The Fires of Prophecy
by
Chris AndersonDisclaimer: Alias is the property of other people, including J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot productions.
Written for the Theatrical Muse 'predetermined roles' challenge.
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Somewhere in the depths of a United States government vault, there is a book.
That book is filled with words, sketches, drawings. The words are encoded, and cryptic even when decoded. The drawings present inventions, designs, hundreds of years ahead of their time.
One of the sketches, surrounded by paragraphs of text, is of a woman.
She has my face.
Or my daughter's. And I do not think this woman is Sydney.
The book, the sketch, and the words that surround it, are five hundred years old.
The drawings were made, the words written, by a man who has successfully predicted future events...major events. His name was Milo Rambaldi. Executed by the Catholic church as a heretic, his work has nearly consumed my life for many years now. And can you wonder why?
The words, once decoded, reveal a prophecy.
"This woman here depicted will possess unseen marks. Signs that she will be the one to bring forth my works. Bind them with fury. A burning anger, unless prevented. At vulgar cost, this woman will render the greatest power unto utter desolation.
"This woman, without pretense, will have had her effect, never having seen the beauty of my sky behind Mt. Sebacio. Perhaps a single glance would have quelled her fire."
The meaning of these words is debated, of course. Even I am not certain of what it means, and I am acknowledged an expert in the field.
The marks are detailed, and they are mostly medical. Genetic markers, heart size...
Do I have them? I will tell you only this; three years ago, I turned myself in to the CIA. And I do not think it was for my crimes alone that they were so overwhelmingly relieved to hold me behind their glass walls. And they, not knowing, and not quite daring to run the necessary tests (for that would have involved releasing me, if only for a few hours, into the world again, something they did twice, and both times regretted) they still... The fear was palpable.
Am I fated, then, to rend the world in fire? Perhaps.
Perhaps not.
Mt. Sebacio. Italy. Rambaldi's birthplace. I have never seen it.
Sydney has.
I am intrigued by it, and at the same time nearly terrified by it. I am not one to turn aside from power, but do I truly want...this? I don't know. Nor do I know if my feelings or my desires matter. I do not, truly, have any real desire to destroy the world. There are times I would remake it if I could, but I cannot say if the world would be the better for my efforts.
A copy of the sketch is pinned to the wall beside me now, as I write this. It keeps me humble. And it haunts me.
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