Darius's Note: So here's the deal. This isn't my story. This belongs to my roomie, Yvette, who is too lazy to get her own fanfiction account and therefore has seen fit to use mine. And did I say lazy? I meant beautiful, and talented, and...yeah, standing right over my shoulder. I hope you enjoy this story, which she says is crap, but actually isn't. Don't believe me? Read on, and let her know what you think.
Yvette's Author Note: I'm sorry, world.
The Very Secret Diary of Sarah Walker
Suck it, Psych.
Psych says I have to start recording my feelings. Like I care about what Psych says. Everybody knows that Psych is a bunch of losers who couldn't hack it in the field, so they sit in their offices and tell the rest of us what to think and feel. However, with the events of last night being what they are, there's no time like the present to start writing.
Why do I care what Psych thinks I think? Is that going to help me in the field, ever? No.
I hate Psych. There, that's something to talk about. I hate Psych. They're losers and they're sanctimonious bastards just like everybody else in Langley and until they get their asses in gear and join the rest of us working stiffs in the field, I have no reason to listen to them.
There, is that enough?
Oh, and I hate Bryce Larkin. Stupid fucker, leaving me to clean up his mess for him.
Days Since I've Gone Shopping: 3 (Didn't have time in DC, what with Bryce blowing up a FUCKING BUILDING)
Days Since I've Had Alcohol: .5 (What? Carina was in town)
Days Since I've Killed Something: .5 (Again: Carina)
Met the mark today. He's tall. That'll probably get him killed if he were an actual agent because there's so much more of him that has to duck.
Psych says that I don't have to send them every entry as I write them, and that I can submit my journal all at once. They did request, however, that I censor some of my language in the future, as they "have a very diverse staff and don't want to offend anybody's sensibilities." I once gutted a man and my knife got stuck in his intestines, which meant that I accidentally yanked them out and spilled them all over the ground. Smelled like shit.
How's that, Psych? Is that better?
Still not sure what's up with this Mark. Didn't want to ask him about (the Fucker) Bryce. They're both nerds, but they don't seem like they would ever run in the same crowds. Waiting for my phone to ring. Maybe his weird bearded little friend stole my business card. That should be a simple fix. I can hold him at knife-point until his (cuter) taller friend calls me back.
Nothing like holding somebody ransom to make my day better.
Still hate Bryce Larkin.
Still no phone call. Mark clearly must have broken fingers. You know what? Time to take matters into my own hands, damn it.
DAMN ALL POORLY CONSTRUCTED SHELVES!
Stuck in Burbank until Mark actually does call me back. Sarah Walker, foiled by a couple of nerds? What the fuck?
Have to report in to Graham to let him know that I failed to retrieve the hard drive. Meanwhile, am puzzled by the lengths that nerds will go through to protect their hard drives. What's on there, anyway? Hard drives are for porn, and there's plenty of that online. Hey, Mark, maybe next time you're faced with the deadly assassin ninja, just remember that you can Google your "two Asian chicks doing each other" porn any time of day. It's really not worth dying over.
Damn idiot's going to get himself killed.
Days Since I've Gone Shopping: 0 (Red top on Rodeo Drive called my name so loud that I broke surveillance to go buy it. Not like Mark is doing anything but fiddling with computers in the Buy More)
Days Since I've Had Alcohol: 1.5 (And God, do I miss it)
Days Since I've Killed Something: 1.5
Well, it's official, I have a date.
But more importantly, I hate Psych. You know what those bastards did? They woke me up with the news that the guys had been eagerly awaiting an update of my journal. They called it "The funny bitch who swears too much."
And they say I'm uncreative.
I told them to shove it. They seemed sad that that was all I had to say to them. Like I'm going to waste my time on fucking Psych? I have a date. I wonder if I should wear the blue lingerie I picked up in Monaco last month, or the red? You know what, I'll go with the black. The Mark's a nerd. Least I could do is give him a thrill.
Still hate Bryce Larkin. But I hate Psych more. Pricks.
Days Since I've Gone Shopping: 0 (Needed new top for date. They expect me to go out with a less than perfect top? And found really cute boots, too. Half off. Beat that, Carina)
Days Since I've Had Alcohol: 2.5 (And can't drink tonight. Got to be play the wholesome, demure new kid in town. Snort. Like hell)
Days Since I've Killed Something: 2.5 (And if the Mark doesn't compliment my boots, that number will go down to 0 very soon)
Well, fuck me.
I would like to apologize to Psych for not stating my feelings clearly enough in the previous entry. That is both irresponsible and unprofessional on my part—who the hell am I kidding? Suck it, losers.
The Mark is no longer the Mark. He is now the Asset, and it looks like I'm going to spend who knows how long cleaning up after another one of Bryce Larkin's damned messes. At least this time it's in Burbank, where there are things like department stores and Pay-Per-View (a girl has needs, you know. Suck it, Psych).
Turns out the Mark was just some innocent idiot who stumbled in on everything because Bryce Larkin, in addition to not being able to keep it in his damn pants, sees his nearest and dearest as expendable. The date, which was actually fairly pleasant (turns out nerds can speak once you get past the drooling "you'resobeautifullet'smakeoutinmymom'scar" stage), was cut short by the newest bane of my existence: the NSA's biggest asshole himself, John Casey. A girl just wants to get her dance on, and suddenly it's all "let's send guys in suits into the middle of a club because that's not conspicuous at all, nooooo."
That's okay. I'm Sarah Walker. I took out three of them, and made the world a safer place for everybody. You should take note of that, Psych. This is what real agents do. They kick ass.
Of course, the Asset surprised us all by saving the day. I'm still not sure how I feel about that, and neither does he, apparently. I got to freeze in the car all night because the idiot just wouldn't go home. Sat on the beach all night, just…sitting there. Doing nothing. Truth be told, I just don't get him.
But the bomb's defused, the Asset is at home in bed where he belongs, and now I can glare at my pictures of Bryce Larkin. I must remember to get Photoshop on my new work computer so that I can draw evil little mustaches all over his too-pretty face. I hate Bryce Fucking Larkin.
And I miss him, too.
But I hate him more.
Who knows how long I'll be in Burbank? No point in moving out of my hotel room until I know what's going on.
And one more time, for good measure: Suck it, Psych.
Days Since I've Gone Shopping: 1 (And trust me, I need to fix that SOON. If watching a nerd disable a bomb with a computer virus doesn't call for retail therapy, I don't know what does)
Days Since I've Had Alcohol: 0 (I sneaked away and got a beer while the Asset moped on the beach. I got one for him, too, but he didn't seem like he was in the mood)
Days Since I've Killed Something: 3.5 (Unfortunately, Asshole Casey's men all survived, and the Asset DID compliment my boots. Live to kill another day, as they say)