[livejournal.com profile] fivebyfiction Atlantis AU Fic: Unsolicited Assistance

Dec. 29th, 2010 09:45 pm
timeboundpythia: (Atlantis Elizabeth 2)
[personal profile] timeboundpythia
Title: Unsolicited Assistance
Author [livejournal.com profile] timeboundpythia
Disclaimer: The Atlantis characters aren't mine.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None.
Summary: Today, she finds herself in the shell of what will be the new Olympic stadium.
Notes: For [livejournal.com profile] fivebyfiction - 03. Espionage.

The East End isn’t safe for anyone, even if you’re armed to the teeth; everyone knows that. It goes unspoken and you assume that your neighbour is prepared to defend themselves by whatever means available – you hear the stories of that point-blank gunshot through so-and-so’s windshield (that thankfully ricocheted off another surface and missed its intended target), the knife that kid’s been flashing in the park (that they swear they don’t have now) and you don’t know if that sound you hear in the night is a car backfiring or someone’s door getting kicked-in.

That’s not the official line, of course. Everyone goes about their work and doesn’t take that road on the way home and gets a taxi back rather than walk after a certain hour and it’s normal.

Just like it’s normal for Elizabeth Weir to be skulking around London late afternoon on any given day. For the past decade, it’s been mostly thanks to her that the East End doesn’t have a worse reputation and isn't missing several key features.

Today, she finds herself in the shell of what will be the new Olympic stadium. She isn’t surprised. MI5 have been monitoring the site for some time now (she has been monitoring the site for some time now), ever since their advice (never ‘protest’) fell on deaf ears and all continued to believe that the East End was a fantastic place to funnel thousands and thousands of people into come 2012. Elizabeth doesn’t even think, ‘I told you so.’ She thinks, ‘I’ve been ready for this,’ and so she is, silently observing the three figures that have managed to dodge the site’s (poor) security.

The gun tucked into her waistband is ignored. Her thoughts rarely stray to it. She’s hated guns since she was first introduced to them. All part of the job. Nobody goes out unarmed; nobody is foolish enough to think that they might dare to, but it doesn’t mean that she has to like it. It’s not that she’s a poor shot – they’d never let her roam the streets for them if she were – and, ultimately, words are more difficult to wield, but they’re her weapon of choice and she’ll select them first any day of the week. You can’t talk someone down with a gun. You can threaten them and paralyse them with fear, but she knows the more weapons enter a conversation, the more bodies there are at its conclusion.

She stands and takes one step forward. Two. There’s nobody to be seen but her and the three she’s tracked; who still aren’t aware of her presence. It’s time that changed.


If she’s timed it right – and she nearly always has – then her colleagues will soon be on-site to apprehend the three of them without a drop of blood spilled. She has to hope that her act is good enough. They’ve never seen the woman they were supposed to meet here and, even if there’s a chance they might have received more information in the past six hours, she looks enough like her to carry the whole thing off for as long as she has to.

Elizabeth assures them that, yes, she has the correct wiring. No, they won’t be discovered and all will lie dormant for the two years they have to wait. Yes, they have to begin at that pylon over there. Of course all the data will be securely streamed when the time comes. Nobody will know. She drops her backpack onto the ground at her feet and lets them think that the crunch of gravel as it hits the ground hides the sound of at least one of them taking the safety off a gun that she can’t see yet. Still she doesn’t reach for hers.

“We have to work quickly. In forty-seven min-“

A shot rings out.

She’s immediately aware that not one of the three men before her has fired it, given that one now lies in a heap on the floor and the other two are reaching for their firearms in an attempt to threaten (or just plain kill) her before she can think to do the same to them.

Another shot rings out and the second one falls, not that she hears the thud as he drops to the floor, thanks to the profanity pouring from the mouth of the remaining conspirator; the one she is now forced to silence with the handgun she’s been trying to pretend isn’t there, before the next one on the ground is her.

He crumples and, staring down at the spray of blood and tangle of limbs before her, she loses her cool for a moment and curses vehemently, the sound echoing back at her, before she turns and finds just what she didn’t want to see.

Someone to blame.

A nameless sniper she could try and forget; fume quietly over, but this... There are three men dead and invaluable information lost because of...


“Just what do you think you were doing?” she demands.

“You’re welcome,” he responds, irritatingly nonchalant about the whole thing.

“I’m-“ she starts, only to stop and rein herself in, regaining her composure. “Do you have any idea what you just did?”

“Saved your life.”

“Did it look like I needed saving?”

“Frankly, yes.”

“Your sort are always-“

“My sort? How about your lot, going around making decisions for the rest of us, with your-“

That’s as far as he gets before they’re interrupted and she’s left to explain why there are three bodies to collect and nobody to interrogate. Not that they do that sort of thing. Oh, no. Not at all.

In the end, she sums it all up quite neatly with, “John Sheppard. Again.


Meeting after meeting (after meeting) later, Elizabeth finally manages to make it home close to midnight the following day, anger now reduced to a low simmer beneath exhaustion and frustration.

She stops with her fingers wrapped around the door handle. All is not as she’s left it, the signs almost too small to notice, but then she wouldn’t be where she is today if she didn’t notice the signs of uninvited trespass, no matter how elegant it looks to have been.

The gun is back in her hands with intent for the second time in so many days and she slowly closes the door behind her, not quietly enough to silence the click as all locks into place. She moves carefully through the hall, more prepared to fire than she’d like, her footsteps even, if not entirely silent.

She finds him in her living room.


John Sheppard.

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