Character: Benedict Valda
Word Count: 583
Spoilers/Time-line: Spoilers for Breakdown,
Summary: There were times that doing something should always be done by yourself or else it brings up unexpected consequences. Valda contemplates upon the implications of his conversation with Artie and Mrs. Frederic, and the history of the Warehouse.
Disclaimer: I do not own Warehouse 13 nor am I making a profit off of this piece of fiction.
Author Notes: I was looking at the SyFy Warehouse 13 website and came across a section on the history of the Warehouse. After reading through it, realizing my plans for Theo were going to have to be tweaked (a reason why I haven't written much with him after season 1 I like fluff) and watching Breakdown, I came up with this. I have no clue where the analogy came from, it just seemed to fit. Plus there is a lack of Mr. Valda fic's out there, and while I know he's a jerk the size of the Warehouse, he does need a little love. To those on fanfiction.net I'm Knight's Guard over there, I'm gonna post this up over there too, but do comment at both.
There were something’s that needed to be done for yourself, by yourself, or they ended up being done to lower expectations or not done at all. Like grooming an animal for competition, you could trust it to be done in the capable hands of a professional groomer and get what they thought of as excellent service that day, or do it yourself. Paying someone else to do it meant you didn’t have to, but what you wanted, that vision in your head, couldn’t be seen by someone else, and so you had to rely on their interpretation of your vision to do as you paid them to do. Then you had to deal with their level of competency, which even if they were excellent still didn’t mean they were excellent on that particular day. Or you could do it yourself, guaranteeing that your vision would come out to what you wanted, and any screw ups were the fault of your own skill, not you relying on someone else to do your dirty work.
The functioning of the Warehouse in its last three incarnations was an awful lot like dog grooming, the sort where you paid someone else to do it for you, as if you had grown tired of doing it yourself and passed it on to someone. That while they had a body of work related to the job you handed them, like say hedge trimming or hair styling, wasn’t the same as what you were giving them to do. Or you brought them on like a second set of hands, which was the better analogy, at least it was when the Regents had first hired agents in 1725 to aide them in retrieval. Now, it was like they had grown tired of doing the job they had previously been world renowned for, as they hid in diners, officers, libraries, bookshops, studying the world around them to insure the Warehouse was where it should be, insuring it was kept secret, but doing no more than that. Even the recruitment of agents, the well being of said persons and such were handled not by the Regents, but by a select group of people under them, letting the Regents manage with a hands off approach.
What had started out as a way to aid the Regents had evolved into turning them into managers, and they truly held little power over the Warehouse. They had final say on a number of matters, banishment, execution, rules, and where the Warehouse was, but they were just hooded figures on the sidelines, nameless, faceless overlords of the largest collection of items that could potentially control or destroy the world. Over lords in title only, and here Benedict snorted, silently to himself, as it was the truth. The real power rested in the hands of people like Arthur Nielson and Irene Frederic, the ones that were out in the real world, handling that power, and the real protectors of the Warehouse. It scared him to think like that, but the conversation, he had just had, and the way Frederic had gotten her way, just proved it. It wasn’t just him, he had seen it in the others as well, they were afraid.
“Something’s you’re better off doing yourself,” he muttered silently, his eyes locked on the figures outside the diner, and he felt the weight of fear settle over him once more, causing his confident, stiff shouldered appearance to sag.
“Lest you lose the power you once held dear.”