to do such a thing. Even a ruffian pirate with a scraggly growth of beard and a suspicious scent of rum on his breath deserves compassion, after all. He probably grew up in poverty, she imagines, his mother an alcoholic barmaid and his father a brutish laborer. He turned to a life of crime after his leg was mangled by a carriage as he begged as a child on the streets, or no, maybe in the war, fighting valiantly but ultimately succumbing to gangrene because of the buckshot he took to save the life of his commanding officer. Yes, she likes that version better. A poor, forgotten veteran, fallen on hard times. So tragic, really!

Why, he deserves pity, not anger. Or maybe he doesn't really deserve pity, because he's still a scoundrel with breath so laden with alcohol he could varnish an entire carpenter's shop full of wood with a single cough, but she's such a goodhearted person that she'll give it to him anyway. Because that's what the Governor's daughter does: extend pity to the pitiful. Maybe her noble example will change his heart, and he'll renounce his buccaneering ways and dedicate himself to caring for sick orphans. Or perhaps not, but at least he can be guilt-stricken on his deathbed when he realizes that he's lost his chance at redemption.

It's a comforting thought. And in any event, he isn't threatening her very convincingly.

"Off the plank with you!" he cries, but what's clearly intended to be a terrifying scowl keeps turning into a smirk. He calls to another crewmember nearby. "Come on, Foreman! Don't just stand there like a useless clump of jellyfish. Poke at her a bit!"

Foreman simply crosses his arms and rolls his eyes.

Another crewman asks, "Won't the captain get angry if you damage the captive? They say she's worth an entire chest of gold doubloons in ransom."

The peglegged pirate makes an exasperated face. "Chase, you idiot, you're not supposed to tell her that we won't hurt her. I wanted to see what she looked like after a good dunking! Now you've ruined everything."

"First mate's coming," warns Foreman in a whisper.

"Damn." The peglegged pirate hastily sheathes his cutlass. "Wilson!" he says, smiling innocently as the first mate approaches. "We were just giving the young lady a nice whiff of fresh air. Good for the lungs, you know."

Wilson sighs and turns to Allison. "The captain would like to see you."

***

Wilson opens the door to the captain's quarters and gestures for Allison to go in. Inside, a whale oil lamp flickers on a table, but it's still dark enough that she has to blink several times before her eyes adjust.

The first thing she notices is the scent in the air. There's the sooty odor of burning oil, of course; the tang of wood warped from exposure to cold sea spray, not exactly surprising; but perfume? And not just any perfume, but the good kind: the sort of delicate, flowery eau de parfum her mother used to import at enormous cost from France.

Before Allison can hazard a guess to explain such a puzzling incongruity, she sees a figure rise from a chair in the darkest corner of the room. The figure moves forward into the circle of light cast by the lamp, and Allison's mouth drops open in astonishment.

The captain is a woman. A woman dressed in long leather boots, a swirling black skirt, and a bright scarlet blouse revealing so much of her bosom that Allison blushes like a timid child.

"Miss Cameron," says the woman, "I'm Captain Cuddy. Please, sit down."

Allison collapses backwards onto a bench. Since when did women become ships' captains? Pirate ships' captains, no less?

"You may be a hostage on my ship," says Cuddy, "but you are to be treated as a guest. If I hear that anyone in my crew has laid a hand on you, I'll have them flogged."

"No one has touched me," Allison replies, finally finding her voice. "Although the man with the pegleg was rather rude," she adds as an afterthought.

Cuddy laughs. "Ah, yes. Seaman House. His manners may be rusty, but he's the finest navigator on the high seas. No one can guide a ship through shoals the way he does. I assure you, he means no real harm."

Allison stares at Cuddy, entranced by the flashing gold rings and the dangling pearl earrings. She notices a hat with a jaunty yellow feather hanging from a peg on the wall. She always wanted a hat just like that, but her father would never allow it.

"For your own protection and privacy," Cuddy continues, "you'll be given a blanket to sleep on here in my quarters. You'll return to your father soon, never fear."

Yes, her father. The father who would have a fit of apoplexy if Allison dared to wear gaudy jewelry or flash cleavage like the captain. The father who wants her to marry someone respectable and become a society matron. The father who never lets her do anything exciting.

She frowns. "May I ask how much you're demanding for my ransom?"

"A thousand pieces of eight."

"I'm worth far more to you as a guide than a hostage," she declares.

"What do you mean?"

"My uncle owns a fleet of trading schooners. There's an island where he buries contraband until he can bribe the customs officers to smuggle it into port. I know exactly where it is, too. If you take me there, I'll split the money with you."

Cuddy looks intrigued, but she shakes her head. "If we abscond with you instead of returning you to your father, he'll have the entire Navy after us."

Allison arches an eyebrow. "You're the Pirate Queen, aren't you? Isn't being chased part of the fun?"

***

Allison -- except they now all call her Cameron -- insists on being treated like a regular crewmember. When Cuddy asks why, she answers that it's because she wants to earn everyone's trust. The real reason, however, is that she wants to prove to herself that she can do something -- although by "doing something," she hadn't exactly had "swabbing the deck" in mind, especially under Foreman's disdainful eye.

But she also learns to climb the rigging and look through a spyglass, and she even gets Wilson to start teaching her swordfighting until Cuddy intervenes, angrily lecturing them about how Cameron won't be any use at leading them to buried treasure if she puts an eye out fooling around with blades. Wilson shamefacedly gives up, but Cameron flirts with Chase until he agrees to practice with her when Wilson isn't looking. House mocks all her efforts, but when he finds Cameron abovedeck one moonlit night, he teaches her how to navigate by following the North Star.

It's Cuddy she studies the most. She envies her flair, her power, but especially her freedom to do as she likes. Cameron wants to be Cuddy someday. But as she catches herself staring at Cuddy's ample cleavage, she realizes that that isn't quite all she wants. She also wants to have Cuddy someday.

It's not a very governor's daughter-like thing to be thinking, she realizes.

Then again, no one ever asked her if she wanted to be the governor's daughter.

***

When they raid the slow-moving merchant ship that May, Cameron sneaks onto the boarding party's rowboat, a dagger clenched between her teeth. She returns carrying the other ship's flag as a souvenir; with an exaggerated curtsy, she presents it to Cuddy, who laughs and seems to forget that she'd sternly forbidden Cameron to take part.

The crew dances drunken jigs late into the night. While House and Wilson sing bawdy sea shanties until they grow hoarse, Cameron staggers back to the captain's quarters, arm-in-arm with Cuddy.

This time, she doesn't sleep on a blanket on the floor.

***

It's six months before Cuddy finally asks her outright, "There never really was any buried treasure, was there?"

"No," admits Cameron. "I just wanted an adventure."

The governor's daughter adjusts her hat with the jaunty yellow feather, and they begin to map their next raid.

Fic: Hopeless Causes (House, Femslash, Cuddy/Cameron)

Sun, 09 Sep 2007 03:48:54 GMT

TITLE: Hopeless Causes
AUTHOR: jaybee65
FANDOM: House, M.D.
PAIRING: Cuddy/Cameron
RATING: A hard R, maybe verging on NC-17
SUMMARY: They don't actually have a lot in common, aside from an accident of gender, a choice of profession, and apparently a bad habit of seducing people they don't much like when they're bored.
A/N: Written for Prompt #161 of the cuddy_fest on LJ: "They don't even really like each other, so why are they doing this again?"

Cameron makes too much noise when they have sex.

She writhes and pants and tosses her hair; she cries out so loudly and overdramatically that at times Cuddy's tempted to smother her with the pillow. She must have read that she was supposed to do that in a magazine, or maybe she saw it in some soft-porn late-night cable movie, or perhaps her frat-boy college boyfriends told her it was hot when she was nineteen. Regardless of where she picked it up from, it's distracting.

She's trying too hard, the way she does with everything. It's almost -- almost -- enough to ruin the mood. Except that she smells like apple-scented bodywash, and the curving skin of her buttocks is soft and warm and oh-so-yielding underneath Cuddy's fingers. Cuddy's pulse surges. She closes her eyes, breathes in the scent like an intoxicant, and then bites down hard enough to give Cameron a reason to make some noise.

***

Cuddy doesn't know how to have any fun.

Even when she climaxes, she never really seems to let go. It's frustrating, because Cameron knows she's good at this. Damned good, and yet the effort's wasted on this woman. Cuddy wants things done her way -- no improvisation, no playfulness, no mischief. That takes away the whole point of being together, as far as Cameron's concerned. Why fuck your coworker unless there's a little rulebreaking involved?

Still, Cuddy's hair tangles in dark waves that fall to her shoulder, and she arches her neck so invitingly that Cameron can't help but want to run her tongue along the pulsing vein. When she reaches the jawline, she begins to whisper obscenities, just because it's wrong. Cuddy makes shushing noises, and Cameron ignores her. After all, Cuddy may not know how to have fun, but that won't stop Cameron from trying.

***

Asleep, Cuddy looks older. And emptier, devoid of the authority that animates her at the hospital. Asleep, she looks like a lonely woman who doesn't have a thing in common with Cameron aside from an accident of gender, a choice of profession, and apparently a bad habit of seducing people she doesn't much like when she's bored.

Cameron eases out of bed and crouches barefoot on the carpet, gathering her clothes into a rolled-up bundle. She carries them into the bathroom where she closes the door, switches on the light, and stares at herself in the mirror. She scrubs off the smeared remnants of her makeup from the night before and pats her face dry with a floral-print towel. Her face flushes red from the hot water; she thinks it makes her look young. Fresh. Alive, with things to do and places to go and new people to meet and absolutely no reason to stay here.

Satisfied, she gets dressed. She's got nothing in common with Cuddy at all. Well, aside from an accident of gender, a choice of profession, and apparently a bad habit of seducing people she doesn't much like when bored. And that's not exactly much to build on, is it?

***

The scent of coffee brewing wakes Cuddy up. She lies still for a few minutes, listening to the noise of clattering dishes. How just like Cameron to take it upon herself to rummage through the kitchen without asking. Why couldn't she simply have left, like a decent one-night-stand would know how to do, instead of hanging around for awkward breakfast chit-chat? That way, they could have pretended that it didn't really happen, that it was one of those indiscretions that would never be mentioned again, and they could go back to their normal mode of interaction.

It had been that way the first time. And the second. And even the third.

Maybe four times is one too many. She'll get up and head to the kitchen, where she'll tell Cameron -- kindly, because she's not a bitch, after all -- that they have to stop seeing each other. No, not "seeing each other", because that makes it sound like more than what it is. Was. What it was. She has to use past tense now. In any event, they have to stop doing whatever the hell it is that they've been doing. It's unprofessional; it's foolish; and most of all, it's not even very enjoyable.

She rolls out of bed and grabs her robe.

***

They eat Cameron's French toast without saying much to each other. Cuddy has the oddest expression; she keeps clearing her throat as if she's going to make a dire announcement, and Cameron begins to wonder if maybe she's about to be fired. Then nothing happens, and they both go back to dipping forkfuls of French toast in the pools of maple syrup on their plates in horrible, strained silence.

Afterwards, Cameron helps Cuddy load the plates into the dishwasher, and Cameron is relieved that she's finally done her duty as a polite overnight guest. Now she can leave -- no, flee -- back to the hospital where they can return to mostly ignoring each other until House provokes the next crisis. Which, knowing House, will probably be later that same day.

She won't come here again, she vows. She doesn't really know why she did in the first place.

But when the door closes behind her, she already knows she'll be back. Because it's wrong, because it doesn't work -- and because there's nothing she likes more than hopeless causes.

Holiday weekend

Sun, 02 Sep 2007 21:03:55 GMT

I always tell myself that on the weekend I'll be able to get plenty of writing done, and I almost always end up achieving *less* than I do during the week. I am too easily distracted by errands and entertainment, I think.

What I have done, ficwise: trashed my Cuddyfest ficlets and started them anew. I do think they'll be much better -- that is if they're done in time! Argh.

What I let myself get distracted by: a new weight training routine; an art exhibit held at a pinball arcade, of all places; grocery shopping under my new resolution to avoid anything containing corn syrup. However, I still have a day and a half of weekend time left. *Vows to be good and do more writing*

Ficwriting

Sat, 18 Aug 2007 00:33:41 GMT

Thanks to the partner (well, practically speaking, the boss) taking an early day off (and telling me to do the same), I'm almost done with my Housefic contributions for the Cuddyfest over on LJ! If only there weren't other distractions tempting my idle mind -- the latest MsScribe kerfuffle to catch up reading and boggling at; a new disk in the mail from Netflix; a nearby brewpub on a hot afternoon -- I might have even finished this evening. Instead, my goal is by the end of the weekend.

Have I mentioned that I adore the new series "Damages"? (Yes, I know, I did.) But this cannot be mentioned enough! I'm a total dork about it, too: when Glenn Close's character referred to "the ERISA statute," I cackled aloud. /legalgeekishness

All right. Beer beckons. Ficwriting tomorrow.

A meme-like thing.

Tue, 14 Aug 2007 01:02:14 GMT

Tagged by artisan447 over on her LJ, who didn't think I'd actually do this. Cross-posting here on IJ because I've met some new people, and thus it's a nice opportunity to introduce myself.

1. List seven habits/quirks/facts about yourself.
2. Tag seven people to do the same.
3. Do not tag the person who tagged you or say that you tag whoever wants to do it.

1. I'm a lawyer, and I have times when I love my work and times when I hate it. I have made periodic attempts to leave the profession but have always been drawn back in for various reasons, not the least of which is a need to pay my bills in an expensive urban area.

2. I love food, but I don't cook well. This is not from lack of trying, but rather some sort of innate incompetence that causes me to burn things merely by looking away for five seconds or to combine seemingly complementary ingredients in horrible, inedible ways. After much struggle, I have managed to learn a few very simple dishes, but even they are something I would never dare serve to guests. Unfortunately, I live with someone even *less* skilled, so he is no help to me whatsoever. (As an illustration, one of the items on my to-do list is: "Teach M how to use rice-cooker." We're pathetic.)

3. When I'm walking from one place to another, I tend to get completely lost in my thoughts. I cannot tell you how many times I have walked right past someone I know on the sidewalk and been oblivious to his/her presence until s/he flagged me down. As a corollary to this, when I have work that requires concentration, I need to get up and pace. Both my work-related writing and my fic-writing involve a process of pacing back and forth for a while, then lunging for the computer and typing furiously before I lose my train of thought, then getting up and pacing again.

4. In fiction (and fandom), I love redeemed (or redeemable) villains, corrupted (or corruptible) heroes, and any and all characters who walk in that twilight between corruption and redemption. I love them even more if they're female. Often, this means I pay more attention to supporting characters. I'm kind of used to my OTC's being killed off. *Laughs*

5. I don't like ice cream, but I do like milk shakes.

6. I have traveled throughout the US, as well as to Canada, Argentina, Ireland, England/Scotland/Wales, France, Thailand, South Korea, Japan, and Australia. With respect to South Korea, I spent about two years living there, studying and teaching English. I would like to visit many more places, but that depends on time and budget-related issues. I'd really *love* to spend about 3-6 months in a Spanish-speaking country so that I could push myself past the can-read-well-enough-but-can't-speak-to-save-my-life phase in my language learning, but I think that might take a lottery win to make happen.

7. I've been in fandom since 2001. It has opened up new doors of creativity for me that I didn't know existed before, and has introduced me to some of the most wonderful people I've had the privilege of getting to know. I don't know how I managed before I discovered it.

I'm going to break rules 2-3 and simply tag anyone who wants to do this. Does this mean that vengeful meme fairies will come after me?

Getting active

Fri, 10 Aug 2007 21:59:17 GMT

I was looking at my userinfo page and noticed that since I created this journal two months ago, I have either joined or friended 42 asylums (I keep wanting to call them comms, argh). In that two-month period, have I actually posted to any of them? Errrr, no. Commented occasionally, yes, but posted, no. This really needs to be rectified. *Pokes self*

On the bright side, the week from hell at work is now over, so I'll actually have the *time* to do more than commenting here and there. I'm in the process of writing some Housefic, but perhaps I should try to do things in a few other fandoms as well. (I need more fandom-related icons, too!)

Meta: Looking on the bright side of recent fannish upheavals

Mon, 06 Aug 2007 21:49:58 GMT

For the past several months, it's felt like LJ-based fandom has been struck by earthquakes followed by aftershocks followed by yet more earthquakes: FanLib, Strikethrough, (for lack of a better term) Boldthrough, and so on. It's created an enormous amount of drama, and I'll be honest -- I've enjoyed a lot of that drama. It's exciting refreshing your browser to see a billion new comments about whatever the latest controversy is! If that makes me the equivalent of a rubbernecker at a traffic accident, well, I'm only human.

It's possible that this is one of those watershed moments for fandom, although I think it's impossible to tell right now what direction things will move in. I'm seeing a lot of "What should we do now?" types of posts out there, and there's no clear consensus. Some people are moving to LJ clones like JF, GJ and IJ. Some people are adamant that they will not move. Others are creating mirror journals in multiple locations and will wait things out to see where the wind blows. Still others argue that the best option is for fandom to create a new space altogether.

However, as much as these alternatives seem to be opposed to one another, there's an undercurrent they mostly share -- a common foundational assumption that I'm not sure that I agree with. That assumption is that it's better if fandom congregates at a single, agreed-upon-by-consensus space. But is it, really? I'm not so sure.

First of all, fandom has never been all about LJ, at least not for me. It includes message boards, fic archives, TWOP, official websites, mailing lists, and a whole universe of other spaces where I visit and hang out. I've been using LJ more actively over the past few years, sure, but it's not the be-all-and-end-all of "fandom" for me. If some of my LJ friends scatter across a few more sites, it's not actually that big a deal for me to keep up. (And honestly, since I use an RSS reader, all the LJ clones are conveniently accessible to me in one place anyway.)

Secondly, I'm beginning to think that variety is better. Since I've settled into Insanejournal, I've noticed that the atmosphere here is genuinely different than LJ. Quirkier, for lack of a better word. I'm rubbing elbows with new people and getting some exposure to parts of fandom I had never paid much attention to before, but which I'm discovering are pretty interesting in their own right. And yet I still like the fannish atmosphere at LJ (well, depending on how things go). And at Journalfen. Once I poke around further, I might find I like other sites, too. I don't think my participation in one space has to exclude participation in others! In fact, I feel like I can express different aspects of my fannish self by using these different forums.

So. As long as there are fen I want to interact with on LJ, I'll "stay" there (with a free journal, that is. I'm not paying another penny to Six Apart!), but I'm going to be here, too. And probably quite a few other places. I don't see this as a bad thing. In fact, I'm kind of glad, in a way, that Six Apart's ineptitude at customer service shook me out of my rut and got me to explore new venues.

Oh, LJ

Fri, 03 Aug 2007 22:10:05 GMT

Why must LJ do these things when I have work deadlines and thus no time to read all the outraged posts?

Also: I am amazed that people are still acting *surprised* at journal suspensions by now. Will they accept yet another explanation from LJ management and then act shocked AGAIN the next time? Fandom is beginning to look like Charlie Brown falling for Lucy's football kicking routine over and over again.

Damages

Thu, 02 Aug 2007 06:57:11 GMT

As some of you may (or may not) know, I'm a lawyer. As a result, I can't usually stand watching legal dramas. If they get things wrong, it's annoying, and if they get them right, then it's like going to work! No fun for me either way.

However, I read a description of the new Glenn Close series, "Damages", and I was intrigued. And a little nervous, because she plays a plaintiffs' lawyer representing a class of employees who have lost their pensions, and uh...that's kind of my job description at the moment. Except she's evil! And fabulously wealthy! I am pretty much like a moth to a flame when it comes to ambitious, manipulative female characters of dubious morality, so...I made an exception to my usual avoidance of legal shows and watched it tonight.

First of all, they're being safely vague about the legal details, which is all for the good. The plot is proceeding at quite the brisk pace, and I think it's going to be full of twists and turns. (The time-jumping is a bit of a gimmick, but it works well to ratchet up the mystery.) Glenn Close chews the scenery with aplomb, and her character is even more cunning than I could have hoped. The young associate whom she's toying with is great, too -- I have high hopes for twisted femslashy vibes here. Even Ted Danson, whom I hate, is terrific as the slimy CEO defendant. And there's a truly creepy and ominous atmosphere to the whole thing -- whoever's filming it has a nice touch.

All in all, it's an A plus. It's not the kind of show that tends to interest fen, so I'll probably be the only person fangirling it, alas. But I'll just have to make up for that with enthusiasm. Heh.

One of those weeks

Sat, 28 Jul 2007 19:31:39 GMT

It's been a week full of communications snafus, sudden deadlines -- and the late nights working that come as a result. *Sigh* I'd like to spend the weekend lazing around on my ass, but I already committed to a potluck dinner/discussion group tonight (there will be wine, so that might help), a class on the Frankfurt School tomorrow morning with some very earnest people whom I can't resist debating, a business meeting tomorrow afternoon (I got myself roped into getting involved with yet another startup, hahahaha -- I am such a sucker for punishment), and then scrambling to do errands/laundry/etc. tomorrow night.

Next week, if anything, will be worse. Major deadlines on Wednesday and Friday pretty much guarantee working til midnight several times (or maybe even an all-nighter). I should start brewing the coffee now.

Jolted awake

Fri, 20 Jul 2007 21:28:47 GMT

So at 4:45 this morning, I was awakened by the ground jerking my building around rather rudely. Turns out it was a 4.2 earthquake -- not so big in the scheme of things, but big enough to set my heart racing as I lay in bed wondering how long it was going to last! I think it also felt especially strong because I was pretty close to the epicenter. Wheeee!

I need to remember to buy a few more gallons of water for my emergency supplies.