| #11: Human Nature |
[Aug. 31st, 2006|08:43 pm] |
Name the one thing about human nature that puzzles you.
The moral compass often leaves me rather dumbfounded. It's as if the average human being is programmed to understand the general difference between right and wrong, and often be more inclinded to lean toward the right choices. Some, however, tend to argue that this has less to do with programming and more to do with general upbringing. Regardless, it's a design flaw in the nature of mankind.
However, in the same vein, there are those who are seated at opposing ends of the spectrum. Some have little to no moral compass and proceed to indulge the devil on their shoulder. Then, there are those who only listen to the angel seated on their shoulder, whispering only good deeds in their ear. The rest of mankind falls somewhere in between.
Contrary to popular belief, I do indeed have a moral compass and a conscience. However, years of training have taughty me to ignore it - for the most part. |
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| #10: Spirit |
[Aug. 6th, 2006|11:38 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  chipper | ] |
Spirit.
Protect me from what I want...
Protect me protect me
Maybe we're victims of fate
Remember when we'd celebrate
We'd drink and get high until late
And now we're all alone
| spir•it | n. The vital principle or animating force within living beings; a person as characterized by a stated quality; a particular mood or an emotional state characterized by vigor and animation; strong loyalty or dedication
It’s not as if she was the only girl he’d ever had a one-night-stand with. But, there was something about her. She caught his eye and kept his attention. Strange, he had thought. He lived out of hotels most nights – traveling from location-to-location per his employer’s request, but he rarely slept alone. Something about her – about Lydia – was different.
…different was always worrisome.
Maybe it was the smile – maybe it was her charm. Perhaps it was the fact that was speaking with his usual accent – and he with hers. Or maybe, just maybe, it was that moment of pause, the feeling of her breath against his lips, the silver of her eyes. [those eyes will haunt me forever.]
+
Truth takes time. He’d heard that phrase often in his youth and career [is there a difference, really?], but it was a phrase that was often disproved. Truth found him in the airport, before he could take a moment of pause to reflect on it.
Rachel. [though, lydialydialydialydia had sounded so good last night.] Different voice. Different smile. But those eyes [blue-gray in daylight, silver at night?] – those eyes remained the same.
The only truth that took any sort of time was truly the moment of realization. He knew why she kept his attention, though he didn’t think she knew. She knew the game – she knew the rules, the protocol, the risk. She wasn’t a nameless, faceless woman in a random city. She was actually an opponent, a challenge, a game he would look forward to playing again.
+
He walked away later. She saved him, hated him, couldn’t stop looking at him. He was offered payment, but he declined and walked away. He already received the payment he wanted – though no one would ever know. [the answer, the reason, the game.]
+
The next time he saw her, it was hardly pleasant. Per his employer’s request, he had to torture her in order to force her to cooperate. It wasn’t the game he wanted to play with her – for that matter, he sincerely thought she would crack early on.
She didn’t crack. He shouldn’t have enjoyed it. He should’ve felt guilty. But the screams? The expression on her features? The marks he left on her neck? He enjoyed it. He hardly even touched her. She fought with all the strength and spirit she possessed.
That’s when he decided he should have her, keep her. [if i don’t destroy her first.]
+end+
Muse: Julian Sark
Fandom: Alias |
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| #9: Inherit |
[Jul. 16th, 2006|03:16 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | calm | ] |
Talk about something you inherited. (It could be an object, a physical attribute, a belief, etc.)
I inherited a large sum of money when it appeared that Julia Thorne murdered my father. Oh, it was very nice of him to leave me such an amount of money – this man I had few memories of, those memories not pleasant in the slightest. Well, if he had taken the time to perhaps investigate my whereabouts – which, likely wouldn’t have gotten him anywhere, but given the fact that a blonde version of Sydney Bristow was running about the world with him, he might have gotten a detail or two – he would have known that I was in CIA custody at the time.
When the CIA came to the conclusion to trade me off to the highest bidder, I was delivered into the hands of the Covenant. Oh, they offered me a lovely glass of wine, a clean suit, a peon’s position in their organization for a grand fee – my inheritance. However, given the fact that I prefer myself alive and out of CIA custody, I signed it over to them. After awhile, I got bored with my position in their affairs and aligned myself with Ms. Reed to assassinate the people in charge who were living on my funding. In the end, I landed myself back in CIA custody, but it was fun while it lasted. |
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| #8: If |
[Jul. 2nd, 2006|06:54 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  creative | ] |
If Rambaldi appears in my life one more time, then I will likely kill a small dog.
Milo Rambaldi (1444-1496), a renaissantial homo universalis, artist, alchemist, engineer and mystic, served as chief architect to Pope Alexander VI. The Followers of Rambaldi – or, as I prefer to think of them, the Mentally Deranged Cultists – claim that you have to be a select group to know of Rambaldi. Personally, I rely on Wikipedia.
I am not a follower of Rambaldi. I’ve read the prophecies. I’ve seen the artifacts and devices. For that matter, a great portion of my career has consisted of obtaining the various works of Rambaldi. I assure you, we’re acquainted. I have never felt compelled to get the eye of Rambaldi tattooed on my body. I’ve never attended a Rambaldi Cultist meeting; I have, however, heard stories about the invisible kool-aid that turns a variety of colors if you use the right ampule on it – the wrong ampule, however, leads to a quick death by poison.
Despite my efforts, the followers of Rambaldi continue to live under the assumption that I share their beliefs. Sometimes I smile and nod; that usually leads to a profitable alliance until I grow bored. However, I’m not willing to throw my life down, claiming to be a martyr of Rambaldi. For that matter, I’m not willing to be a martyr or even an ordinary corpse for anything. I prefer to remain among the living and associating with Rambaldi’s fan club tends to complicate matters. Regardless of my attempts, I somehow end up getting sucked back into the deranged game; the last round consisted of me getting shot, and I assure you, I will not let that happen again.
I’ve decided to go with a different approach to avoiding Rambaldi. If he appears in my life once more, then I will be killing a small dog. Why? No one likes violence toward animals. Yes, even trained assassins like myself do not enjoy animal cruelty. Also, no one likes getting PETA involved; killing a small dog in order to avoid Rambaldi’s fan club will likely result in PETA throwing blood on them or something equally unsavory. So, Followers of Rambaldi, beware – try to recruit me again, and a small dog dies. |
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| #7: Angry |
[Jun. 26th, 2006|02:54 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | calm | ] |
What makes you angriest?
"Beware a summit that begins with shared bread. The sated man is at his weakest." A Vietnamese general I had dinner with once said that. By dessert I had put a bullet between his eyes. I don’t like people who assume that because I am young, they can entertain me with an interesting quote or a charming story of from their youth. On occasion, Arvin Sloane could have my undivided attention with such things, but that’s simply because it fascinates me that he was able to deceive an entire army of people to work for him with no doubt as to their allegiances. However, I watched Ms. Bristow put a bullet between his eyes and thought little of it.
My loyalties are flexible. I’ve stated that before. It still remains true. I don’t remain loyal to anyone for an extended amount of time unless it’s well worth it. It angers me considerably when people live under the false assumption that I will remain loyal until the end. My key example is Ms. Derevko. She assumed I would go through with her plan to destroy the world, regardless of what could happen to me. That was a foolish thing to assume. If I have to choose between myself and someone else, I will always pick myself. I’m a big supporter of self-preservation. If I’m dead, what purpose would that serve? When Mr. Vaughn shot me, who did she honestly think I would remain loyal to? I am always loyal to myself first. Always. |
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| #6: The Next Day |
[Jun. 4th, 2006|02:58 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  cold | ] |
When I awoke the next morning...
When I awoke the next morning, I wondered if it had all been a nightmare. I haven't had nightmares since I was a child, but it's impressive that I've made myself so unfeeling to not let anything in my line of work effect me. If I was going to have nightmares, last night would have been the appropriate time for one. But it wasn't a nightmare. It happened.
Yesterday, I almost ended the world. I followed my instructions; I had missiles targeted, seconds away from destroying the major cities on the globe. There were the occasional moments when I paused, wondering what tomorrow would bring. But I stand, in tomorrow, looking back at yesterday. It's strange; yesterday I was so sure that this day would be so different from the others, that the contrast would be jarring to my senses.
I was shot yesterday, by Michael Vaughn. His presence wasn't enough to bring me back to reality; however, the bullet he shot into my leg was certainly enough to make me pause in my efforts of global genocide. I managed to talk my way out a potentially difficult situation; I gave him the codes to stop the missiles, and he let me go. I walked away from what could have been my own demise. In the end, if things had gone according to plan, would Irina have tried to kill me too? She tried to kill Sydney, her own flesh and blood. Would she have killed me too in order to protect her power? It's plausible.
When I awoke the next morning, I breathed a sigh of relief. I hadn't done it. Irina was dead. I just might be able to carry on with my life without any further involvement by Milo Rambaldi. |
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a random trip to Boston. for ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=88.8) alan_shore and any other Boston residents. |
[May. 23rd, 2006|06:51 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | depressed | ] |
Well, he certainly wasn't going to stay in Hong Kong. He wasn't sure what made him more uneasy about the matter: the fact he nearly committed global genocide or the fact that his loyalities to Irina Derevko ultimately caused him to receive a gun shot wound in the leg which, for the record, he is still in shock about. Oh, and the fact that Irina's dead body appeared to be staying that way? That wasn't exactly helping his rather disturbed state.
He took the Rambaldi sphere from her cold hands and spilled some of its contents onto her. He didn't, however, want to sit around and wait for her to wake up. As he poured a tiny amount of the liquid onto his own wound, he vowed that it was his last moment following Rambaldi or, rather, following the followers of Rambaldi. He couldn't very well say that it was all for nothing; by the time he reached the airport, his leg was only moderately sore from the gun shot. Still, no more. He was a businessman first, and Rambaldi certainly wasn't a good business venture when the end result would be global genocide.
He wanted to go somewhere where no one would think to look for him. Granted, he didn't think the CIA would come chasing after him. They'd lost too many of their own, and Vaughn did agree to let him walk away. Still, he decided the safest place would be somewhere he hadn't been in quite some time. He had a friend he wanted to visit anyway.
After a long flight, Julian arrived in Boston. Of course, he lacked the number of the friend he wished to visit. Granted, they weren't on the best of terms; last he remembered, Alan Shore repeatedly refused to represent him in court, and Sark argued rather defensively that he would never need legal representation since he would never actually be caught and tried. He did, however, still possess the phone number for one Mr. Denny Crane. They remained in touch, which Denny said was purely so that Julian would feel inclined to contact him if one of the former Mrs. Cranes called for his services. Julian, for the record, had attempted to tell Mr. Crane that his fees were rather steep and usually weren't for petty post-marital disputes; Mr. Crane, however, only continued to repeat his own name. In fact, when he called to request contact information for Alan Shore, it took a full fifteen minutes before Mr. Crane stopped repeating his name.
He drove his rented car to the one establishment he enjoyed drinking at in Boston. He stepped inside and took a seat at the bar and waited for Alan Shore to arrive. |
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| #5: Irina. |
[May. 14th, 2006|07:06 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  apathetic | ] |
Write about mother (your own or someone else's).
My mother was weak and fragile; in my memory, she's something like a porcelin doll. She spoke with a soft, melodic voice when she read me stories at night; that same voice, however, sounded like a ghost haunting me in the night when my father would hit her and shatter her into pieces. She wanted to save me from him. She always told me I was meant for something more than she could give me. She sent me off to school and eventually into the care of Irina Derevko. The first time I was sent off to school, I was a mere child. I clung to my mother, not willing to leave her. That was the last time I told her I loved her; I grew to resent her after that.
Irina Derevko, however, was not my mother. She was everything my mother couldn't be. She had a strength that no one could challenge, a fire that no one could put out. She taught me, trained me, prepared me to face the world. My mother pushed me aside, saying I was meant for better things, but Irina actually fashioned me into a person able to find my place in the world.
Irina was like a mother to me, moreso than my own. However, Irina already had children. She only spoke of Sydney, but whenever she did, that's when I knew she never thought of me as a son. When Irina spoke of Sydney, the pitch in her voice would soften and her eyes held this distant gaze. Subtle things, but I noticed. When she spoke of me, she was unchanged; it was her usual voice, her usual gaze, nothing special. But Sydney? That was an entirely different circumstance. She spoke of Sydney with awe and adoration. I wanted her to speak of me like that; I had nothing but envy for Sydney until I met her.
But, despite that, I wanted Irina to be my mother. She had that same musical lilt to her voice as my mother, but she had a fire in her eyes that my mother would never own. When my father would try to hurt me, my mother would push me into the closet, protecting me as best she could. Sometimes I wanted Irina to protect me from the world, but instead she made me into a weapon. She was everything my mother couldn't be. My mother tried to save me; Irina made me save myself.
Muse: Julian Sark
Fandom: Alias |
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| #4: Lauren. |
[May. 11th, 2006|11:54 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | cold | ] |
Who was "the one that got away"?
Love. It's a foolish thing to let yourself fall into. Especially in my line of work. It's something that will inevitably create an utter nightmare, but you won't even realize it. However, I let myself fall into that trap. And, naturally, she got away. You killed the woman I loved.
Lauren Reed. Ambitious and domineering. Fantastic.
At the time we were involved, we worked for the Covenant. It was like every other organization. Different name, but same faces, same goals, same endgame. She was quite good at her job. You should know that you are amazing. Before, I mean. Typically, this is where you return the compliment.
She was a double agent, married to Agent Michael Vaughn. He's been irritating from the start. Imagine how poor, stupid Vaughn felt when he found out I was sleeping with his wife. But then, she wasn't sharing your bed lately, was she? She was in mine. Or in my car. Or the elevator. Or a garage. There was one time – this is my favorite – we were engaged in an alley and she called you to tell you she loved you.
Of course, Lauren was trapped in a triangle all her own. Married to Vaughn. Vaughn in love with Sydney. Messy affairs, indeed. Granted, I have a certain proclivity for Ms. Bristow, but that's hardly the point. I must say, your disguise, it addresses a certain proclivity of mine.
But, Vaughn killed her. At least, that's what I was told. It wasn't really spoken of until some time later when the CIA found me useful enough to let me out of my cell. Again. They sent me on a mission, with Ms. Bristow posing as the assumed late Ms. Reed. Ms. Bristow didn't really want to play her role. Ridiculous, truly. She would have enjoyed herself. Lauren and I had a reputation; certain intimacies were public knowledge. We must maintain appearances.
However, I should have learned by now that things are never just as they appear. The woman I loved is quite alive. A phone call would've been nice, I suppose. Granted, lately I'm not an easy man to contact; there's a rather particular protocol... but regardless, she could have figured it out. I'm merely left here to wonder just why she got away.
Muse: Julian Sark
Fandom: Alias
[[ thank you to ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif?v=88.8) operation_alias & for the Sark quotes. ]] |
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| #3: Grow up. |
[May. 10th, 2006|09:25 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  bored | ] |
What was/is your childhood ambition?
*laughs*
My childhood ambition was to grow up.
Did you expect some sort of touching story about a darling, blond-haired youth who aspired to become a pilot or a fireman? You won't find such a thing here. I wanted to be an adult. I envied the power adults had. It wasn't as if I could change a thing about my life, my situation, my circumstance while hiding under my bed or playing in the park. I didn't have time for the silly notions of make believe; I didn't even like to play with other children.
I never had the aspirations of a normal child. Perhaps that's why I never desired to remain a child. Some people tell you that childhood is the best part of your life; there's little to worry about, as everything is taken care of. In theory, you have plenty of time to idly sit and dream. You come up with fanciful nonsense about what you'll be when you grow up. Only, you see, when you get to the grown-up stage and realize your dream is nothing but a foolish waste of time, you're stuck. My childhood was plagued with worry - the constant fear aggravation caused by an abusive father and a defenseless mother. When I had time to myself, I would read and study; I prepared myself as much as I could to become an adult. I wanted it more than anything. I had no desire to be a child.
It paid off, I suppose. Theorectically, I became an adult much earlier than I should have. Age isn't necessarily the determining factor. It has more to do with maturity, adaptibility, and perhaps, the spilling of blood.
Muse: Julian Sark
Fandom: Alias |
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| #2: Mr. Sark. |
[Apr. 22nd, 2006|12:15 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | bored | ] |
Perception: Generally speaking, how do you think others perceive you?
As the villain, of course.
*smirk*
I've worked to build a certain image for myself. As a child, I was Julian Lazarey - an innocent, naive boy who watched his father's violent tendancies. I didn't want to be that sad, little boy. However, once I started to work for Ms. Derevko, I created the persona of Mr. Sark. It has served me well throughout my career. It was a name that held confidence and power; it was a name that caused others to exchange glances of concern. It was nice. Lately, however, I seem to have found a balance between the two identies - Julian Sark. I've accepted my past; I've accepted my path. It's a nice... balance.
However, I'm also perceived as the villain. Even when my help is requested by the CIA, it's always on iffy terms - as if they expect me to double-cross them at any instant. I work for myself, not as a dog working for its current master. I do what I want, when I want. I choose my employers, my jobs. But, regardless of the fact that I tend to hover in the gray as opposed to black or white, I'm viewed as the villain. Sometimes, however, I don't mind that in the slightest.
Muse: Julian Sark
Fandom: Alias |
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| #1: Rachel. |
[Apr. 18th, 2006|10:18 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  contemplative | ] |
Close your eyes and think about what you've been missing in your life lately. It could be a person, pet, place, thing, occasion, feeling. Anything at all that you miss dearly.
Julian closes his eyes as the wine touches his lips; he wishes the forgiving red liquid would take the memory away. He hardly knows her, but he wants to. When he met her, she was Lydia, a British engineer. She knew him as Bob Brown, a freelance international trade specialist. It was all part of the game. Bob met Lydia in the hotel bar; they hit it off and meant to go their separate ways. He kissed her goodnight. That’s all he planned to do. But, she kissed him again. Then she said it. Please. It was a wonderful night. If things had been different, he imagined they would have had more nights like it. But, their respective employers called. End of story. At least, it should have been.
He takes another sip, desperate to forget. Lydia turned out to be Rachel Gibson, loyal puppy of Sydney Bristow, all too eager to follow commands. They met him at the airport, offering to hire him. They wanted the knowledge he gained and the location of his employer. But her eyes – those lovely eyes – wanted something more.
The mission should have been simple. He merely had to rescue Sydney Bristow’s father and another agent from his present employer. It was highly unprofessional, but he agreed. Well, there was a certain point in which he wanted to disagree, but at that point, he was handcuffed in close proximity to a bomb. He had assured her previously that he was quite good at what he did. Yet, there he was, stuck with a bomb.
She didn’t have to save him; in fact, he feels certain the CIA would have preferred that she not even try. But, she did. She didn’t even know what she was doing; he noticed her trembling at one point which gave him rather pleasant memories of their night together. She tried to be coy, teasing him about liking risks while she felt rather iffy about whether or not the bomb was going to go off. He replied, rather bluntly, that he liked his body and as he recalled so did she. Before she officially deactivated the bomb, she informed him that he came on to her and that he wanted to cuddle afterward. She wasn’t entirely wrong.
They let him go, without even trying to arrest him. He was even offered payment for the job he had been hired to do. However, he looked at her and refused it. She seemed pleased. In fact, the hint of a smile she offered is what plagues his mind still.
Half the bottle of wine is gone, but his longing for her remains.
Muse: Julian Sark
Fandom: Alias |
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