Chapter Text
'I wake to the sound of the hum
Of the earth just spinning around and
There's not much for me to do
But count the days and look at photos of you'
- In Circles, Holding Absence
Smooth jazz. Why is it always smooth jazz in these backstreet hovels?
Mason necks a shot before calling over the cute bartender for another refill. Tonight’s choice of bar had led her into what she could only describe as a Mafia hideout: booths hiding men with lavish roll up cigs and tumblers of top shelf whiskey; the dim lighting disguising their pin stripe suits and shady deals as nothing more than business men discussing the stock market.
She knows better than to stop and stare, and so busies herself with the god awful, bottom of the barrel liquor that had been poured for her. Her strong stomach had been an asset for her in ‘Nam, and it was doing her wonders in these seedy so called establishments.
Her hand absently moves to the bruise on her forearm, the only mark left on her by a suitor from two nights ago…well, if you discount her skinned knuckles as a thank you for his advances.
This was her life now: spending the nights meeting clients in bars like this, the messenger bag by her feet contains her next objective. It’s not much of a gig. Find a politicians doing a bad thing (not that that’s ever been difficult), take a snap and get paid.
She downs the shot, hissing as it burns her throat like acid.
“Another.” She raises her finger to the bartender.
She reaches into her wallet for the notes, her thumb briefly brushes a taped together section of a polaroid.
“One for your friend too?” he asks.
Mason cocks her head before a figure moves down beside her, sighing before nodding. The barkeep takes a glass from a shelf and pours a shot for her new companion.
“Charlie,” she says. “What do you want now?”
Charles Winter couldn’t look any more inconspicuous if he tried: a long raincoat with a leather stetson? It just screams undercover cop.
“Nice to see you too, Weaver,” he responds.
“I’m beyond civility with you now. Especially after the last shit storm you put me on.” She twists to face him and get a better judgement of how he’s going to play his cards this time.
Charlie scratches his chin, before reaching into his coat pocket. “I’ve got a contract for you.”
He dumps a manila envelope on the bar, narrowly avoiding a previous patron’s spillage.
“Already got one,” she nonchalantly replies whilst reaching out for her glass without looking.
“You sure? It’s a juicy one that I know you’d kick yourself if you missed out on.”
“Oh and why’s that?”
Charlie snorts. He studies her for a moment.
“I know how deals with you go down, it’s always been a yes with no questions asked, and today’s the day you’re turning down a pay check?”
“Every time you’ve come to me, you’ve given me the brief, set a completion date and then disappeared into thin air. Today, you’re toying with me.”
“Well, you’re the best in the biz, and you’ve…never said no before.”
“Consider this me saying no then.” She swings back around, knocking her knees on the wooden panels under the bar. “Plus, I told you I already have one. I know better than to take on more than I can chew.” She downs her shot.
“Just take a look,” Charlie urges her. “It’s a ten photo max deal, involving the government.”
“Is that meant to change my mind? ‘Cause it’s not.”
“C’mon, Weaver.”
“Like I said, I already have a contract.” She turns her back on him and reaches for her bag.
“It involves Monarch.”
Mason freezes for a millisecond, but it’s enough. Charlie smiles.
Well done, you idiot!
“I know that you’ve had dealings with them in the past, so I thought that you’d be interested.” Charlie rolls his glass in between his fingers.
Mason considers leaving, getting to her feet and just walking out. She has a contract. Taking on another would just complicate an already taxing job.
Just walk away.
Like a fool, she sits up straight and faces him.
“See,” Charlie adds, “I knew you’d want in.”
“You know I hate you.” Mason scowls at him.
“I never doubted that,” Charlie responds. “Maybe we should take this to a booth.” He eyes the bartender, who is drying glasses nearby.
“Or I take this and we pretend this never happened?” She places a hand on the envelope.
“You're sure you don’t want more details?”
“Positive. The less I have in common with whoever’s down my lens, the better.”
Charlie sits up straight. “Is that a real way to live out your days though?”
“Yeah. Especially when you’ve seen what I’ve seen.”
“Okay then,” he replies, rising from his seat. “I’ll see you in a week?”
“Don’t bet on it.”
He places the necessary bills under her glass, grabbing the bartenders attention. "Oh, another for my colleague." He adds a few more bills to the pile.
The tender nods, grabbing a bottle from the top shelf.
“Take care with these guys, Weaver," he tells her as he departs.
She has little doubt that she wouldn’t.
The stale smell of the motel room is something that she will never get used to, not that she ever plans to. Her time in Washington is almost at an end; it’s where the best deals came from and it’s becoming dangerous for her to be out as not many of her subjects were pleased with her work. She’d pack up soon, and move somewhere far from people who despise her, but where the crop of politicians soliciting individuals or conducting shady deals is bountiful. Something to keep her moving forward instead of looking back.
A life on the run, free as anything; people were guns for hire, so why not photographers for hire?
Mason Weaver is not a person who should be tied down. Her experience in ‘Nam and the Island had prepared her for a new world when she made it back, surprisingly in one piece, to the States. Looking around at her single pack of clothes and small pile of equipment, it’s not the life she expected to make for herself when she was younger.
But the cards she’d been dealt had led her to this moment, and considering all things, she’s happy…lonely, but happy.
She stumbles in - a few more shots after Charlie left have left her a little unstable on her feet - and drops onto the thin blanket, she pulls out the two envelopes she acquired in the bar. Opening the smaller of the two reveals a few typed pages and two crude polaroids of people exiting cars. Pretty standard stuff.
The target is a member of the governor’s office; an older fellow who looks like he wouldn’t hurt a fly. It’s the usual schtick: possible ties to local oil companies, may or may not have been bribed into shady deals. She’d struggle to count on one hand how many people she’d helped expose for this exact reason. Still, if this was legitimate, then Patrick Collins has a reason to watch his back.
Mason replaces the booklet and photos back in the envelope; she’ll take an even closer look in the morning and then burn it. It's the usual: get a picture of him with his pants metaphorically down. Then cash the cheque and move on to the next…
She takes Charlie’s information and places it on her knee. Even without opening it, she can feel a thick wad of papers inside. Shredding it open would just bring it all back; she should have just told him to stick it where the sun don’t shine. She’s lost so many things to that time of her life, to Monarch, just to go back for a lousy pay check. No matter how good it’d be, she left them for a reason.
They’d offered her a job, no doubt a 9 to 5 desk job with zero risk whatsoever. She’d left that room faster than they could stop her and explain what they wanted from her. If there is one thing Mason doesn’t do well with, its monotony. She’d be damned if she was going to let it get to her just after the Island. She was striding towards the door before Conrad had tracked her down. She wordlessly shook her head at him and flung the door open; it was the last time that she’d laid eyes on him. Plus, if he knew better, he’d have followed her.
Two years. She’d hardly thought of that organisation for two years, not even heard their name spoken aloud and now she’s back to thinking of the possibilities.
What if she’d stayed? What if James had convinced her to stay? How much different would her life from what it is now?
No, not now.
Not with the liquor in her system. She refused to do that again: contemplate the what if's in her life. The last time had ended unsavoury, resulting in a small hole in the wall and a quick trip to a late night pharmacy to pick up a suture kit.
She dumps the envelope on the nightstand and falls back onto the bed, counting the spots of mould blackening the ceiling before being dragged back into nightmares again.