Sailing No More (Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego, The Dying Informant; Fear of Failure)
Title: "Sailing No More"
Author: Crystal Rose of Pollux (rose_of_pollux)
Claim: Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? (The Dying Informant)
Table: Do-it-Yourself
Prompt: Fear of Failure
Rating: PG13
Summary: Sometimes, a little slip-up can result in large problems
Warnings: Seriousness/angst in a generally light-hearted fandom
Will be cross-posted to 31_days, 30_hugs, and the V.I.L.E. Headquarters fanfic forum.
Author’s Note: This ficlit was inspired by a creative writing assignment involving to write something about a brick without using the word brick or common words used to describe a brick. And that was when I thought about the Informant’s encounter with Eartha in the “Chumps D’Elysees/Arch Criminal” ep in season 2 involving the “cement shoes” sketch… and this happened, largely based off of the aforementioned ep (it’s a bit serious and angsty, but it does have a happy ending). As always, the characters aren’t mine and the story is. Thanks to Lucky_Ladybug for plot help, especially with the banter near the end!
*********************************
“Everybody makes mistakes.” The young Informant had heard that before, and he had made his share in his life. But in a profession such as his, mistakes could not be allowed. They weren’t just embarrassing; they were devastating. And he was finding that out just now.
He had been tracking the infamous strongwoman, Eartha Brute, after she had run off upon committing another crime for V.I.L.E. and Carmen. She had been clueless, unaware of the fact that she was being tailed as she bounded off to Venezuela. And he probably would have still been able to follow her had it not been for the breaking branch; he had been watching her from a tree above the Orinoco. The branch had given way, sending him plummeting into the water. And not even Eartha was so dense that she could’ve ignored that.
Battling the current, the Informant had struggled to get away; he had to get back to ACME and alert the ones on the case to her location. But he hadn’t made it far; grabbing at the collar of his trenchcoat with just her forefinger and thumb, Eartha had pulled him from the water, held him so that they were eye-to-eye, and she had proceeded to glare at him.
“I don’t like it when people spy on me,” she had huffed, tying him up with a thick vine.
He was determined not to plead in front of a V.I.L.E. member. He had failed, and he would have to pay whatever price Eartha dealt to him.
Failed. The word echoed like the roar of a monster in his head. After he had promised the Chief that he would help bring Eartha to justice, he had let her down. He had let down his best friends, who had been accompanying him on the case; he had dashed after Eartha, telling them to wait for him. But now they would wait forever for his return. How long would they wait? Would they know where to find him after Eartha finished with him?
He had gone over these thoughts as Eartha dragged him along behind her boat. She was furious at having been followed; she most certainly wouldn’t spare him. He would once again be the Dying Informant, and all because he had failed his mission. What would his friends do when they found him-a miserable excuse of a detective who brought about his own undoing?
After what had seemed like an eternity, the thief stopped. She pulled the young detective into the boat, and held something in her muscular hand, raising her brawny arm above her head.
The young man’s eyes widened as he saw the glimpse of the oblong object in her hand; was she was truly intending to bring that down on him, with all of her strength behind it?
Suddenly, she paused.
“Nah,” she huffed. “I’ll go easy on ya. I don’t want you hurtin’ too much. I want ya thinkin’ about what ya did.”
She shoved him to the ground, temporarily stunning him with the blow. His world swam before his eyes, but he began to discern an unbearable feeling at his feet. He was having trouble moving his feet, and as he blinked through the haze, he saw the oblong objects attached to his feet, as though they were new appendages. Just as the Puritans placed wrongdoers in the pillory, he was being forced to wear these now-the mark of a failure.
He made an attempt to escape, but his feet were truly cemented in place. He could only move each foot about an inch, as his energy was depleted from the long haul along the river.
She picked him up by the collar of his trenchcoat again, as though he were weightless. The condemning blocks on his feet began to hurt, and though he flinched, he refused to beg or plead. He knew what was coming.
“You’ve got somethin’ to say?” she asked.
He didn’t. Failures had nothing to say to defend themselves, he realized.
Upon receiving no reply, she tossed him into the water. But she had miscalculated; a tilt of his head allowed him to see the surface. He glanced at her, puzzled. Would she just leave him there to his own misery?
The strongwoman frowned. She wasn’t going to let that spy off this easily.
“Not deep enough, huh?” she huffed. She pulled him out by his trenchcoat collar again. “Don’t worry; we’ll find a place for you.”
A place? He thought, derisively. There was no place for a failure. He had let everyone down. Everything he had worked for was now all for naught. The thief would get away, and there would be no one to blame but himself. And the weight of the failure seemed tenfold when compared to the agonizing mass at his feet.
Hauling the poor youth along, she stopped at the peak of a waterfall. He wasn’t even aware of this until the strongwoman lifted him, concrete and all, over her head.
He sent out a quick plea of forgiveness to his friends-not because he was leaving them, but because they had to be forever known as the acquaintances of a failure. And he had the two massive slabs at his feet to serve as two marks of dishonor to prove it.
“They can’t hear you,” she said, and she tossed him over the falls.
He plummeted-feet first, of course-into the depths of the water. His eyes were open, determined to take the consequences unflinchingly. Though he did struggle valiantly against the slabs that were now the personification of his failures, he couldn’t swim in his weakened condition.
Everyone made mistakes. So had he, and now he was paying the piper. Tears were escaping his eyes now-not because of his fate, but because he had failed… because he had let his friends and colleagues down.
He glanced up, watching as the speck of sunlight grew smaller and smaller, his failures dragging him into the darkened depths. But coming from somewhere, far away, was a familiar voice, calling out to him.
“Infy! Infy!!”
He glanced up as the surface of the water became disturbed. Familiar figures were swimming all around him as he continued to sink. Still bound by the vine and still sinking due to the oblong masses at his feet, he couldn’t move as arms seized his shoulders and began to pull him upward.
But his failures weren’t about to let him go; personified and cemented to his feet, they were determined to keep him to the depths, pulling him out of the grip of his colleagues and friends.
He slipped into unconsciousness as the tug-of-war continued. Whatever the outcome, it was destiny.
*********************************
He wasn’t sure how long he was unconscious for, but the Dying Informant came to in the middle of the Recruiting Office. He wasn’t sure how he got there, but he immediately spat out a mouthful of water, telling the Recruiting Officer about what happened during his run-in with Eartha. Lapsing in and out of consciousness several times, he finally came to for good in the alley outside, his friends by his side and the Chief surveying him.
“Are you alright?” she asked. “I told them to take you to the infirmary, but your colleagues insisted that fresh air was what you needed most.”
The Informant wasn’t able to meet her eyes at all.
“I blew it,” he said, glancing derisively at the condemning slabs that were still on his feet. He ignored the hands on his shoulders as the Messenger, the Techie, and the Inspector all attempted to make him feel better about the whole ordeal.
“You tried your best--” the Chief began.
“That’s just it,” the Informant replied, bitterly. “Every time I try my best, I still fail! I’m not cut out for this, Chief; I… I can’t do this anymore. I’m just an incompetent imbecile who always messes everything up!”
“Infy, what are you saying!?” asked the Messenger.
“You can’t quit!” stated the Techie.
“We won’t allow it,” stated the Inspector.
“I’m with them on this one,” said the Chief. “I refuse to accept your resignation; you are much too loyal an agent to be let go.”
“So what happens the next time I fail…?” he asked, misery evident in his voice.
“Let me ask you a question,” said the Chief, folding her arms. “One of these days, we’ll be expanding ACME’s Tail-Net department. What will you say to the new informant who tries and fails to tail a V.I.L.E. suspect? What will you say to that informant when he or she hands in a resignation letter?”
“That’s I’ve done it a million times and somehow I’m still here?”
“And why are you still here?”
“Because I can’t stop until V.I.L.E. is stopped.”
“And with such dedication, how can an agent who says those words be a failure?”
The Informant pondered over these words, finally attempting a smile.
“I get it,” he said. “You want me to keep trying.”
She nodded.
“And one of these days, you will have a protégé under your wing,” the Chief went on. “I hope you teach your pupil the same, deep sense of duty and dedication that you have.”
“I’ll do my best, Chief,” he promised.
“And you’ll be pleased to know that the new recruits are hot on Eartha’s trail, thanks to the information you provided,” she added. “You focus on getting better for your next assignment. And I’m sure that I don’t need to tell you this, but you three look after him.”
“Aye-aye, Chief!” the Informant and his colleagues said.
She returned to her office as the Informant sat on one of the alley benches with a sigh.
“Infy, you weren’t really going to quit, were you?” asked the Messenger.
“I considered it,” he admitted, glancing again at the slabs. “I was just so upset at not being able to do anything right…”
“Now how do you figure that when you’ve helped us out before?” asked the Techie.
“More than once?” added the Inspector.
“And don’t forget how you saved my life the first time you tailed Eartha,” added the Messenger, giving him a slight punch on the arm. “Now will you stop the self-indulgent moping, or will I have to bring out a Snowball-Gram?”
“I’ll stop!” the Informant replied, in an instant. He glanced back at his feet. “But, uh… could you guys help get these off first?”
“Sure thing,” the Messenger grinned. He and the others grabbed ahold of the condemning blocks. “One… two… three…”
“PULL!” they all yelled.
But all that occurred was the Informant getting pulled off of the bench.
“Ow! Try something else!”
“They’re… they’re on pretty tight,” commented the Techie.
“Do you reckon Mrs. Pumpkinclanger has a pickax we can borrow?” the Messenger asked, thoughtfully.
The Informant slapped his forehead, but he still couldn’t hide his amused smile.
“Let’s try this again,” said the Inspector. “Ready…?”
“PULL!”
“Ow! Guys, this isn’t working!” the Informant exclaimed.
“Will you stop that that endless cacophony down there!?” shrieked a voice from the nearby apartment.
The friends all glanced up to see the furious Mrs. Pumpkinclanger glaring at them from her window, holding her equally annoyed Siamese cat in her arms.
“Ah, just the person we wanted to see!” grinned the Messenger. “Do you have a pickaxe we can borrow?”
“And what are you r-r-r-r-ruffians going to do with that-tear up my sidewalk and make even more noise?!” the persnickety woman asked.
“Murowr,” the cat snarled in agreement.
“She’s right; you can forget it!” Mrs. Pumpkinclanger stated.
“That’s alright, Mrs. P.; I understand,” the Messenger replied, with a cheeky smile. “I’m sure Infy won’t make too much noise running around in that new concrete footwear...”
Mrs. Pumpkinclanger glared at him.
“It’s in the garage!” she snapped at last. With that, she slammed the window shut and retreated.
The Informant couldn’t help but grin as the Messenger ran off to get the pickax. He wasn’t sure how he knew it, but somehow, he knew that things would soon be alright; the weight was already starting to lift from his soul. And it would soon lift from his feet, too.
Author: Crystal Rose of Pollux (rose_of_pollux)
Claim: Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? (The Dying Informant)
Table: Do-it-Yourself
Prompt: Fear of Failure
Rating: PG13
Summary: Sometimes, a little slip-up can result in large problems
Warnings: Seriousness/angst in a generally light-hearted fandom
Will be cross-posted to 31_days, 30_hugs, and the V.I.L.E. Headquarters fanfic forum.
Author’s Note: This ficlit was inspired by a creative writing assignment involving to write something about a brick without using the word brick or common words used to describe a brick. And that was when I thought about the Informant’s encounter with Eartha in the “Chumps D’Elysees/Arch Criminal” ep in season 2 involving the “cement shoes” sketch… and this happened, largely based off of the aforementioned ep (it’s a bit serious and angsty, but it does have a happy ending). As always, the characters aren’t mine and the story is. Thanks to Lucky_Ladybug for plot help, especially with the banter near the end!
*********************************
“Everybody makes mistakes.” The young Informant had heard that before, and he had made his share in his life. But in a profession such as his, mistakes could not be allowed. They weren’t just embarrassing; they were devastating. And he was finding that out just now.
He had been tracking the infamous strongwoman, Eartha Brute, after she had run off upon committing another crime for V.I.L.E. and Carmen. She had been clueless, unaware of the fact that she was being tailed as she bounded off to Venezuela. And he probably would have still been able to follow her had it not been for the breaking branch; he had been watching her from a tree above the Orinoco. The branch had given way, sending him plummeting into the water. And not even Eartha was so dense that she could’ve ignored that.
Battling the current, the Informant had struggled to get away; he had to get back to ACME and alert the ones on the case to her location. But he hadn’t made it far; grabbing at the collar of his trenchcoat with just her forefinger and thumb, Eartha had pulled him from the water, held him so that they were eye-to-eye, and she had proceeded to glare at him.
“I don’t like it when people spy on me,” she had huffed, tying him up with a thick vine.
He was determined not to plead in front of a V.I.L.E. member. He had failed, and he would have to pay whatever price Eartha dealt to him.
Failed. The word echoed like the roar of a monster in his head. After he had promised the Chief that he would help bring Eartha to justice, he had let her down. He had let down his best friends, who had been accompanying him on the case; he had dashed after Eartha, telling them to wait for him. But now they would wait forever for his return. How long would they wait? Would they know where to find him after Eartha finished with him?
He had gone over these thoughts as Eartha dragged him along behind her boat. She was furious at having been followed; she most certainly wouldn’t spare him. He would once again be the Dying Informant, and all because he had failed his mission. What would his friends do when they found him-a miserable excuse of a detective who brought about his own undoing?
After what had seemed like an eternity, the thief stopped. She pulled the young detective into the boat, and held something in her muscular hand, raising her brawny arm above her head.
The young man’s eyes widened as he saw the glimpse of the oblong object in her hand; was she was truly intending to bring that down on him, with all of her strength behind it?
Suddenly, she paused.
“Nah,” she huffed. “I’ll go easy on ya. I don’t want you hurtin’ too much. I want ya thinkin’ about what ya did.”
She shoved him to the ground, temporarily stunning him with the blow. His world swam before his eyes, but he began to discern an unbearable feeling at his feet. He was having trouble moving his feet, and as he blinked through the haze, he saw the oblong objects attached to his feet, as though they were new appendages. Just as the Puritans placed wrongdoers in the pillory, he was being forced to wear these now-the mark of a failure.
He made an attempt to escape, but his feet were truly cemented in place. He could only move each foot about an inch, as his energy was depleted from the long haul along the river.
She picked him up by the collar of his trenchcoat again, as though he were weightless. The condemning blocks on his feet began to hurt, and though he flinched, he refused to beg or plead. He knew what was coming.
“You’ve got somethin’ to say?” she asked.
He didn’t. Failures had nothing to say to defend themselves, he realized.
Upon receiving no reply, she tossed him into the water. But she had miscalculated; a tilt of his head allowed him to see the surface. He glanced at her, puzzled. Would she just leave him there to his own misery?
The strongwoman frowned. She wasn’t going to let that spy off this easily.
“Not deep enough, huh?” she huffed. She pulled him out by his trenchcoat collar again. “Don’t worry; we’ll find a place for you.”
A place? He thought, derisively. There was no place for a failure. He had let everyone down. Everything he had worked for was now all for naught. The thief would get away, and there would be no one to blame but himself. And the weight of the failure seemed tenfold when compared to the agonizing mass at his feet.
Hauling the poor youth along, she stopped at the peak of a waterfall. He wasn’t even aware of this until the strongwoman lifted him, concrete and all, over her head.
He sent out a quick plea of forgiveness to his friends-not because he was leaving them, but because they had to be forever known as the acquaintances of a failure. And he had the two massive slabs at his feet to serve as two marks of dishonor to prove it.
“They can’t hear you,” she said, and she tossed him over the falls.
He plummeted-feet first, of course-into the depths of the water. His eyes were open, determined to take the consequences unflinchingly. Though he did struggle valiantly against the slabs that were now the personification of his failures, he couldn’t swim in his weakened condition.
Everyone made mistakes. So had he, and now he was paying the piper. Tears were escaping his eyes now-not because of his fate, but because he had failed… because he had let his friends and colleagues down.
He glanced up, watching as the speck of sunlight grew smaller and smaller, his failures dragging him into the darkened depths. But coming from somewhere, far away, was a familiar voice, calling out to him.
“Infy! Infy!!”
He glanced up as the surface of the water became disturbed. Familiar figures were swimming all around him as he continued to sink. Still bound by the vine and still sinking due to the oblong masses at his feet, he couldn’t move as arms seized his shoulders and began to pull him upward.
But his failures weren’t about to let him go; personified and cemented to his feet, they were determined to keep him to the depths, pulling him out of the grip of his colleagues and friends.
He slipped into unconsciousness as the tug-of-war continued. Whatever the outcome, it was destiny.
*********************************
He wasn’t sure how long he was unconscious for, but the Dying Informant came to in the middle of the Recruiting Office. He wasn’t sure how he got there, but he immediately spat out a mouthful of water, telling the Recruiting Officer about what happened during his run-in with Eartha. Lapsing in and out of consciousness several times, he finally came to for good in the alley outside, his friends by his side and the Chief surveying him.
“Are you alright?” she asked. “I told them to take you to the infirmary, but your colleagues insisted that fresh air was what you needed most.”
The Informant wasn’t able to meet her eyes at all.
“I blew it,” he said, glancing derisively at the condemning slabs that were still on his feet. He ignored the hands on his shoulders as the Messenger, the Techie, and the Inspector all attempted to make him feel better about the whole ordeal.
“You tried your best--” the Chief began.
“That’s just it,” the Informant replied, bitterly. “Every time I try my best, I still fail! I’m not cut out for this, Chief; I… I can’t do this anymore. I’m just an incompetent imbecile who always messes everything up!”
“Infy, what are you saying!?” asked the Messenger.
“You can’t quit!” stated the Techie.
“We won’t allow it,” stated the Inspector.
“I’m with them on this one,” said the Chief. “I refuse to accept your resignation; you are much too loyal an agent to be let go.”
“So what happens the next time I fail…?” he asked, misery evident in his voice.
“Let me ask you a question,” said the Chief, folding her arms. “One of these days, we’ll be expanding ACME’s Tail-Net department. What will you say to the new informant who tries and fails to tail a V.I.L.E. suspect? What will you say to that informant when he or she hands in a resignation letter?”
“That’s I’ve done it a million times and somehow I’m still here?”
“And why are you still here?”
“Because I can’t stop until V.I.L.E. is stopped.”
“And with such dedication, how can an agent who says those words be a failure?”
The Informant pondered over these words, finally attempting a smile.
“I get it,” he said. “You want me to keep trying.”
She nodded.
“And one of these days, you will have a protégé under your wing,” the Chief went on. “I hope you teach your pupil the same, deep sense of duty and dedication that you have.”
“I’ll do my best, Chief,” he promised.
“And you’ll be pleased to know that the new recruits are hot on Eartha’s trail, thanks to the information you provided,” she added. “You focus on getting better for your next assignment. And I’m sure that I don’t need to tell you this, but you three look after him.”
“Aye-aye, Chief!” the Informant and his colleagues said.
She returned to her office as the Informant sat on one of the alley benches with a sigh.
“Infy, you weren’t really going to quit, were you?” asked the Messenger.
“I considered it,” he admitted, glancing again at the slabs. “I was just so upset at not being able to do anything right…”
“Now how do you figure that when you’ve helped us out before?” asked the Techie.
“More than once?” added the Inspector.
“And don’t forget how you saved my life the first time you tailed Eartha,” added the Messenger, giving him a slight punch on the arm. “Now will you stop the self-indulgent moping, or will I have to bring out a Snowball-Gram?”
“I’ll stop!” the Informant replied, in an instant. He glanced back at his feet. “But, uh… could you guys help get these off first?”
“Sure thing,” the Messenger grinned. He and the others grabbed ahold of the condemning blocks. “One… two… three…”
“PULL!” they all yelled.
But all that occurred was the Informant getting pulled off of the bench.
“Ow! Try something else!”
“They’re… they’re on pretty tight,” commented the Techie.
“Do you reckon Mrs. Pumpkinclanger has a pickax we can borrow?” the Messenger asked, thoughtfully.
The Informant slapped his forehead, but he still couldn’t hide his amused smile.
“Let’s try this again,” said the Inspector. “Ready…?”
“PULL!”
“Ow! Guys, this isn’t working!” the Informant exclaimed.
“Will you stop that that endless cacophony down there!?” shrieked a voice from the nearby apartment.
The friends all glanced up to see the furious Mrs. Pumpkinclanger glaring at them from her window, holding her equally annoyed Siamese cat in her arms.
“Ah, just the person we wanted to see!” grinned the Messenger. “Do you have a pickaxe we can borrow?”
“And what are you r-r-r-r-ruffians going to do with that-tear up my sidewalk and make even more noise?!” the persnickety woman asked.
“Murowr,” the cat snarled in agreement.
“She’s right; you can forget it!” Mrs. Pumpkinclanger stated.
“That’s alright, Mrs. P.; I understand,” the Messenger replied, with a cheeky smile. “I’m sure Infy won’t make too much noise running around in that new concrete footwear...”
Mrs. Pumpkinclanger glared at him.
“It’s in the garage!” she snapped at last. With that, she slammed the window shut and retreated.
The Informant couldn’t help but grin as the Messenger ran off to get the pickax. He wasn’t sure how he knew it, but somehow, he knew that things would soon be alright; the weight was already starting to lift from his soul. And it would soon lift from his feet, too.