A/N and disclaimer: Neither the 'verse nor the characters are mine, assorted other legal jargon.

This is my very first fic - it came out a little shorter and slightly fluffier than intended. A teensy possibility of continuation does exist. Comments/criticism/hugs/cookies are much appreciated.

Life Without Work: The Operative's Tale

It is a conceit, I now realize, to assume that because one has been handpicked to serve as a top government agent, given unlimited resources, the best available training, and the ability to act without consequence, that one would have no difficulty outfighting, outrunning, and outsmarting those without the same resources or knowledge. I suppose assumption is the fickle temptress that has destroyed many an empire; she has certainly done her work well in my case. I stared at the pockmarked wood of the bar through the bottom of my empty glass for a moment before sliding the mug in the general direction of the bartender. Without asking, he refilled it and pushed it back toward me, careful not to spill any of the amber liquid. I picked it up and gulped at it, causing me to gag for a few moments; one does not gulp Ng Ka Py without enduring the consequences. I choked out my thanks and dropped a coin into the bartender’s grubby outstretched palm. Images and light flashed through my head, splashing color across my consciousness; my head swam, more due to my unstable state of mind than the four brandies I had poured into an empty stomach. I tipped the remainder of the fifth down my gullet, calmly placed the glass on the bar, and turned to leave. The cold evening air of Persephone made my eyes water as I closed my jacket against the chill. The clamor of street vendors and the mess of neon lights overloaded my fragile senses, and my head began aching. The external assault did distract my inner self somewhat, and I left the doorway of the bar and walked unsteadily away. I passed men and women shopping, beggars, henchmen of various sorts, local militia officers, and a handful of purple-clad Alliance soldiers. The myriad of different peoples provided excellent cover; among them, no one knew to look for one disgraced ex-Operative of the Union of Allied Planets. I’m sure they tried to track me; perhaps they’re still trying. I wondered to whom they had assigned the task – wouldn’t it be ironic if another Operative had drawn the job? I allowed myself a tight smile and a chuckle. They can’t have given up on the pursuit – I know far too much. I have confidence in my chances, however. As I told the administrator at the academy months ago, minutes before he fell upon my sword, I am nameless and without rank or title. How do you find a man who has no identity? A more pressing question, at least to my mind: how does that man find himself?

***

Those few who are aware of the existence of Operatives believe that we are the best and brightest of the Alliance military, selected for our willingness to follow controversial orders and unflagging fealty to Parliament. This is not the case. I did enter one of the main Alliance military academies with the intention of becoming an officer in the Federal Marshals. I suppose I drew notice from higher powers due to my test scores or my family background – my parents were dead, but the uncle who raised me was impeccably loyal to the Alliance. In any case, they spirited me away to some nameless moon near the edge of the system, and began my training. My uncle had always extolled the virtues of the Alliance, and being a young boy who led a sheltered yet decent existence on one of the moderately wealthy Core worlds, I believed him. The training reinforced this belief. My trainers did not brainwash me; instead, they took the easier path of using my naïveté against me, filling in the gaps in my knowledge with bits of their own design. They took advantage of my age, that peculiar transition to adulthood, when one forms the opinions that he or she will hold for a lifetime, using it to implant in me a sense of loyalty to their goals. This indoctrination allowed me to overlook the negative aspects of the Alliance – and there are many – based on the belief that the system was fundamentally sound, but could not avoid injustices in service to the greater good. I graduated from the program at the age of twenty-five, just as the Unification War ended; on the final day, they changed my fingerprints and allowed me to watch as they wiped away every shred of electronic evidence of my existence. Birth records, hospital stays, grades in school, and childish infractions were all gone in an instant. In a sense, I died that day, and was reborn as an Operative, with no guiding principles except for a fervent appreciation of the Alliance and a need to serve it to the best of my ability. A few years ago, I realized that I could no longer remember my name.

***

I had visited Persephone a short while ago, on River Tam’s trail. Things have changed around here since then. Alliance soldiers no longer strut about as they once did. Since the broadcast, people have shown a somewhat . . . diminished appreciation for their civil servants. Soldiers occasionally disappear on some planets, and Persephone is no different. After dark, they either move in packs or they stay in their barracks to avoid getting snatched. In the absence of commissioned authority, some of the local crime lords are becoming more visible. I passed one, surrounded by his heavily armed escort; he sauntered down the street, looking rather ridiculous in his bowler hat and ratty blazer, a gaudy pin affixed to his lapel. I couldn’t remember his name – I believe it was some type of small mammal, perhaps “Weasel”. I made my way slowly, weaving slightly from the liquor, to my humble abode. The safehouse had been set up years ago as a place for Operatives to bring captured subjects for holding or interrogation, but as far as I know, it hasn’t seen use since the end of the war. Little more than a dingy hole in the wall, it serves my purposes well enough; it has a cot, a security system, and weapons with which I can defend myself in case some of my former co-workers come knocking. The door was concealed behind an old, decrepit Blue Sun poster, which I pulled aside to open the door. Once inside, I turned off the lights and collapsed onto the cot. Sleep overcame me, and I drifted away.

***

Once, while tracking an “enemy of the Alliance”, I ran afoul of a certain bounty hunter, a very interesting fellow. He caught up with the subject just as I did; after a brief argument and a dizzying display of martial arts that ended in a draw, I allowed him to capture the man and collect the bounty in order to minimize my involvement in the matter, thus keeping my existence a secret. The rather talkative hunter had struck up a conversation with me, unfazed by my refusal to identify my employers or myself. He seemed intrigued by my inability to tell him what my job or role in the universe was, and gave me a short lecture on the value of purpose. I remember little of its content, but I do recall that he liked to use the word “imbue”, and explained to me that objects and people are deficient if they lack purpose or motivation. I watched and listened as he led the captured man into his ship, placing him in a holding cell next to an abnormally small man who was covered in faint burn marks. His purpose, apparently, wasn’t enough to sustain him forever. An Alliance gunboat found him drifting in a remote area of space not too long ago. He’d been dead for months. I wonder what he’d say about me now.

***

The disgusting feeling of cold sweat woke me after a few hours of restless sleep. I felt even more tired, though slightly less drunk, than I had when I went to bed earlier. Levering myself into a sitting position, I rubbed my forehead, feeling the scar I’d received in an aircar accident during the pursuit of yet another political enemy of my former employers. I blinked several times, my eyes adjusting to the dark room. I haven’t been able to sleep much lately. Having your life shot out from under you will do that. Sitting in the darkness, I contemplated my life for a while. I’d certainly lived an interesting one, but it was bereft of any sort of meaning. Most people had families, careers, goals; I had only lies, deception, and a single-minded purpose that no longer holds meaning. I could not simply live as normal people did. I’ve seen too much to become another hard-working citizen of an empire that stole my life and my name from me. I thought back to what he had said to me as I stood in the rain near the ramp of Serenity those weeks ago. I’d asked him how he’d gone on after the war, after in a single, horrifying instant, he’d lost his faith, his friends, and his previous life. It was an experience we now shared. He never did answer me. Maybe I should find him and ask again.