Disclaimer: Alias, its characters, and other relevant material are the collective property of J. J. Abrams, Bad Robot Productions, and ABC Studios. I am only a fan who would like to pay homage.

Rating: R for language and violent situations.

Author's Note: This story is set to take place almost immediately after the events of The Indicator. Any and all previous episodes are fair game for spoilers.


La Corona de la Sol
by VisionaryCoward


New York

The cell where they held him was small. A ten by ten hole in the ground with no window, no toilet, and no bed. A pile of soiled rags in the corner served as a makeshift pallet on which he slept, or tried to sleep. There wasn't much sleeping in that place.

He knew that two armed guards were waiting for him on the other side of the thick steel door that separated him from his captors. They were well trained, never responding to his repeated pleas and demands.

Even though he had no watch, he figured it must still be pretty early in the morning. The noise and bustle that normally filtered through to him was muted somewhat, and he concluded that most of the working agents had not yet arrived. Good. That gave him plenty of time to think.

Silently cursing the cold that had settled into his bones, he unfolded himself and stood, stretching his sore limbs until they protested. Men like him weren't supposed to be confined. But that was okay. They would let him go soon enough. Just as soon as he told them. Yes, they would be more than happy to hand him the keys and let him waltz out the front door, to give him his freedom without even an indictment for his trouble.

He traversed the perimeter of the cell several times, trying to force circulation back into his tired extremities. Soon he was feeling better, warm and awake, and decided it was time to begin the show again.

"Guard!" He yelled as both of his fists thundered against the cell door. He had the satisfaction of hearing a quick intake of breath; he'd startled them. Good. "I know you can hear me out there, you piece of shit! I want to talk to whoever's in charge!" His fists slammed down on the steel again and again and again, and he began to lose track of how many times he yelled, and how many names he called them. But they were stone statues, not moving nor speaking.

Smirking, he finally abandoned the pounding in favor of pacing the short distance from wall to wall. He shook his head and a small chuckle escaped his lips. They had no clue what he knew; they had no clue what he possessed. Negotiations require leverage, and now he had it in spades. All he had to do was wait.

Slowly, the din outside his cell increased as more and more people appeared, shuffling about their daily work. They'll be coming soon, he thought. And he was right.

It wasn't long before he heard footsteps, dignified and important, stop directly in from of his cell. The grating sound of a key in the lock was music to his ears, and he ceased pacing. A thin sliver of precious light appeared around the edges of the door, and he stopped moving entirely. The silhouette of a man appeared in the doorway, and he did nothing but stare.

After a long moment of silence, Manolo Souza raised his icy, predatory gaze to the face of his captor.

"I want to make a deal."