by Brian Gola (7th)
Note: This is not part of the official Mission: Impossible series. It is a reimagined story created by me. I hope you enjoy it!
John Fahns sat on a red spinning stool in Beau’s Coffee Shop, the evening sun glinting through the window. He sipped his coffee, squinting against the light, a grim expression on his face as faint music played from his disc player.
From his bag, he pulled out a large square envelope labeled “GOVERNMENT PROPERTY – FOR JOHN FAHNS’ EYES AND EARS ONLY.” Inside was a disc. He slid it into the player. A low, mechanical voice began:
“Hello, John Fahns. We know you were framed years ago—and that you were once a highly respected soldier. We want to recruit you to the IMF for a mission the police cannot handle.
Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to skydive over the Eiffel Tower to intercept Jaques Aveun, who plans to steal classified American government files. What’s in those files shouldn’t concern you—but the information we found in his home should.
He will be skydiving on November 18 at 9:00 CET. Good luck, and goodbye.”
The message cut off. John stood, left money for his coffee, and slammed open the door. He took a deep breath and mounted his motorcycle. The mission was tomorrow—he needed to get to Paris.
At the airport, he used a fake ID to slip past security and boarded a flight. Hours later, he arrived in Paris. After gathering his gear (and grabbing a quick baguette), he pulled out his walkie-talkie.
“Your name’s Ivanka, right? The IMF agent in Paris? I need a lift 20,000 feet over the Eiffel Tower.”
“You got it,” Ivanka replied.
Five minutes later, John was in a helicopter above the glittering city.
“Thanks, Ivanka!” he shouted, jumping out into the cold night air.
Below him, a second parachute glowed faintly in the darkness—Jaques Aveun. John narrowed his eyes, diving faster.
“Hey, Jaques!” he yelled. Jaques glanced back, irritated.
John reached for the files, but Jaques kicked him hard, sending him spinning. John pulled his parachute cord—nothing happened.
“Come on!” he shouted. He tore open his backpack, yanked out a spare chute, and clung to it by a single finger. Below, the Eiffel Tower sparkled in the night as both men hurtled toward it.
When they were finally at the same altitude, John fired his gun. Jaques went limp, unconscious. His parachute slowed his descent, leaving John higher up—but John was starting to black out himself. His grip slipped.
He fell.
At the last second, he regained consciousness and managed to grab Jaques’s leg. They tumbled together, slamming onto a lower platform of the Eiffel Tower. Both men were badly injured, struggling to crawl toward the door.
They reached it at the same time.
They fought—punches, shoves, desperate scrambles for balance. Jaques grabbed John by the shirt and dangled him over the railing. John swung a fist, connecting with Jaques’s jaw. Jaques lost his grip, and both men nearly went over. John caught the railing, gasping.
Jaques lunged again, grabbing John’s foot. John kicked back, hard. Jaques fell.
John pulled himself up, entered the room, and retrieved the files. He paused to look out over Paris—its lights shimmering below like a sea of stars.
Then—a sound. A hole in the floor.
Jaques was alive, below him, aiming a stolen bow and arrow.
John grabbed another parachute and leapt, gliding downward as Jaques fired wildly. John dodged the shots and hurled a loose brick. It struck Jaques squarely, sending him crashing to the ground.
Landing beside him, John checked Jaques’s pulse—it was faint but steady. He hauled the unconscious man to a nearby police station, then boarded Ivanka’s helicopter.
As they flew out over the ocean, John leaned back, biting into a warm baguette.
Mission accomplished.
THE END