Title: Items of Concern and a Box

Rating: PG-13, just in case

Genre: Humor/Fantasy

Author: GataFairy (the cat fairy)

Contact: See my profile

Archiving: Of course, as long as you ask first. I promise I don’t bite — I may scratch, though. ^~

Disclaimer: Oh, come on — do you honestly think I own anything here? If I did I’d be working on torturing everyone with more and more secrets… much like JJ-sama does now…

AN: All right, this is it, my first real attempt at a non-cartoon fanfic. And I’ll tell you right now, this thing morphed itself into what it is now from my original plan for a relatively angsty Marshallfic. But then, this idea was so much fun to play with, I couldn’t resist. As for the outfits below, think Lord of the Rings/Dungeons and Dragons type attire. *snigger*

Another day dawned on Los Angeles, California. Another page was turned in the lives of every individual who woke up that morning to go about their tasks. Another wave of people crowded the streets, the stores, and the buildings doing what they had to do.

Another one of those incredibly irritating — yet unusual — days in which the alarm clock went off a bit too late tore Marshall Flinkman from the comfort of unconsciousness. Not the sun, but his alarm clock. That usually wasn’t a good sign.

"Agh, not again!"

So he went about his morning tasks, topping it off with his special brew of coffee to ensure that he would be in full functional capacity for the day. And he would be, because this was his coffee. And his coffee was by far the best ever, because it was his.

It occurred to him that he shouldn’t spend time today thinking about how wonderful his coffee made him feel and get to the Credit Dauphine before he was really late, because that would be very bad.

And bad was not a good thing.

So, dressed up and ready to face the world (albeit after having had a cup and a half of his special coffee), Marshall made his way out of his living space, to his car, and to Credit Dauphine. And, much to his delight, he arrived there on time despite the bit of traffic he met up with along the way.

After receiving and returning a few salutations from several co-workers, he walked into his office and set his briefcase down on a desk. Just as he was about to access something on his computer —

“’Ey, Marshall, could you come here for a sec?”

— Marcus Dixon’s voice floated through the still-ajar door.

“Sure, coming!”

Marshall made his way back outside his office and to Dixon’s area, where he saw several large boxes with long objects protruding from them waiting on his desk. Dixon was holding one and peering over it to address Marshall.

“Ah, I get it, you need help — right? Well, sure thing, then.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” Marshall grunted a bit when picking up the box nearest him, and that was when he remembered what the contents of the boxes were — tools for his tinkering, the ones Dixon had once said he would bring him one day. Happy with the thought, and considerably less stressed than he was at home, he followed the waddling agent forward.

Suddenly, Dixon turned around, muttering about having forgotten something, and, most unfortunately for the talented inventor, one of the long objects protruding from the box Dixon’s hands hit Marshall hard on the head; and he fell, box and all.

Consciousness hit. Blackness — or rather, the darkness of closed eyes — was the first thing Marshall saw upon realizing that he was, in fact, conscious. The next thing he perceived was his head throbbing with pain. Quickly enough he found that frowning wouldn’t help at all, and neither would shaking his head. And so finally, because sometimes people leave the most obvious things for last, he opened his eyes.

And had to hold back numerous reactions so he wouldn’t appear stupid.

He was no longer inside the Credit Dauphine building. At least, he didn’t appear to be. He propped himself up on his elbows to get a better look. It seemed more like one large, ongoing room cluttered with desks, scrolls of parchment… quills…

“Marshall? Hey, Marshall, are you all right?”

He looked up at the source of the voice and found a worried-looking Dixon dressed in nothing he could recognize as belonging to the twenty-first century. Marshall squinted and looked to his right where he was met by another concerned gaze, this time belonging to Sydney Bristow, who was also dressed in something that one would normally see in a fantasy movie. After looking back and forth between his co-workers, he looked down at himself, wondering if he was still wearing his suit.

And he wasn’t. He wore something similar to what Dixon was wearing. His eyes widened and he gasped deeply, then stood, rather wobbly, with one hand to his head and Dixon’s helping hand at his left arm. He was mildly relieved at finding that he wasn’t wearing a hat — had he been, he would have laughed, and that wouldn’t exactly be a good thing, not with everything he was trying to deal with right now.

“You all right?” Dixon asked again.

Marshall let out what was recognizable as the half-laugh of a not-sane individual, all the while looking confused and in pain. “I’m fine…” he said. And he added in an undertone, “Just fine.”

“You’re sure,” Sydney stated more than asked.

It took very much not to laugh at how ridiculous she looked in that outfit as he said, “Eh - Yeah, I’m sure.” He dusted himself off, giving the two agents — very oddly-dressed agents — at his sides reassuring smiles as he did so.

“If you’re sure…” Sydney muttered, frowning a bit, and left.

Dixon walked away only after hearing once again that Marshall was fine, comment which was accompanied by a non-too-convincing nod. Surprisingly enough, the pain in his head was lessening. Marshall figured it was probably because of the confusion penetrating his every thought. Then, at once, he shook his head. ‘I’m never having that much coffee again. Just the one cup is enough, yeah, just one…’

Looking around, he had to admit to himself that this was indeed very strange. He felt like he was inside some burrow underground. The air smelled fresh, like that felt after a thorough rainfall in the countryside.

But this was Los Angeles. This was not the countryside. And Credit Dauphine was not located in a burrow.

And where did all the computers decide to go off to?!

“Ah, Marshall.”

He jump-spun around — quite literally — at the familiar voice, and took a step back at the sight that greeted him. Again he fought back laughter.

Arvin Sloane was dressed to look like some sort of priest, though most certainly not of any religion Marshall could think of.

“Y-Yes, sir?” said the inventive, confused man.

The balding man extended a garbed arm toward the door Marshall knew led to a conference room and nodded once.

“If you’d be so kind as to join us in our briefing…” He looked questioningly at Marshall upon seeing the look of utter disorientation on his face. He returned his arm to his side, frowning ever-so-slightly. “You do remember we had scheduled this several days ago, don’t you?”

Marshall blinked and stood up straight. “Aheh, y-yes I do, sir, I remember, yep,” he said rather quickly. His superior’s gaze was unwavering. “Uh… I-I’ll just go get the, er, gadgets and be right with you guys.”

He ducked away and headed in the direction of his office, not noticing the look of confusion now on Sloane’s face. “ ‘You guys’ ?” he repeated softly to himself (comment not noticed by his subordinate).

Marshall was very pleased to find that everything was where he had left it — though now nothing looked familiar. His office looked more like a workshop in, again, a fantasy adventure game. Shrugging off the shock — he had no desire to anger his priestly (he chuckled) boss — he gathered his things and headed to the conference room, where Sydney, her father Jack, Dixon, and the priestly (another stifled giggle) Sloane waited for him to sit with them before commencing.

Sloane stood, his garbs billowing ever-so-slightly around him as he gracefully (how Marshall would have loved having the freedom to laugh) stepped forward. In place of a screen there stood a round mirror. With a wave of his hand and a muttered inchantation (that was what Marshall was left to assume, and he dared not ask, since apparently he was supposed to know), images appeared on the mirror, none of which were reflections (there had never been any, Marshall now realized). It was very much like the screen he remembered so well.

Sloane began, “Our organization has recently uncovered information about a rogue group which poses a threat to the security of the nation.”

‘Sounds normal enough…’ Marshall thought. ‘Relatively. For now.’

“We, as the Spell Dancers, —”

‘The Spell WHAT!?’

“— have a sacred obligation to the Kingdom of Bauth (1) —”

‘Come again?’

“— and under such an obligation, we must make certain that we keep the land protected.”

“So what do you want us to do?” Dixon asked, looking unfazed.

“Right here in Angel City, at a building by the coast” — a picture of the building in question appeared on the mirror — “there rests an amulet with ancient inscriptions on it. These writings are said to be key in the search for the great wizard Milo Rambaldi’s most valuable scrolls and manuscripts (2), which remain hidden even to the greatest of sages. You two —” here he looked at Dixon, then at Sydney “— are to retrieve this amulet.”

The two agents nodded. Jack Bristow looked indifferently at both of them, giving his daughter a look that was about a second longer than the one he gave Dixon. Marshall was very much prepared to run out of the room in a fit of histeria.

“Marshall.”

He snapped back from his thoughts. “Yes-s?”

Sloane walked to the door, the lower parts of his robes catching the air. “Would you proceed? I have someplace to be now.” He exited the room after giving him a short nod.

Marshall looked down at the items in front of him, then back up at his superior, and nodded. He stood. He picked up what should have been a pair of camera-deflecting earrings and was rather surprised to find that they looked almost the way he had built them. Except, of course, they were nowhere as tech as the original pair. Still, they probably served some magical purpose. This was deduced from the fact that the screen was now a mirror. Now, what was the fantasy equivalent of a security camera? Perhaps testing would be in order. But if he did, he would look very out of it, and it surely wouldn’t help that he had been found lying on the floor (had he been hit by fantasy-like Dixon in burrow-Credit Dauphine as well?). Surely he would be allowed to demonstrate. Yes, that was it, he would test them then —

“Marshall.”

“Huh?”

He blinked, suddenly remembering he was expected to say something. He smiled in a weak attempt to excuse himself.

“Sorry. I just — well, y’see —”

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Dixon asked in a tone of professionalistic worry.

“Eh…” “No” would have been the honest answer, but considering the circumstances, it wouldn’t do. They would send him home, and he had no idea where home was. How odd that thought seemed.

His ears had been deaf to the question voiced by Jack about what was going on, but he clearly heard Sydney’s reply.

“He tripped over a bottle of ink and hit himself on the head pretty hard,” she informed.

Marshall sighed shakily and clutched the earrings. He left his mind in blank for a second, then looked up and smiled his usual smile. Maybe he just hadn’t woken up yet. Or was the reality he knew a dream…?

“These earrings look like regular earrings, right? Y’know, like you’d use if you were out on a date” — he held them to his ears and smiled at Sydney, nodding, and feeling relieved that she smiled back — “or the kind you’d take to trade somewhere for some cash.” He set them on the table and put on the look of a tough, buff man. Picking them up and putting his usual look back on, he went on, “Well, they’re not. See, these earrings… err…” He shot a furtive glance to the mirror, then to the occupants of the room. Suddenly an idea came to him.

“Mr. Bristow, sir,” he addressed. “This mirror — it’s hooked up — ah, I mean, it can pick up — what I mean is, it can show us what’s happening anywhere in the building, right?”

“Yes,” Jack Bristow replied, trying to remain his usual stoic self.

“Great!” Marshall muttered happily to himself. “M-Make it do that. I’ll be out in the hall.” He stepped outside and closed the door a bit, leaving it ajar, not waiting for an answer. After a few seconds, he called inside, “Can you see me yet?”

“Yes,” he heard Dixon reply.

Marshall took a deep breath. ‘I REALLY hope this works…’ “Here goes.” He clipped the earrings to his ears and…

“Can you see me now?”

“No.” This time the clear answer came from Sydney.

‘YES!’ He stepped back inside and took them off, pleased with his creativity under pressure, and breathed a sigh of relief. He was now prepared to make the explanation. They were magical detector deflectors. The wearer would be visible to normal eyes, but not to those viewing through cameras — or rather, magical mirrors or whatever they used (he used those very words in his report).

Jack informed Dixon and Sydney that they should leave in an hour, then dismissed them all. Heart still beating rather quickly from his experience, Marshall was more than happy to retreat to his office, which held none of the high-tech equipment he was used to. Instead he found it littered with tools and papers, scrolls, quills, ink bottles, and, in the corner at which he usually sat, a small book. Curious to know what fantasy-Marshall (he should stop thinking like that, or he might go crazy) kept inside it, he walked over to it and found a shiny wooden flute beside it. He picked the instrument up and gave it a quick visual examination. Setting it down on top of sheets of parchment with musical notes on them, he picked up the small book and peered at the faded gold lettering on the cover.

“I keep a journal?” he asked himself. Upon realizing that he was asking himself about himself, he vowed once more never to have more than one cup of coffee in the morning. He then decided that since it was clearly his journal there would be no problem with reading it. So he read it. For quite some time, as it was rather long, and his handwriting was messy, much like in the present (or future, or whatever it was).

He found out he was a tinker and a bard, which explained the flute he kept at his desk. That meant he could use magic to a certain degree. He thought it odd, though, because he had little to no musical talent that he recalled. Even so, curiosity made him pick up the flute, stare at his musical notations, and attempt to play.

To his surprise, he found he could play very well.

So he set about what his fantasy self would normally do. When it was about the time he would normally leave SD-6 (Spell Dancers 6? Really, that was just too wrong to even consider), he sighed heavily. Yes, it had been a very fun experience, but still, it wasn’t… right. He gathered the items he would normally carry home with him (assuming that these were the right items) and headed out of his office and to the exit, managing to bump into someone — he couldn’t really tell who, as he was so absorbed in his thoughts — on the way.

He dropped his things and stumbled. The person did catch his arm, but that only caused Marshall to lose his balance and sort of swing-slide to one side, where his head met painfully with a desk. Once again, unconsciousness draped itself over him.

“Marshall — hey, Marshall!”

“You okay, Marshall!?”

“Gaaah…”

Marshall sat up with someone’s help — he hadn’t opened his eyes yet —, rubbing his head all the way. He nodded at the two voices, telling them he was fine, and then heard the most extraordinary sound ever.

Keystrokes.

He hopefully opened his eyes and was very annoyed at having been met with white lights, but that didn’t matter for very long — the sight of the real SD-6 was so wonderful he would have jumped up and danced in delight. But he didn’t — his head was throbbing and he had yet to stand.

Looking up at the two people nearest him — others were looking at the situation from their desks — he was very pleased to see Dixon and Sydney dressed in normal clothing. In fact, he was so happy that he drew Sydney down and hugged her rather tightly.

“Oh my God, you look great, Sydney! I’m so happy!” he exclaimed.

“Heh… Thanks, Marshall…” replied the agent, trying very hard not to hurt his feelings out of shock.

Eventually he let her go and allowed himself to be helped up by Dixon. He found that the boxes the agent had brought were all on the desk they had previously been on, and that everyone was looking normal. He almost told Dixon and Sydney what he had been through, but decided against it — it wouldn’t appear very healthy. So he simply thanked them and helped Dixon carry the boxes into his little office, which held all his favorite high-tech devices.

He looked over everything, only to confirm to himself that yes, he was back, and everything had just been a dream, a hallucination, a whatever-it-was-called. He proceeded to explore the contents of the boxes, then stopped rather abruptly upon encountering a flute. Glancing around furtively, he put the proper end to his lips and tried to play it as before, only to come up with something hardly melodious. He cleared his throat, put it down, and ignored it for the rest of the day.

The thought nagged at him, however. It had been so truly odd…

But if he was sure of one thing, it was that he would much rather have Arvin Sloane be a business-like man than a priest. Men with tempers shouldn’t be priests.

With that thought in mind, which brought a grin to his face, Marshall went about his daily duties at SD-6, content with the way his life was going.

(1) “Kingdom of Bauth” - meant to be read “au” as in “faucet” and meant to be spelled “Both”. I opted for Bauth because Both would be read as “both” when it shouldn’t be. (No further questions, please. ^^)

(2) “(…) great wizard Milo Rambaldi’s most valuable scrolls and manuscripts (…)” - Call me really crazy, but I am literally clueless as to why Rambaldi and his things are so important (I never took much of a liking to season one; leave me be, I will watch it eventually). So I just put that in. If it’s really wrong, please let me know so I won’t make a mistake like that again.

And, in conclusion, a lot more detail and thought went into this than it seems — I have enough information to rewrite Alias a la fantasy adventure, but that would just be wrong… *snigger* Though, if you think about it, Sloane as a cleric is a very appealing idea… *snigger; clears throat* Mkay. Well. Thank you for reading, please leave a review! ^^