Title: Arachnid
Classification: Angst, Alternate Ending to "Nocturne" (4x06)
Rating: PG/PG-13
Ship: S/V Undertones
Author's Note: So, my dear, brilliant Penny read this earlier and her first reaction was, (and I quote,) "Holy sht, have you been taking Penny Pills?"
Yes, this is the angstiest I have written in a long, long time. Basically just a 'What if…' I came up with while watching Nocturne. Mmm… what else….
Love ya, Penny, thanks sooo much for the help with this one. And you're a genius and don't let anyone make you think otherwise. :Hugs:
Arachnid
There are two facts that Jack Bristow holds evident:
1) Once, he had a daughter.
2) The disease had no antidote.
It's something of a child's logic problem: one of these statements is false; the other is true. Apply what you know, decide which is which. You can try this for yourself, but once you think you have solved it, do not ask Jack Bristow for the correct answer. He will deny neither statement.
The truth cannot be given by any particular person or clue. The truth lies abandoned in an alleyway in Prague, rotting with the stench of dirt and blood that is already thick in the air.
A deafening, resonating explosion pulled Jack slowly through the murky depths of his unconsciousness, and his eyes opened at just the right moment for him to see the chunk of perfectly sculpted, burning, screaming metal, tearing through Michael Vaughn's chest with thoughtless abandon.
The screams she ignites as the gun clatters to the ground are no match for the blood.
Irony is the eight ball of life, isn't it. He'd taught her how to hold a gun and how to shoot; he'd made her wary and terrified of betrayal; he'd made it clear to eliminate the possibilities at all costs.
And he hadn't removed the bullets from her gun.
A complex equation that had stretched out over the years, the variables always changing and the coefficients….
…Equating Sydney Bristow sobbing on the filthy, trodden ground, bent over the body her own fingers had struck down, clutching at her face and hair and screaming at the air. "The spiders! Daddy, they're all over him, they're going to take him away, Daddy, please, make them go away!..."
He wants to stop the screaming, wants to grant her request. He loves her, and this is all he wants.
The vial of florescent yellow liquid glows eerily by Michael Vaughn's unmoving hand. Jack Bristow could take the spiders away; he could drive them away with modern science.
But that would not relieve her cries.
It would worsen them.
But what could he do? He could give her her life back, it was floating right there inside that tube. But what kind of life would that be? One in which she would tear herself apart, allow the guilt and remorse consume her until she drove herself insane.
Everything will have come full circle, and that time no one, no antidote, no amount of intel would be able to save her.
He couldn't do it. He loved her too damn much to do it.
And so, slowly, not allowing himself to spend another moment's contemplation for fear of his feeble mind changing, he picked up the gun from the ground- and he did the first thing he had ever done solely for his daughter, with no personal thought or agenda in mind.
He pulled the trigger.
There are two facts that Jack Bristow holds evident:
1) Once, he had a daughter.
2) The disease had no antidote.
One of these statements is false; the other is true. Apply what you know, decide which is which. You can try this for yourself, but do not ask Jack Bristow for the correct answer.
He will deny neither statement.