Title: Fashion Police! Summary: Knowing that sooner or later I'd have to bow to the inevitable and write a Mary Sue fic I set mine in the Alias fandom and answered the eternal question, "Just what kind of job would Badgirl have at the CIA anyway?" The answer is: a silly one, obviously...Spoilers up to S3
	It figures I’d be late for work on my very first day. The security procedures required were an extra hassle on top of that, I juggled my portfolio and extra large café latte while I dug around in my purse for my security badge. I hauled out my filofax, wallet and cell phone and dumped them on the desk of the waiting guard who was getting more irritated by the minute. “I know it’s here somewhere…I had it this morning…” A box of cinnamon Altoids and a tube of lipstick dropped out of my purse and went every which way across the polished marble floor. The guard made a strangled noise, hand hovering over his gun. “Sorry I’ll get those.” I scrabbled around on hands and knees picked up the tiny mints. I couldn’t find the lipstick anywhere. Damn it was a Chanel one too—one of my favorites. My cell phone rang—great, just great—I snagged it, flipped it open and barked into it, “What!” “ Darling, where are you? You’re late.” “ Oh Margot! So sorry about that. I’m here, I’m just stuck at the front desk I can’t find my security badge.” And now I look like an idiot in front of my new boss. “Well didn’t you tell them who you were? Show them your drivers license or Blockbuster card or something?” Okay maybe I’m not so much of an idiot after all. “My boss wants to know if you’ll accept a Blockbuster membership?” I gave the guard my big-eyed innocent look. He snorted and rolled his eyes. “ Sorry, they aren’t going to let me in.” “ Fascists! Don’t they know it’s your very first day? I’ll be right out to collect you. Hang on.” She disconnected. I looked at the guard with my very best “don’t hate me” smile pasted on my face “ Margot said she’d be right out to collect me.” “ Oh you work in Margot’s section, I should have guessed.” The guard said this in the world-weary tones of someone who’d had to deal with Margot more than a few times, as he looked me up and down. I had the distinct impression I had just been insulted. “Listen.” he continued, “You tell Margot that there are procedures to be followed here. This isn’t some teenybopper magazine—this is the CIA. You need to carry proper ID. Suddenly with a sinking feeling I remembered where I had stashed my ID. I turned my back in a lame attempt to maintain my dignity and fished it out of my bra. I had tucked it in there this morning so I wouldn’t forget it, intending to put it in my purse before I arrived at work. Smiling sheepishly, I presented it to the guard. Just then Margot arrived in a bustling cloud of Joy perfume, clicking Jimmy Choo’s and glittering Garrard jewelry. She kissed my cheeks while glaring daggers at the guard who ignored her, handed me back my ID and returned to watching the monitors. “Hello Darling! What a horrible ordeal for you—do you need anything? Chai Tea? Xanax?” I had learned from my interview that Margot never waited for answers but just steamed ahead leaving unanswered questions in her wake. “Are you all set sweetie? Let’s go and introduce you to the team, they’re dying to meet you.” And so began my first day as a new recruit for the CIA: Fashion Division. “Those security procedures are the absolute worst aren’t they? I don’t how many times I’ve had to go up there to sign in my meditation coach, I mean you think they’d recognize Rama by now, he comes every week.” Margot waved a perfectly manicured hand in exasperation, “I mean they make it so difficult, if I wasn’t such a patriot I’d still be working for Mirabella. Ah here we are!” Margot stepped up to a metallic panel—it was a voice and retinal scanner, I recognized it from training—and said “Lacroix” in a reverent tone. There was an angry buzz and the light stayed red. “Oh for Christ’s sake!” Angrily Margot slipped out a tinted contact lens and tried again. This time the light switched to green and the door swung open. “ We used to never bother with this, just kept the door propped open with an old boot but Director Kendall found out and well…” Margot shrugged dismissively and led me down the hallway, grabbing a package of Camels off of the unattended security desk. “It’s absolute hell on airflow—I require fresh air, I am asthmatic! But do they care, no it’s all security procedure this, unacceptable risk that, blah blah…” Margot lit up and inhaled greedily. She exhaled an imposing cloud of blue smoke with a slight frown crossing her brow. “Where’s Julie?” “ I—don’t know?” I said slowly answering her out of habit, not really sure who Julie was, while trying to wave the smoke away from me discreetly. “ Jules Darling?” Margot raised her voice and looked behind the desk. She plucked up a note and read aloud. “Margot, the photocopier was making the scary noise again and they like couldn’t send anyone over from tech to fix it so I decided to go home and lie down because like the whole thing was so mega stressful. Love and Kisses, Julie.” Margot crumpled the note in her fist and swore under her breath. Then she stalked over to the photocopier—banged open a side panel, loaded more paper into the empty tray and slammed the door. The gentle chiming noise to indicate “paper tray empty” stopped. I tried to cover a smile. “First rule? Never-ever give Julie any task that’s sensitive, high priority, top secret…oh what else did she say, “too shiny” or “smells funny”—in fact just don’t give Julie anything to do. She’s more like the division mascot or office plant. Alright darling?” I nodded solemnly; my chances of rising through the ranks were suddenly a whole lot better. We walked into a large conference room. Sketches and clippings from fashion magazines were pinned up everywhere, shoes and purses and accessories littered the large table. A man and a woman, both looking as if they had stepped from one of the pages on the wall, looked up when we entered. “Darlings! I want you to meet Lisa, she’s our newest recruit!” Margot announced. I smiled shyly and said, “ Hello, pleased to meet you.” “ That handsome devil is Jorgen.” Margot indicated a large, blonde, impressively Nordic man, in Armani. I eyed him speculatively. “ Hello!” He trilled—I stopped eyeing him. Dammit why are the cute ones always gay? “And that’s Fiona.” Margot indicated a cool and lovely redhead who nodded to me, “Now you two play nice and make Lisa feel at home,” Margot turned to me “Sweetie darling I wish I could stay but I have a high colonic scheduled and I simply cannot afford to miss that…” With that Margot flitted off, faint whiff of perfume lingering after. “Oh please tell me you read that awful pamphlet, “Welcome To Your First Day at the CIA!”” and that’s the explanation for that dreadfully drab Talbot’s suit.” Fiona said her amused tone highlighted by her British accent. I looked down at my sensible navy blue pantsuit. “Well yes actually, they did give us that to read at orientation, I didn’t want to rock the boat and anyway it’s not Talbot’s—it’s Ann Taylor…” As much as I had loathed spending the money on such a conservative outfit I was feeling a tad defensive—Talbot’s. As if. “Oh even worse!” Jorgen said. “We must get you out of that right away.” He led me over to a wall panel that slid away to reveal an enormous warehouse sized walk-in-closet. Shafts of golden light shone down through the high windows ranked around the room. In this vast and extraordinarily organized space all manner of sequins, feathers, beads and jewels glittered in the sunlight; leather shoes, coats, purses and belts shone with mellow richness and a veritable rainbow of beautiful and sumptuous fabrics dazzled my stunned and disbelieving eyes. I felt the prick of tears I was so overcome. Somewhere I was sure an angelic choir was singing Alleluia. “That’s right darling we’re the Fashion Division.” Fiona pulled some garments from a rack and held them up to me critically, “We get first pick of the outfits, no dull government navy for us. Our motto: ‘ours is not to do or die…” “ Just to make sure we look divine.” Jorgen finished. “ Here.” Fiona led me over to a change room and handed me a Dolce and Gabbana shift in a gorgeous plum color. “Tell me at least the knickers and such are decent…” “ Well of course—they’re Agent Provocateur.” I don’t care what the pamphlet said—a “sensible plain white bra capable of sustaining a range of physical activities” was in my opinion too much like giving up and denying the possibility of ever having sex again. I slipped into the dress and admired my reflection in the mirror. I spun around for Fiona and Jorgen’s approval. “Well?” Jorgen clapped his hands to his cheeks, “You should be illegal you look so yummy! You sexy thing, you!” I was really starting to like Jorgen—the man obviously had taste. “ And we must kiss goodbye to this…” Jorgen had taken my standard issue Glock and its horribly utilitarian holster and tossed it into a trashcan. He opened a drawer and selected the darlingest wee bejeweled Beretta and matching holster. “Donatella makes these for us special, only the Fashion Division is authorized to carry these.” He pulled back his suit coat to reveal his, I squealed with delight and put on the marvelous gun. “ And the finishing touch.” Fiona handed me a pair of the most adorable Manolo Blahnik’s ever. I slipped them on and felt pure joy suffuse my heart; Cinderella’s glass slipper had nothing on these. “Now you’re ready for a proper day’s work at the CIA, so what’ll we do for lunch? Do you want to go out or eat in?” Fiona asked. “ It’s only nine thirty…” “ Pish-posh!” Said Jorgen. “It never hurts to plan these things in advance—didn’t they teach you about agent preparedness at Langley? How about that new Thai place?” Ooo—I quite fancied Thai. I linked arms with Jorgen and strolled back into the conference room. “ Or we could try that new organic whole food café ‘Yogistania’.” Fiona suggested. I scrunched up my nose; I’m not that big on kasha and spelt. “Well…” I started to say but then another fabulously dressed young man burst into the room. He was lean and exotic looking, with dark melting eyes and great hair—very sexy but sadly also, I suspected, unsuitable boyfriend material; he was obviously upset. “Look! Just look at what Mr. Marshall Flinkman did to my Valentino!” He threw an elegant evening gown—well parts of it actually onto the conference table, it had been taken apart at the seams and stitched together again with odd bits of wire and circuit boards patched into it. The room filled with stunned silence as the young man continued, even his accent was sexy and exotic—damn my luck. “The sacrilege of him, this was a vintage gown!” Everyone gasped in horror, myself included, Fiona crossed herself. “Why—why would he do that?” I picked up the poor mangled gown. The young man turned to me. “Yes—that’s what I said. ‘Why Mr. Marshall Flinkman would you do this to Ramon? Why would you make Ramon weep when you do these things to an innocent Valentino gown?’ and you know what he say—what he tell Ramon?” He paused dramatically, we all watched Ramon with sick fascination, “That he make a new invention for Agent Bristow, the gown now have no ‘heat signature’ or something like this and I say ‘But Mr. Marshall Flinkman you have murdered my gown, the lines—they are all ruined now’.” Ramon stroked the fabric of the gown as tears rolled down his face. “Who is Mr. Marshall—I mean who’s Mr. Flinkman?” “Agent Flinkman actually. He’s the head of Op-Tech.” Jorgen said this in the dire tones reserved for the very worst of offenders. “He wears polyester clip on ties with sneakers and is responsible for ruining more one of a kind designer clothes and accessories than hordes of New Jersey housewives at Filenes’ basement sales ever could.” “If you value a garment, hide it from him at all costs, he’s always tinkering and adding gadgets and such to perfectly good clothing. One more unfortunate victim of Agent Flinkman to add to the ‘Wall of Heroes’” Fiona said as she picked up the dress and tenderly carried it to a small room at the back of the warehouse-closet, we all trailed after, faces somber. She pinned it up next to other assorted odd bits of clothing and accessories. We stood in quiet repose for a moment, Ramon’s soft sobs were the only sound. We all jumped when Margot spoke behind us, “Oh no! Tell me this isn’t a case of Agent Flinkman strikes again? He may be a genius with op-tech but honestly the man has no fashion sense at all. Come here Ramon my poor sweetie.” Margot swept Ramon into a hug, kissing his cheeks. “I’ll let you use the Company Gold Card for a spa day, will that make you feel better, darling?” Ramon nodded and wiped his eyes. Margot turned to face us, “Okay sweetie darlings the Rotunda team has met and I have the breakdowns,” She held up a handful of thick black portfolios with the CIA logo embossed on the front. “Lets get to work.” **** Breakdowns were all of the specs necessary for upcoming missions, I remembered this from my training at Langley—tech went to Agent Flinkman and his crew of nerds and Fashion Division dealt with all wardrobe and accessories. Each folder was an agent profile and all of the necessary information needed to prepare them for their missions; measurements, hair and eye color, preferred designer, what season they were, zodiac sign, all the usual stuff. The next few hours passed in a flurry of activity as I found myself thrust right into the thick of things. I glanced through the folio for an Agent Jack Bristow; the mission required a suitable disguise to infiltrate an underground sex club in Miami. “Uh I have a problem, I have to do a bondage prep and the folio doesn’t indicate if the Agent is Dom or Sub…” I looked over to Jorgen and Ramon for help. “ Who is it?” Jorgen asked. “ Agent Jack Bristow.” Ramon and Jorgen looked at each other and said at exactly the same time, “ Dom. Definitely a Dom.” Ramon flipped to an 8 by 10 glossy of the agent in question. I looked at the picture of the glowering man with the piercing gaze—I felt an involuntary shiver. “ Silly me, I should have guessed.” I murmured. Fiona slammed down the phone, “Battle Stations everyone—Emma Peel alert. I repeat Emma Peel alert, she’s on her way down now.” “ Emma Peel? Like from the Avengers?” I shot a confused glance at Fiona. “ Oh we only call her that amongst ourselves—her real name is Lauren Reed.” “ Why Emma Peel then?” “ Because for Agent Reed the 1960’s never truly ended when it comes to eyeliner.” “ That’s right,” Jorgen snickered, “They’ll have to pry it from her cold dead hand she’s so fond of it.” “And the lucky cow happens to be married to the most delicious man the CIA has ever seen. Agent Michael Vaughn…” Fiona slid a photo across the conference table to me; I picked it up and felt my insides go liquid as I gazed upon the dark-haired, green-eyed perfection that was Agent Vaughn. Hmm married he may be but married doesn’t mean dead… Ramon leaned over my shoulder, interrupting my train of thought. “No dice chica, Agent Vaughn is a true blue kind of hombre, and anyways if he were free he is so head over heels in love with Agent Sydney Bristow that your chances would be nada.” “ Sidney Bristow? He’s gay? “ Madre de Dios don’t I wish!” Ramon said with a laugh, “No Sydney’s a she, she’s Jack Bristow’s daughter.” Ramon showed me her picture—a stunning brunette—I felt the first stirrings of a serious girlcrush developing. This luscious tidbit was related to Jack “Eyes of Death” Bristow? “Why isn’t he married to her then, instead of this Emma—I mean Lauren Reed?” Ramon’s eyes filled with tears again, but his face glowed with the prospect of sharing some juicy gossip. “Oh such a tragedy that story—we all thought she was dead…” An icy blonde stalked into the room, “bitchqueen of the world” written across her whole face and Jorgen was right—the lady sure did love her eyeliner. Hello 1965! “I’ll tell you the rest later.” He whispered as the woman brandished a truly unfortunate electric blue gown with sequins, a peplum and shoulder pads that would make Joan Crawford weep with envy. “Tell me who assigned this gown to me for the operation at the French embassy? It’s horrible. I won’t wear it. Why do you give these hideous dresses to me and not Agent Bristow? She’s wearing Prada!” Ugh, even her voice was annoying. It was abundantly clear where the loyalties of Fashion Division lay regarding the soap opera that was Agents Reed, Vaughn and Bristow. “Lauren Darling!” Margot oozed false sympathy. “We only put Sydney in Prada because it’s to be expected—it’s the ‘been there done that’ fashion statement. We gave you that gown because we know you can pull it off—It’s edgy. That gown screams, “I’m sexy and confident and fashion forward—I’m what’s happening now. Perfect for you darling.” Agent Reed’s face grew cunning and speculative, “Really, you honestly think this gown will make me look better than Sydney?” “Would I lie to you darling?” Margot held her hand behind her back, fingers crossed. “ Well alright then, I’ll wear it.” She held it up to her and preened, all smiles now. I caught Jorgen shuddering and turning away out of the corner of my eye. “ Oh and I’ll need an agent to do my make-up but remember—” “ You like to do the eyeliner yourself, yes we know.” Margot finished wearily. Lauren graced the room with a chilly smile and left. Ramon forked the evil eye at her retreating back. “Silly bitch.” Margot said, “If she’d had an ounce of sense she would have recognized that as one of Nancy Reagan’s old rags. What I wouldn’t give to see the expression on Agent Vaughn’s face when she shows up in that fashion disaster and Sydney darling is in that divine brown chiffon from Prada. We’ll get them back together yet, right sweeties?” My admiration for Margot grew tenfold then. “Okay darlings now that we have most of the breakdowns done and planned I can finally tell you the most fantastic top-secret secret I’ve learned! “ JLo’s back with Castro?” Fiona asked. “ Castro?” I was confused. “I thought she was with Ben What’s-his-name?” “ Oh please” Fiona rolled her eyes “He was just her beard, Jen’s undercover. She’s been trying to get Castro to defect for yonks now.” The world of international espionage is more complex than it seemed. “Bigger even than Lagerfeld?” Ramon said eagerly. “ What’s this about Lagerfeld—is he dating a world leader too?” My head was spinning. Jorgen took pity on me and filled me in. “ Lagerfeld used to be K-Directorate, but he defected last year when the Chinese commissar said his latest collection was ‘derivative’. Now he works for us. Their loss, I mean did you see his spring prêt-a-porter? Honey, Karl is a genius…” “ Darlings please!” Margot raised her hands for quiet. “I’ll tell you everything I know, you better sit down.” Aware of her audience Margot played the drama out to the fullest, lighting another cigarette and inhaling a long drag before she spilled the news. “Yves St-Laurent is waiting for us to debrief him at a secure facility in the Nevada desert!” We blinked stunned into amazed silence; Ramon pressed his trembling hand to his lips, he looked like he might cry again. Fiona shot out of her seat. “Impossible! St-Laurent died years ago! You remember Jorgen; we wore black armbands that day. Despite the fact it completely clashed with our outfits.” Jorgen could only nod, too staggered to reply. “He faked his death. He’s been working for the Covenant all along. Our team covering Fashion Week in Paris became suspicious when Badgley Mischka’s latest collection seemed awfully familiar; they raided his fortified atelier and found St-Laurent there. Mischka’s been acting as a front for him for years it seems. And sweetie darlings we have been assigned the task of debriefing him!” “Holy-fucking-shit!” Fiona blushed. “Pardon my French everyone but I am just gobsmacked by this—St-Laurent alive and working for the Covenant!” “ Well, it’s not like he really wanted to. It’s just that they were willing to fund his research into experimental design.” Margot said. “ Experimental design?” I interjected. “ The brass ring we all chase after darling.” Margot said. “We are searching for the means to ensure and maintain American supremacy through fashion. Lagerfeld and the Covenant had their experimental design division, as do we, the whole thing is a giant global game of one-up-mans-ship. K-Directorate creates The Gap and we counter with Old Navy.” “ It’s a bloody fashion arms race really.” Fiona added. “ And one we are determined to win.” Margot’s voice was full of purpose. “So let’s saddle up darlings and hit the chopper because we have a debriefing in Nevada to get to.” “Ooh! Can I choose the music this time?” Ramon clapped his hands eagerly. “ I’m not listening to “It’s Raining Men” all the bloody way to Nevada!” Fiona grumped. Ramon pouted, quite put out. “ It’s not the only song on the CD you know…” They left the conference room still squabbling. “Margot? Do you think we could set the chopper down in the parking lot of that new Thai place? We worked through lunch…” “ We’ll see Jorgen. Last time we stopped for that outlet sale I caught all kinds of hell from Kendall. Coming darling?” Margot looked at me. “In a minute.” They left the conference room. I lingered for a moment, letting the pride and satisfaction of my job fill me; I was helping to keep the world safe from global terrors—like polyester pants. I picked up a Fendi bag that just went so perfectly with my outfit and strolled in my best “I’m too sexy” catwalk strut after the others. I was fighting the good fight to make my country a better, more fashionable place to live with great hair, because I worked for the CIA: Fashion Division. FIN Told you it was silly…
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