What is Past is Prologue

Title: What is Past is Prologue
Author/pseudonym: black fungi
Email address: oldblackfungi@yahoo.com
Rating: R
Pairings: J/B, B/m

Status: In-Progress
Date: 06/10/06
Archive: Yes
Archive author:
Archive email address:
Series/Sequel:
Category: Crossovers, Drama, First Times
Author's website:

Disclaimers:
TV series The Sentinel remains the property of Paramount and Pet Fly Production while La Femme Nikita is owned by Warner Bros and USA Network. I claim authorship to this story which is written simply for mindless entertainment... STRICTLY a non-profit endeavor.

Notes:
Do note the following for easier reading:
*...* - Indicates words are stressed (bold)
//...// - Indicates unspoken thoughts (italics)
[...] - Indicates mind-speak

Summary:
Will Blair's shawdowy past threaten his new found tranquility and life with Jim? The Sentinel xover La Femme Nikita

Warnings:

--------------------------------------------------------


ACT III: Where You Lead...


-- Thursday, February 5th 1998 --
-- 0003hrs --
-- Room 143, Cascade Tower --


His timing was probably left to be admired. //Jeez, I shoulda sign myself up as a professional racer or a record-holder with the 'most accumulated speeding tickets *if* the cops had caught me!'.// He *actually* had Jim's truck decently parked after a hellish drive (with not so much as a scratch on the vehicle), raced to the suite and successfully assembled the equipment that was taped under the bed. "All with a good three minutes to spare... And here I thought I've lost my Midas touch," he muttered, with a kind of numb insouciance.


Blair checked he was good to go except he was missing his means of communication with Section - unless, of course, they planned to issue the commands over on his cell, which he *seriously* doubt it. Security was a big risk to fool around with, and Section never did anything half measure. He felt once more for any taped item that he might have missed under the bed and was sorely disappointed. Grunting in mild annoyance, he pushed himself up and viewed his surroundings for the first time.


From a glance, one would've easily guessed blue to be its theme: The walls were washed in soft blue pastel, and the floor carpeted by a navy blue Persian rug that was so thick, it bruised where he walked. Landscape oil paintings in hues of blue and gray decorated the walls, and billowing lace curtains with flimsy frills hung along the stretch of windows. A majestic bed with a lacy scrollwork headboard and drawers at each side occupied a large area of the modest-sized room. Just beside was a wardrobe with alternating mirror and louver doors, done in solid pine. Fine antiques - twin mercury glass vases set at the foot of the bed, and a gilded Italian mirror - added notes of sophistication and polish. And a single door at his far left probably led to the washroom.


Not exactly a presidential suite one would expect for the kind of money one had to cough up for a night's stay, but it was decent enough. One would say that many of his previous homes had been 'decent' too and entirely a lot more comfortable, if one didn't factor in his last and unfortunate neighbors.


Blair wasted no time and started hunting for the com-set, and he couldn't have been more annoyed when the search came empty-handed. Standing at the foot of the bed, he thought hard. //Section couldn't have dragged me all the way out here for a game of hide and seek, and nothing is out of place except...// There was a small microphone attached to an earpiece. It lay on the satin covers of the bed, hidden partially from view by several plush throw-cushions. He thought it was strange that Section didn't practice enough caution with the device. He would have at least expected them to place it completely out of sight - perhaps behind the wardrobe - but then shrugged the thought away. //Maybe they *finally* realize they pushed the term 'bunker mentality' a little over the edge,// he reasoned candidly.


He knelt by the bed and slid the com-set deftly around his left ear. Then he pushed a tiny button on the earpiece. After adjusting the handle so that the microphone was positioned near his mouth, he spoke: "Adrian. Waiting for further instruction."


//And the nightmare begins again... Whoever you are, if you're there and listening, this is as good time as ever for one of your *divine* interventions,// he thought wryly. Though Blair did not seriously believe in fate that falls men 'however' they act, it seemed to him then, it would only be short of a miracle to pull him out of this. He knew he was spiraling back into Section, no matter where he ran or darted or doubled-back, and that knowledge fueled the hopelessness he felt inside.


In less than twenty-four hours, he had progressed from displacing cans to sending carbon-based life forms to the morgue. //Humans, Blair. They were *humans*.// He grimaced at his own reminder and recognized the familiar flutter in his stomach not to push the subject further.


Gods, his head felt heavy just thinking about it, and his neck muscles ached holding it up. Resting his forehead against the cool bedsheets, he brought his hand to his nape and concentrated on the pain that seems to have taken residence there. He almost lulled himself to sleep when an unexpected voice jerked him back to full consciousness.


Unexpected was right - the voice came from his *mind* instead of the earpiece, and it definitely did not sound anything like his conscience.


[Wake up, Sandburg,] it whispered, taking strength each time as it spoke, [Wakey! Wakey, sleepyhead! The nightmare *never* did end in the first place. Did you ever think that Operations would have let you off that fucking easy?]


Blair pushed himself away from the bed so fast, his body hadn't the time to register the sudden gravity shift, and he overbalanced back onto the floor. "Who--?"


[--Did you miss *me*, Sandburg?]


At the far corner of his mind, he felt his world crumbling into another Kafkaesque terror. //Gods, I'm turning into a head-case!// A painful smile passed his trembling lips, and he let out a laugh that sounded more like a hysterical shriek to his ears. When he saw dancing black spots, it occurred to him that he was apt to pass out if his lungs didn't suck oxygen soon and ordered himself to breathe. //Okay, get a grip... It's just the stress, man. He doesn't exist anymore. Breathe.// His head started to clear a bit as the increased oxygen achieved its purpose.


[Oh yeah, man,] the voice continued with a telltale smirk. [You are so fucking stressed, you imagined *me* in your head. That's *so* creative of you...]


"I didn't hear that... I am relaxed. I am relaxed. I am relaxed..." Blair repeated the mantra and clutched his head, trying to mentally exorcise the voice from his mind.


[But oh, you *couldn't*, could you?] That part of himself, which fancied itself the arrogant know-it-all, sneered in mocked pity. [Like so *many* other things that you couldn't do. Like saving your *ex*-partner...]


Blair's head shot up in attention. //Jim?// He remembered the bullet that took down his partner a few minutes before and wondered for the first time if Jim was hurt worse than he thought he was.


[Naomi's been a bad influence. You should've just been *me*, Sandburg. I could've played a little war and save your sentinel's butt. But noooooo.... you wanna play wimpy Blair Sandburg,] it spat out in undisguised loathing. [Well, I do hope he appreciated it.]


"No!" Blair shook his head vehemently at the implied words. "He's alive! You're the one that's dead, man. You are *fucking* dead, and get the fuck outta my head!"


[Tsk, tsk...] The voice in his head clucked in disapproval. [If that's what you want. Just keep in mind, Sandburg...] It took a sudden ominous tone and wailed in equal frustration, [I am *your* salvation! I am *your* sanity! In the end, you *will* beg for me, Sandburg! For I. Am. *Adrian*. I promise you--]


A crackling sound blissfully broke the cry, clapping a lid over the voice. "--Adrian?"


It took him a moment to realize that this other voice came through the earpiece. That awareness lifted the load that hung around his neck and squelched the growing fear in his heart. "Yeah," he said softly and sagged in relief. "Yes, I'm here."


The silence that came afterwards almost swallowed him, but he soon heard the same crackling again: "There is a window to your left." The voice was still not quite convinced of his participation nor his ability, and that bothered him. That bothered him a lot. In every previous mission he'd accepted, there was a grudging trust on both sides; they trusted him for his performance, and he trusted them to keep the law and every other prying eyes off his case.


//Of course, today would be an exception...// Blair noted with a quivering smile that caused him to question his own sanity. //I bet I just scared the daylights outta the fucker on the next line with my inane ramblings.//


It bothered him too that he couldn't quite attach a name or face to the voice. It was hauntingly familiar though. A name wavered, almost held, then floated away before he could grasp it. His gut instinct told him that it was important that he asked now. Section could not have grown by the multitudes in ten years. It had cancelled more operatives than it took as its own *permanently*. But his mind reasoned that this was neither the time nor place.


He proceeded with caution to the given location, looking for little triggers that would probably blow this mission.... or worse yet, blow *him* up. //You never know whether they're gonna spring a boobytrap, and I'm so *not* keen to be food for worms.// He smiled grimly as he placed the weapon on the sill in such a way that it supported half its weight. //One fucking heavy son-of-a-bitch, if I do say so myself.// Being someone of a diminutive stature, he hated anything that hamper his movements. //*Particularly* large, bulky weapons. The operative has probably forgotten to do his homework.//


"Focus," the voice said again. "Target is in a white suit, pale blue vertical-lined shirt, exiting Jamison Building, forty-five degrees west. Do you have a visual?"


//Now that's *dead* easy. White being flanked by guys in black which screamed one of those 'secret' alphabetical soup agencies? What's to miss?// He rolled his eyes at the irony at the situation. "Affirmative. Subject detected. Command?"


"Cancel."


//Cancel?// His mind did a double-take, and he took another careful look through the attached telescopic sight on the gun. It was without a doubt that his target was Dr. Clay Ploski, a Russian nuclear expert. To the best of his knowledge, Dr. Ploski was a political friend of the States. One of the certified good guys, and he hadn't heard otherwise. To cancel him completely would probably strain political ties, and that was a definite 'no-no' in his to-dos list.


"Debrief," Blair said. He could alternately render the man immobile for a good interrogation in the Whiteroom, but you don't kill a person without reason. //At least not in my books. Gimme one good reason, and I'll blast this guy to hell in a flash.// His fingers were itching on the trigger. This wasn't the first time he had to flush out 'tainted' imports, and he realized with unease that a part of him wasn't ashamed of the simple pleasure it would give.


"*Terminate*."


"Command canceled without debriefing," Blair said, standing pat. //Don't shit with me, Section.// Blair waited, wondering if they would call on his bluff. //They've always did, and they always will.// That was how they understood each other, right from the beginning. They reasoned, and he killed, and he had never argued their means, however ruthless it might be, because he knew the ends were just. The ends were what mattered most - for the victims and the good of this world, and it didn't hurt that it fed his conscience. He would've finished Dr. Ploski for a simple reason of tax evasion.


Their next response, however, was not what he had anticipated. Far from it. "Mission abort. Interception."


//Oh *fuck*! Security breached!// he screamed. Interception... That meant there was going to be guys - friend or foe - with guns running in here in no time. Though facing ruffians was not much to his liking, the prospect of bumping into any of Ellison's cop buddies did not thrill him either. Blair tore away from the window and flushed his communication device down the toilet. With the same dexterity, he took apart the weapon piece by piece and taped them under the bed, all the while hurling enough epithets that would probably (he hoped) damn Michael to fates worse than hell. //What game are you playing now, Michael?//


He flew out of the room, but not before a running uniformed officer caught a glimpse of his back and yelled, "Freeze!"


//Man, you just gotta be kidding me! No way am I gonna be sitting duck!// That thought screamed in his mind as he kept on running, ignoring the warning shots.


He hopped into the truck and sped out of the parking lot like the devil was hot on his heels. //That was *close*. *Way* too close.// Blair breathed out in relief and forced a small smile at his narrow escape. //Now let's be a good guide and notify Simon. Gods, let me reach there in time...// He prayed, tripping into an unconscious habit of a plea to the-powers-that-be.


[You know, Sandburg... You could always let me take the wheels.] A voice took him momentarily by surprise that he felt the his grip on the wheels slipped, almost driving the truck out of lane.


"Dammit! Not now, Adrian!" Blair smacked his palm on the steer hard, regretting as soon as he did. He was having trouble focusing his sight, and this talk strayed his concentration away from the road. He gritted his teeth and said, "Can't we talk about this after I get to--"


[--I can take you there in *eighty-three* seconds,] it softly interrupted, and Blair felt a small mental nudge. [Probably *lesser*...]


"Eighty-three seconds?"


[*Seventy*... Tell me you didn't think that it was *you* who drove like a speed demon all the way back there.] It sounded amused at Blair's naiveté. [So what'll it be, Sandburg?]


Part of him wanted to yell at Adrian to mind his own fucking business and stay the fuck out of his mind, while other part of him wanted to curl up in some dark corner and take five. Finally, it was exhaustion and confusion that pushed him to yield. Fighting back the overwhelming desire to break down into an emotional heap simply took too much out of him, and he was secretly glad that he was offered a respite. Even if it meant giving in to his other slightly psychotic self.


"You can take the wheels. *Only* the wheels, man."


The voice chuckled in childlike delight, then sobered. [I wouldn't dream of taking anything else. *Trust* me. Now sit back, and let me do my job.]


The authority sounded false, triggering a distant alarm somewhere. He wondered briefly why he felt threatened and why he should, at all cost be on his guard. But he was too tired to play twenty questions with himself. Darkness crept in toward the edges of his consciousness as he gave up his control with strangely familiar misgivings. It was a warring peace that he felt, soothing but upsetting him at the same time... and a fleeting awareness that there was nobody he wanted to be until Adrian.


********************


-- 0800hrs --
-- Room 78, Jamison Building --


Today, there was no bright sunlight streaming into her half-opened eyes with burning sharpness as she lay on her back on the carpeted floor. The dawn had came quickly, a sullen gray lightening of the eastern sky, heavy with mist and did not stir. Huge thunderclouds remained locked overhead like an ominous shroud screening away the warmth and brightness of the rising sun. She would have like a bit of sunshine but figured it would be unfitting for a day like this. She turned her head cautiously towards an open window, letting the morning air washed her warm face in cool waves, and as she did, she noticed her uninvited guest.


He was kneeling beside her, wiping the moisture off her throbbing temple with a cool, clean cloth, all the while whispering words she could neither hear nor understand. He was perversely handsome, this pale stranger, with his immaculate black robe that accentuated his paleness. Such comfort in his presence, such comfort in his feather touch. She looked searchingly at his neck, and when she found what she was looking for, she knew at last it didn't matter. It didn't matter, any of it. She knew this was going to happen sooner or later that she was not surprised by his visit. She was only surprised that he had allowed it to happen this late.


Words of prayer - she realized now that he was singing to her her last prayer. The man had tears rolling down on his cheeks, and she wanted to lift her hand and brushed them away, but her hand lay useless beside her just as the rest of her body was useless. She could only smile at him; in that smile an assurance that none of this was his fault, and she wouldn't blame him for what he did and what he was about to do. As light fled from her eyes, she saw him pull a knife.


At least they had agreed on one thing: keeping the boy safe.


********************


-- 1240hrs --
-- Cascade General Hospital --


Blair Sandburg wasn't quite dead yet, but he wished he was. He hurt something awful - his head, his back, his arms and legs... even his goddamn hair. Everything was one obscene scream. Make that two if his throat didn't so much hurt. He tried shifting to his side, meaning to ease the persistent ache at his back when a sharp pain in his leg knifed right through him.


"Oh man, just shoot me," he moaned softly.


"About time you wake up," a gruff voice suddenly greeted him; it didn't sound like anyone he knew. "And keep your eyes shut. The lights - they're not kind."


"Thanks," Blair croaked, wetting his dry lips. He swallowed hard, his parched throat screaming mutely in protest. He wished Jim were here (wherever here was); he'd know what to do.


//Jim!// He froze on the bed as the gears in his head kicked in. The squishy feel of the bed, the medicinal smell - 'Here' didn't add up to 'The Loft'. 'Here' was a hospital, and the last time he saw his sentinel was in a warehouse where Jim had been hurt. //God, I'm in a fucking hospital! Is Jim okay? Why isn't he here?!//


"Jim's okay," the voice spoke as if he could read his thoughts. "He's gone to settle some papers the doctors wanted him to sign. He'll be back soon."


That bit of information gave him some comfort. He took a deep breath, centering himself, and allowed each muscle group to relax slowly. So he was in a hospital, and he'd established that fact by almost sending himself to hyperventilation, had it not been for his unknown visitor. //Not cool..//


"What did you say your name was?"


"I didn't."


//Oh, ooo-kay...// "So?"


"So?" the voice spoke in a slow cadenced drawl, pretending to be dense.


"You are?" he asked, slightly fractious. The voice gave no answer, so Blair decided to chance a peek.


A face washed meaninglessly over him at first until it occurred to him he might be actually looking at a blurred image of himself. That possibility caused him to jerk upright in his bed and unthinkably snapped his eyes wide open, ignoring the said advice.


"Jesus! Ow ow!" A hand covered his eyes as he slumped back into bed. "Shit!"


"When are you ever going to listen to me, Sandburg?"


Blair squeezed his eyes shut, puffed up his cheeks and mentally counted from ten to a negative five before blowing out a lungful of air. "I'm projecting," he whispered in a clear, calm voice. "I'm unconsciously projecting an image of myself outside my own body. After being subjected to a series of stress and shocks, it is not implausible that the mind is suffering from temporary schizophrenic episode. All I have to remember is that it/he is *not* real." He cautiously opened his eyes, slowly letting them to be accustomed to the bright light (so as not to make the same mistake again) and then spoke to the image beside him: "You're not real."


"You. Are. Not. *Real*," he repeated himself, hoping the sentence carried more conviction than to his ears. It would help if that image would disappear in a puff.


"And what is real? Something that is feasible to your senses thus makes it real? Blair Sandburg, you disappoint me," the 'not-real' person lectured the patient, molding himself to the chair beside him and looking unbelievably comfortable in a dark tailored, boring suit and a tie. There was a poetic way he comported himself as he smoothed an imaginary crease at the lapel of his jacket and gracefully clasped his hands at the knee of his crossed legs.


//No, a *dancer's* moves are poetic,// Blair amended, //his are evocative with silent danger, and what else would you have expected from *Adrian*...// Adrian looked everything like Blair except his hair was (gasp!) cut short, and when he smiled, there was a slight disingenuous quality to it... A small, sinister smile that left Blair somewhat transported by it, slowly directing him to dysphoria.


"It's an interesting thing about being a--," Adrian broke off as he searched for the word in his head; that smile relentlessly remained fixed on his face. "*Shaman*? Yes, shaman. *Interesting* indeed. I haven't quite understand the mechanics just yet, but I'm sure we'll have that figured out soon, won't we?"


Blair let out a furious groan. He knew being a shaman was a whole lot more than chanting weird Incan spells and entertaining spirits, but no one told him he was going one on one with himself in Technicolor! "Why are you still here, man?! I told you only the wheels, and then you're out!"


Adrian stared at the palm of his hand as if the answers to all the questions in the world were engraved on it and then said simply, "You called me."


"Whoa! Back up a minute there, hotshot! I didn't call you, and I sure as hell would've remembered doing a stupid thing like that!"


"Didn't you? Remember the Lash incident? Lee Brackett? How about jumping from a plane to help your friend? Who did you think you called for? God? Your faceless deities?" Adrian's face was an impenetrable black shadow. "No, Sandburg. You called for *me*. You called me long enough so I figured what the hell - if you're gonna be spilling your own blood for those freaks, you might as well have some fun spilling theirs."


"Well, whatever. I've changed my mind," the patient said, his face paled at the thought of 'spilling blood' as *fun*. "You can go back wherever you came from."


"*Well*, it's not that fucking easy," the other part of himself finally snapped. "Especially not when you pathetically suck in Self-Preservation 101. You go on like this, and you won't even make it past thirty! I could have made your life easier, Sandburg. Think about it. Did you think you could ever made it to Banks' with that stupid truck?"


The importance of those words seemed lost to Blair except for the... //The truck! Oh, God!// "Did you wreck the truck? Is that why I'm here?! Oh man, Jim's gonna kill me! Jesus Christ Adrian, couldn't you be more fucking careful?!!" Blair's cardiac rate seemed to be shooting up from the way the monitor was beeping.


"Relax, moron," Adrian half-heartedly assured him. "The truck's okay, but the upholster has a nice red patch, no thanks to you. As to why you are here, a bullet nicked an artery on your leg while you were making the hundred-meter sprint at the hotel. After you gushed out the whole story to Banks, you tripped on a *pencil* and blacked out." Blair blushed at his clumsiness, uncomfortable for a fact that he had given Adrian one more reason to doubt his 'self-preservation skill' until he added, with a hint of pride: "But I just have to say, Sandburg, you've got a fucking high tolerance for pain. You're all right, kid."


Strange as it may seemed, that grudging little praise made him feel somewhat better. That was the thing about Adrian, if there was ever one thing he could remember: Adrian could always make him feel good about anything, whether Blair wanted to or not.


"Listen, I would love to stay and chat, but we haven't got much time," Adrian said calmly as he briefly checked the time on his gold Rolex watch. "Is your head screwed on straight today, Sandburg?"


"*No*, I'm talking to you, aren't I?"


"Then you'll have no problem accessing Section's D-Base," Adrian said, ignoring the biting sarcasm. "That little backdoor to the security program you've created under GQ13 is still open. If you're stuck, get into one of the sub-networks at Tymnet's dial hub or AT&T's. Use your passkey. And just so you know, you're never out, Sandburg. You're a sleeper, and yesterday's your wake-up call. All that immunities, they're a croakful of shit. Pin down Operations. Fast."


"Wha--?"


"Er, Sandburg... You okay, buddy?"


(Continued in part 6)