Fatal Weakness

Posted on Thu Apr 16th, 2009 @ 7:45pm by

1,668 words; about a 8 minute read

Mission: Wolves in Sheep's Clothing
Location: Holodeck
Timeline: Current

It could be said by anyone who had known Commander Rowena Arkham for any length of time greater than a few moments that she was highly suited to her profession in Intelligence. Able to lead without effort and disappear within an instant, Arkham was well-equipped to do her job from the beginning, and her queerly romantic disposition, utter lack of imagination, and years of experience made her all the better at it. Even though many others had left the business by now, Rowena Arkham remained -- though she was often stiff in the mornings and at the end of the day would rub her sore hip with a hand that had picked up the tiniest bit of a shake, there was no dry twist in her eyes or ears, and really, what else did she need?

And even more than the idea that old Arkham was her profession, it could be easily discerned that Arkham was a far older soul than her forty-six years. And not simply because one could tell that Arkham was forced to grow up too quickly and that she was was plagued by the cynicism that had come from the coupling of limitless knowledge combined with understanding. No, there was something about the rigidly polite and well-bred officer that indicated that she was not entirely at ease -- something in her mannerisms contradicted her very being, made her a throwback to an age and time that few people could understand or relish in as she did, an age four hundred and forty years behind them, where the truths of Rowena's time were merely considered "science fiction".

Rowena Arkham chuckled a little at the thought, smirking a little as she straightened her gunmetal-colored tie and her black tuxedo, concealing her PP7, carried a in a leather holster concealed at her side. Looking away from the mirror, the officer -- or in this world, at least, the agent, proceeded into the grand ballroom of the Dench manor, following the sound of the string quartet providing the music for the evening's gala. Arriving at the staircase, Arkham overlooked the great party in the circular room and the myriad of well dressed people below her, chatting, dancing and drinking expensive champagne served to them by white-gloved attendants.

Striding into the room, Arkham proceeded to the open bar, leaning on the counter, holding out a piece of paper currency out to the barman. As the young man looked up, Arkham smirked, saying, "Martini, dry. In a nice deep champagne glass."

"Yes ma'am," the young man said, taking Arkham's tip and moving to pull out his ingredients. He did not make it very far before Arkham cleared her throat, making him look up once more and pause. "Ma'am?"

"Just a moment. Don't be hasty, young man. I'm not done," Arkham said, managing a slight chuckle as she ran a finger along her scarred throat. "Three measures of Gordon's, one measure of vodka, and half a measure of Kina Lillet. Shake it very well, don't stop until its ice cold, and then add a large thin slice of lemon peel."

"Yes ma'am," the barman said, raising an eyebrow. Dinner had not yet been served, and such a large strong drink was rare and something of a faux pas. But of course, having just accepted a very large piece of currency from the well-dressed stranger, who was he to judge her based on what she had chosen to imbibe?

A few moments later, the young man returned to the bar counter, and handed the glass to the older woman, who nodded her thanks. Taking a sip and looking round the grand ballroom, confusion crossed her features for an instant, and she said quietly, "Young man, do you have a moment?"

The young man looked at the numerous wealthy people waiting for drinks, and then back at the woman incredulously. "Ma'am, I--"

"I said," Arkham said, gently tugging at anther crisp bill hidden up her sleeve. "Do you have a moment?"

Seeing it, the young man eyed the currency greedily, weighing his options before subtly removing it from Arkham's sleeve as gingerly as possible. Leaning on the counter, he said quietly, "What can I do for you?"

Arkham smirked. Something was off this time -- she knew the mission and the scenarios backwards and forwards, and if there was one thing she definitely knew, it was that Erica Dench -- the wife who had survived the Prime Minister of the small European country Arkham was sent to, who had rumored connections with the Soviets and the rebel underground that had overthrown her husband. Equally quietly, she rasped, "Where is Erica Dench?"

"Dench, ma'am?" the bartender said, looking befuddled -- a look that gave Arkham a distinctive degree of unease. "I'm afraid I don't know an Erica Dench, ma'am."

"Don't be ridiculous, she owns this manor, young man. The wife of the recently deceased Minister Dench," Arkham said coldly. "Come on now, earn that money or I will break every single one of your fingers getting it back."

"No, she doesn't," the young man insisted.

"Then, pray tell," Arkham said, growing a tad irate. "Who does?"

"That," said a sultry, familiar voice, "would be me, Agent Arkham."

Arkham turned on her heel, and was surprised at what she saw. Standing before her, clad in a rather revealing red dress, her blonde hair done up neatly, and for once not wearing her glasses, was Captain Alexandra Harwood, a vision if there ever was one to behold. Smirking a little and taking a sip of her margarita, she began, "You--"

Harwood smiled a little, looking around the grand ballroom -- her ballroom. In her typical cool and cultured tones, she said, "This is a very well put-together scenario, Commander. And rather fitting for someone like you. Though it shows you read far too many Ian Fleming novels growing up."

"I'm rather fond of--"

"Margaritas, guns, and girls?" Harwood finished coyly, raising an eyebrow playfully.

Arkham chuckled a little at this, managing something of a wry expression. Drawing a cigar from her pocket and lighting it in a single fluid motion, she said, "I suppose you could say that, Miss Harwood. How did you manage this, anyhow?"

Harwood drew closer to the agent, saying simply, "Well, I overwrote your program in a few places. Just enough to replace the computer-generated Megan Ellard lookalike you had in this spot and make your storyline a little more...interesting."

"Alex--" Arkham began warningly.

"Now, now, imzadi," the younger woman said, removing Arkham's cigar from her mouth and taking a puff on it herself, smiling lecherously all the while. "I was only thinking of you. It's not exactly very healthy to be spending your time on the holodeck ogoling a computer generated copy of a dead woman. Besides, you know you want to know how i changed the game."

Arkham said nothing, simply sipped at her martini. Finally, she said, "It's probably not very healthy for me to be here with you, either. And we both know that."

"It struck me, after all, that it didn't seem fitting for the great 006 to be sneaking around trying to root out Soviet threats to the English crown and the rest of the West without being able to have a little fun. Give you a villain you really want to sink your teeth into. Because we know that you're all too eager to do that--"

"Alex," Arkham said quietly.

"We both know you aren't objecting, imzadi. After all," Harwood said, smirking. "You love it. You love how above all else, I feed your ego and can keep you guessing. How many other women have been able to say that, Commander?"

Arkham smirked, taking her cigar back from the younger woman and simultaneously pulling her out onto the floor and into a rather close waltz. "Oh, you know me too well, my dear. Now, how do I play the game, Captain? What have you changed here?"

"Oh," the blonde said, putting on a faux French accent that, if nothing else, greatly amused Arkham; it was dead on. "Well, Agent Arkham, it is your job to extract the information about the Soviet group I have allied myself from the house and locate them. But you find that to extract the information from the recently widowed Renata Arceneaux, you're going to have to employ some of your more...unique talents."

"Oh?" Arkham said quietly, watching as computer generated partygoers stared at her, trying to figure out who this international woman of mystery was who had the nerve to cop a feel off of the recently widowed hostess.

"Oh yes," Harwood said, managing a clever smirk that had a hint of flirtatious intention hidden underneath. "You'll be employing some advanced interrogation techniques here."

Before Arkham could say anything, she paused, looking at the face of one of the women in the crowd. She felt her blood run cold and knew that what little color was present had drained from her face.

She knew that she had not programmed anyone in this scenario to look like Catherine Halsey. Especially not a heartbroken Catherine Halsey, looking at Arkham with a mix of anger and profound sadness in her bright blue eyes.

Harwood leaned closer. "Shall we get to it then, imzadi? Perhaps if we get going early, you can stop the Soviets before daybreak. My safe word is 'help, please please stop'. Two pleases -- anything else and you can keep doing what you're doing, imzadi."

"Alex, I--" Arkham said, breaking away, and moving across the ballroom floor toward the doctor. Following her through a set of glass doors and onto the balcony of the Eastern European manor, Arkham sighed a heavy and profound sigh.

"Goddamn it," Arkham said quietly.

She was gone.


---

A POST BY:

CDR Rowena A. Arkham
Executive Officer, USS Archimedes
Task Force 72-C

CAPT Alexandra Harwood (PNPC)
Mission Advisor, USS Archimedes
Task Force 72-C

and

DR. Catherine Halsey (PNPC)
Medical Attendant

 

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