| Subject: Chapter One |
Author:
grit kitty
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Date Posted: 18:57:51 03/12/01 Mon
In reply to:
grit kitty
's message, "Learning Birkoff" on 18:56:34 03/12/01 Mon
ONE
”You know, I’m kinda glad that he never really got to know you.”
Walter’s ploy had been crude and obvious.
“He would have been ashamed.”
Shame. Whip of the older generations. Jason had internally scoffed, hiding his disdain behind his charming smile, the smile that moved in isolation from the rest of his face, the smile that tumbled many a young woman into his bed. It’d felt stiff on his lips after a few moments under Walter’s scathing look, however, and he had turned and sauntered away before he could lose it.
Shame. It was the second weapon of choice for the elderly, guilt being the first. Jason thought he was well immured of both, impervious to the wimple and whine of the have-nots begging him for something they were just too stupid to get themselves. He had clawed his way without sympathy to the top of a dog-eat-dog world, good training for life in Section and Center; it had well served him these past months in his new career.
So, why did he care what Walter thought or said? The answer was as brutally obvious as the older man’s methods of persuasion: his brother, Birkoff.
Much as he pretended he didn’t care, he did care. He cared with the intensity that all adopted children obsessed about biological family. And it made him angry because he didn’t used to care. He’d faced up to the demons of abandonment and growing up without a traditional family, cut them down with determination to succeed at everything, and emerged from college a competitive self-starter. He did it all without a biological family, he didn’t need a biological family, and he did not care…until a year ago, when Birkoff had emerged from the shadows of his house, a warped mirror image smiling at him.
Oh, he had cared then, a slam of interest that had hit him like a truck, a truck that looked like a poor cousin of his (those clothes, those glasses; who dressed him?), a poor identical cousin of his. The shock had faded to a quick numbness; he’d distanced the childish enthusiasm in his own breast by gently mocking his brother’s. He’d known no other way to deal with the revelation.
And then Birkoff died, and Section faked Jason’s death.
No more need of feigning detachment, no need of anything, except survive in a new environment. Survive and thrive…and he did. Brilliantly, as always.
And now, a grizzled old man laid shame and guilt on him with devastating simplicity.
Jason might have shrugged it off, but his balance had been continually rocked after he’d left Walter and his moral outrage in Munitions. His slick armor couldn’t hold up to the thought of a little boy, dead and discovered by his father. He had blanched at the possibility, sick in his stomach when Quinn told him until Michael and Nikita had confirmed that the dead body was not little Adam, but Alain, a momentary leader of The Collective.
Jason had listened to the entire exchange, oddly touched when he’d heard Nikita ask, “What do you have to negotiate with?” and Michael answer, “Whatever they want.” Michael had been willing to do anything, even sacrifice his life to the Collective, to save his son (and a memory of Walter had said, ‘Your brother gave his life to save everybody else’s here. Anybody ever tell you that?’), and in the lull of activity as the team returned home, he’d found himself punching up damaging information on Myra.
It seemed a small thing. Myra, Kelly; both were ruthless and dirty on one level or another. Did it matter so much to him if one gained the position of Operations over the other? When Spec Ops escorted Myra away, Jason didn’t give Walter the confirmation he was looking for, the confirmation that he was just like his brother, Birkoff. That, Jason would never be ready to do. He was his own man. And it was such an easy favor.
Soon after, Michael had left Section, expecting to give his life for that of his son’s. Instead, Mr. Jones had taken the steps across a bridge to his end, sacrificing himself because…
Because…
Jason wasn’t sure.
Now, Michael was gone. Where, no one knew, but it was known that Adam had gone with him. Nikita was Operations, a stoic Valkyrie standing tall in the Perch. Chosen over Myra and Kelly by Mr. Jones, her authority was unquestionable, and resented. The tremors of Paul Wolfe’s death, of Mr. Jones’ death, of Michael’s disappearance all rocked through Section, keeping Jason busy in Comm as acting liaison with Center.
Busy was good. Busy kept Walter at bay. Jason could pull the smile and let anything roll off his back, but he found it harder to do with Walter -- Walter, with recognition for a dead man in his faded denim eyes every time he looked at Jason.
It had been easier at Center. No twin ghost there.
“Hey, Jase, just the man I’m looking for,” said Walter. He sprang into Comm with more energy than a man his age should have, a panel in hand. Jason cast a glance at the old man, covering his annoyance quickly with pretty-boy, affable charm.
“What’s up? You want more favors I’m not gonna give you?”
“Right, amigo,” he shot back, grin undiminished. “But it’s nothing that’ll get you in trouble this time, just a quick analysis on this circuit.” He held the panel out.
Jason looked at the screen but made no move to touch it. “This isn’t my forte. Take it to R and D, get someone to do a once-over down there.”
Walter’s smile faded. He drew the device back, turned it around and looked at the diagram. “Really.”
“Really. That’s for a bomb trigger, right?”
“Yeah.”
Jason shrugged. “Can’t help you.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“Can’t.” Jason frowned. “Told you, not my forte. Shouldn’t you be in the Weapons Lab with this? Why are you askin’ me, anyhow?”
Walter looked him in the eye as one side of his mouth curled up lazily. “Habit, I guess.”
The frown dug deeper into Jason’s forehead. “Well, break it, then. I don’t do hardware applications like that.”
“Well, Birkoff, he….”
“My brother is dead, Walter. He’s not gonna help you with your circuit, and he’s not gonna help me get all this stuff done, either.” Jason gestured to his workstation, the scattered storage media, and the several windows open on his computer.
“You know, I’ve never once heard you use his name.” Walter leaned back and tucked his arms in a knot, resting his weight on one hip. “Why is that?”
Jason looked up at the ceiling and tapped his temple. “Gee, Walter, I dunno. To tick you off, maybe?” He leaned forward, all business once more. “I’m busy. Take your hobby down to the lab where it belongs.”
Walter aimed another infuriatingly knowing smile at him, and stepped away.
~~~~
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