Chapter Nine: Through the Fire and the Flames

Author's Note: Continuing from the last chapter, this will highlight Alan's characterization further. Though not action-packed in the least, it has more happening than "The Test of Things to Come".

Fire. Scathingly hot, he can feel it burning all around him. The creak of wood, the pouring of light rain as it tries to put out the flames. He opens his eyes and looks around. He's trapped in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV and breathing through an oxygen mask. Nothing's burning, not anymore. Listening closely, he can hear gentle, classical music playing in the distance. He can't quite name the tune, but he gets the feeling it was composed by a Russian, or maybe a German. (For some reason, no other nationality comes to mind.)

Overwhelmed by curiosity, he unhooks the IV, removes the mask, and steps out of the bed. He walks past the empty hospital beds and heads towards the door at the end of the room. Slowly, he reaches for the knob, when suddenly, a pair of hands grab him from behind and pull him into the darkness.

Alan's eyes widen and he shoots himself up. The bed is the same as it was before, but Mortimer is no longer beside him. Dread wells up inside of him as he slips out of the bottom bunk and steadily climbs to the top one. Pulling out his diary, he lowers his pen towards the paper... and stops. This wasn't the first time he's had that dream. It's not always as it was last night—sometimes, he would be trapped in the bed while the fire surrounds him, sometimes the kidnapper would attack him from the front, sometimes he would hear nothing, but see everything—but regardless of how the pieces are arranged, it was still the same dream. He had also attempted to write it down in the past, but whenever he tried, the words would escape him—almost as if something was holding him back.

He hears a soft, childish giggle echoing in his ear. “Bad dream, Herr Astor?” Alan twists around to figure out who said that. He finds nothing, but a sudden chill permeates the area close to him. Nervous, he clambers down the steps and digs through his drawers for something new and clean to wear.

Alan's always had a weakness for wanting to stand out. Though SPAI has a strict dress code, which student and instructor strive to uphold, he would find ways to alter it while still adhering to it (most of the time). Even his haircut goes against school standards, which specifically states that their hair not surpass a certain length, to keep it easy to conceal under their trademark balaclava. Today, he's decided to pass on the suit jacket—the weather's much too warm for that, anyway—and don a navy blue vest bearing the same pinstripe pattern. Additionally, he wanted to add a feminine touch to his attire, and thus picked out a blouse with poofy shoulders and tied a cute bow around the collar. The mask had to stay, much to his chagrin. Finely dressed, he takes his dirty laundry and happily skips out of the showers and towards the laundry room, ready to take on the day.

All eyes are on Alan as he walks through the doors to the cafeteria... or so he likes to think. In reality, he's received little more than the odd glance here and there, along with an occasional mutter questioning his gender or sexuality (which he brushes off, because they are—to some extent—undeniably true). But positive or not, as long as the illusion of having captured everyone's attention is there, there's little point in worrying about the little things. He strides over to the line and picks out his minuscule breakfast.

The room is packed with perky early birds and grumpy not-so-early birds, and the Spy is finding it increasingly difficult to find a spot anywhere. Eventually, he finds a table that's empty, save for a sole figure: a giant, balding bear of a man. The man is eating a mound of scrambled eggs and bacon, along with what appears to be a sandwich of some sort. Alan cautiously approaches the giant and asks, “Um, is this seat taken?” while pointing at the seat across from him. (Up close, this man appears to be even taller than Hartmann, who was already titanic in size.) The large man grunts and shakes his head, and Alan thanks him as he claims the spot.

For a long while, the two of them eat in silence, Alan finishing his meal in a quarter of the time it takes for the giant to finish his. After an eternity and a half, the giant says, “I didn't realize new Spy was girl.”

Alan's eyes widen like saucers. “Uh, I'm not a girl... Zhat is to say, I got a... Well, I'm a guy. Sort of.”

“'Sort of'? You are either boy or girl. Is not that difficult.”

“It's not like zhat! I mean, I have guy parts, but I, erm, I sometimes... Well, it's more of a mental thing, you see?”


“Maybe.” He takes a bite out of his sandwich. “So you are sometimes boy and sometimes girl. Iz this some sort of Spy thing?”

“No, it's just a 'me' thing.” The conversation is wearing out Alan more quickly than he expected. “Say, aren't you Vince's roommate, Pasha?”

The man grunts and nods. “He is roommate, but not friend. Doktor and I do not get along.”

“You mean Doctor Hartmann, right?” Pasha nods again. “But I've seen you two in battle. You two seemed to work pretty well zhen.”

“Doktor is incompetent. Cannot charge, can barely heal. Prefers fighting to protecting.”

“Now, I'm sure zhat's not true. I've seen zhe good doctor, and I think he really does care about you guys.” Pasha says nothing, and continues to eat while Alan speaks. “Yeah, he's a little bit grumpy and violent, but I zhink if you give him a chance, he'll lighten up. I mean, he seems awfully nice around Duncan, and of course Vincent. And Mort's really taken a liking to him. So maybe if you can talk to him...” He trails off, not wanting to finish his statement. It's becoming clear that sappy friendship speeches are Mort's forte, not his.

Pasha's eyes shift back and forth, as he chews. Then he swallows and says, “Do not talk about Hartmann. Talk about yourself. What does teeny Spy like?”

Alan is dumbfounded; he's never expected to be asked so directly. “Wait, me? Oh, well, I like pretty clothes... and books... and writing and art. I doubt you'd be interested, though...”

Surprisingly, Pasha's face lightens up. “You like books? I love books, and reading! I studied English back in Soviet Russia, taught it, even. Of course, you would not know from my speaking. I read and write much better than I speak. You say you write, yes? What do you like writing?”

“I mostly just write in my diary. Silly little stories about fairies and knights in shining armor. Childish stuff, really.”

“Nothing wrong with a little fantasy. I prefer literature, more down-to-earth stories, but sometimes I would pick up Tolkien or Lewis. Science fiction tries to be like realistic fantasy, but is too pretentious for me.” He finishes off his sandwich and smiles. “When you finish writing story, let me read it first. I like seeing other people's writing.”

Alan stutters a bit before smiling back and replying, “Yes. I definitely will.” A pause, then: “Say, Pasha, I don't suppose you have any advice on writer's block, have you?”

Pasha, about to leave, turns his attention to the Spy. “Many of my students had same problem. I tell them to just write things plainly and simply. It looks bad on paper, but leetle by leetle, what they have in head will eventually come out. Just write, and it will come to you.” And he's gone.

His words keep spinning over and over in his head. Just write, and it will come to you... For a man who, based on appearance, speech patterns, and occupation, appears stupid, Alan had never felt more inspired by any other man. Well, except maybe his father and Mort, but they're special for different reasons. Pasha was the first person to whom he had ever confessed to writing a story, or keeping a diary, or loving books. Though being a bookworm was not something to hide, for Alan, the fact that he writes as a hobby is something he preferred to keep to himself. After all, the stories he writes represent a part of his soul, and to casually show that part of him to somebody is unthinkable. But Pasha seemed eager to read it. And he didn't laugh when I told him I liked fantasy. Maybe I'll let him read a tiny portion of my story... when I'm feeling a little braver.

The Spy did not do too well at first. Wholly unfamiliar with the enemy team dynamics and overly eager to put his masks to use, he disguised himself as a Sniper when the team had none that round, and thus made himself an obvious target. Then he de-cloaked himself too early, exposing himself to the Engineer before he had a chance to defend himself. Then there was that situation he got himself into when his backstab missed, leaving him open to the Medic's bonesaw. But as he became accustomed to his surroundings and enemy, he proved himself capable of slithering in and out of the enemy's base with the intelligence in hand. He recalled what Mortimer told him, about taking advantage of what he was good at, and it wasn't until he got onto the battlefield that it finally clicked. Disguises—one of the Spy's main gimmicks—are not his specialty. However, his hacking and intel-collecting abilities are par none, at least compared to other young Spies he can think of, especially when combined with his nimbleness and agility. Perhaps his bookworminess isn't a total waste of a talent.

Inspired by today's events, he rushes right over to his diary and opens it. He skips a page ahead of his last entry and starts writing. Nothing too elaborate, just enough to get the basics down.

Fire. Hospital bed. Music. Mysterious figure. Dragged into darkness.

After putting down the keywords, he presses the pen against the paper and continues, struggling against his increasingly fogged-up psyche.

Ballerina in black. Orphanage. Two kids. Hannah? Sklcanieacewrsdllriercherdfacheioshrescherlslsklascerisfcersifcerlsfhtfttaceraceradcioarneiolcenrieos

At this point, his mind is drawing a complete blank, so his pen is being controlled solely by instinct, his wrist moving loosely like a doll whose joints are worn out. Snapping back to reality, he slips his diary and pen back under the pillow and lies down. He doesn't recall seeing anything about ballerinas or children in his dreams, and he definitely never met anyone significant named “Hannah”. So why did he write those words? And why does his mind become hazy when he tries to record anything involving his dreams? Something is holding me back, I just know it! He blinks and closes his eyes, and the world fades to black.

Suddenly, he hears giggling again, same as this morning. “Is somezhing wrong, Aninnyme?” Alan sits upright and—with cold, emotionless eyes—stares straight in the direction of the voice. Standing at the foot of the ladder is a young girl, with snow-white skin and long, ivory hair. Her clothes are a mishmash of accessories and garments belonging to various mercenary classes, making it impossible to tell just what her specialty is.

“My name is Anonyme,” he says, his voice flatter and more feminine in tone and pitch. “I did not expect to reawaken so soon, but 'Alan' was getting too nosy. That's the problem with artificial personalities: they grow too comfortable with their host bodies and become unstable.”

The girl frowns. “He doesn't seem so bad. I think I like him more zhan you.”

“Anonyme” shows no signs of contempt, but they start climbing down the ladder, prompting the girl to step aside. “Miss Alterheim, please consider the situation. If this behavior of his continues, I will be forced to override him completely. Sir Petrinni created 'Alan' as a means to distract him from the truth of his past, that way he—that is, we—can achieve what he had always wanted—”

They stop speaking, as they lose their footing and have to be supported by the “Alterheim” girl's hair, itself a controllable, limb-like entity. “The perfect Spy,” she finishes for them. “Ja, I know. Still pretty ambitious, if you ask me.” Helping Anonyme out the door, she blurts out, “Wohin gehst?”

“Out.” In an instant, the one who calls themselves “Anonyme” is gone.

According to the note they took from the intelligence suitcase Alan swiped earlier that day, the meeting spot should be under a tree in the local park. Anonyme knew the note was meant for them, as it took the form of an innocuous-looking grocery list, a set of coordinates in the guise of something apparently useless. Having patrolled the area the night before, they have a general idea of where most of the town's landmarks are, including the residential outskirts and the restaurant known as “Kanpai's”. They arrive at the stroke of midnight, spotting the silhouette of a tall figure underneath the tree. Under the pale moonlight, the figure's sharp features are accentuated; his broad shoulders, his crooked nose, his prominent cheekbones.

They approach the figure and bow, a tiny smile creeping upwards. “Hello, father.”

The figure—holding a cigarette between two long, slender fingers—steps forward, narrowing the distance. “What have I told you about calling me zhat, Anonyme? You are to call me 'Sir Petrinni' and nothing else.” He drops the cig—at a distance uncomfortably close to Anonyme—and crushes it. “Report your progress.”

No longer smiling, Anonyme reports, talking as if reading from a script read a million times over. “'Alan' is beginning to show signs of self-awareness, moreso than usual. While his behavior has not changed much, he is suspecting a pattern in the recurring dreams he has been having, and had recently uncovered bits of his memories previously unreported. Though fortunately, he has yet to find a clear connection. Physically, he appears to be doing better than usual, possibly as a result of the rookie Sniper's doting personality. But emotionally, he is feeling... conflicted.”

“Conflicted? Over what? Explain.”

“I am uncertain of the details, but he seems to have... feelings towards the Sniper. Strong feelings. Strange feelings.”

“I see... Well, then. Carry on.”

“But fath—Sir Petrinni! If this continues...”

“Zhen he will become easier to override. Once you do zhat, you will no longer have to worry about zhat pest.” Petrinni's hands grasp Anonyme's shoulders and squeezes them tightly. “You can get your body and identity back. You can finally be free, O Nameless One!”

Anonyme's eyes widen for a moment, taking in this information. “Yes...” A tear runs down their eye. “No longer will I be the Nameless One. I will become Alan Ian Astor... forever.”