Cold-Blooded Killer

Author: JuliaAtHeart
Timeline: AU, set in season 4 before Echoes. Sark is in CIA custody.
Summary: Sark recounts the way he became the cold-blooded Mr. Sark to Sydney. But why does she want to know all of a sudden?

Disclaimer: I don't own Alias, or anything close to it. All characters belong to JJ, except the ones I made up.

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The Beginning: Part One

"On dark nights I think I was brought into this world to be a cold-blooded killer, but then I remember that isn't true. I was born as Julian Alexander Lazeray, to a gracious mother and a distant father. I wonder if my mother knew he son would someday kill hundreds." I stare across the table at her, but she doesn't respond.

"No, I don't suppose she did... my mother only saw the best in everyone. Perhaps her greatest fault. She would probably tell me that I could redeem myself, become a good man;" I shake my head but she still says nothing.

"But I know that to be false. The only time that I was ever a good person was when I was a child, before I became accustomed to the feel of a gun in my hand."

"I honestly don't know why I am telling you all this... perhaps because you are the first to ask... since Allison." I see her flinch at the name and her eyes have moved to study the floor intently. "Perhaps the question I should be asking is: why are you interested in a man that hasn't existed since for over two decades?"

This makes her look up, stare at me. And for the first time I don't see the hate I am so accustomed to. She is twisting a ring on her finger, but her eyes never leave mine. What is she looking for, has she found a way into my soul.

What has happened between us? Why aren't we exchanging insults, where has this peace come from? Whatever changed has me worried, I don't like to see Sydney so defeated.

"I don't believe he is gone..." she looks surprised by her own voice and then a guard interrupts us.

"Ma'am they are calling for you." She rises, straightening her jacket all though there are no creases to be found.

"Will you be back, shall you come to hear my tale of," I pause glancing up to her, meeting her eyes, "well, death, I suppose."

She pauses, waiting for the guard to open the door for her, "Yes."

As I am being led back to that familiar cell, I smirk. It is funny how that one word contained so much promise and hope. But underneath the hope is fear, fear that she will see beyond Mr. Sark, directly into Julian.

My smirk disintegrates, and I feel true terror of the journey I am about to embark on; the journey to my beginnings. To a place I haven't visited since Irina taught me to release the past. I forgot the past for one Derevko, and now I shall remember it for another.

The Beginning: Part Two

Almost a week had passed before I am once again brought into the interview room. All throughout the week I have prepared myself to tell her the story of how I came to be a killer.

But when I am seated in front of her, her appearance shocks me into silence. Her right arm is secured to her side and there is obvious swelling on her shoulder. Her face makes me give a small gasp, her high cheekbones are bruised and no amount of makeup can hide the black eye and split lip.

I can tell it is the shoulder that gives her the most discomfort, perhaps it had been dislocated. My mind flashes to dozens of remedies that could help but all of them required physical contact. Hurt as she is I had no doubt she could still break my arm.

"Was it dislocated?" I ask motioning to her shoulder. Her head gives a quick nod, but I can see she is avoiding eye contact.

I want to help her, but that would mean acting as though I care. Do I care? Maybe I do because courage rises in me and I decide to take a step forward.

Slowly I slide my handcuffed hands onto the table and place my palms facing up, "Let me see your right hand," she hesitates, " I am not stupid enough to try anything," I assure her.

She obliges, though I can tell she isn't thrilled about it, and I feel her warm hand in my cold ones. They are covered in little scars, Irina once told me scars were marks of character.

I had many scars, each with its own story. Though my favorite scar was one she had given me, with an ice pick. If any scar possessed character it was that scar which snaked from my left knee down my calf.

How many scars had I given her? No matter where Sydney Bristow went, or who she became I would always be a part of her. That thought made me smirk, which made her uncomfortable, she knew I was scrutinizing her hands.

"Your mother taught me this," I say as I begin massaging different pressure points on her hand, "a old form of therapy. They say every part of the body can be controlled by the hands."

I feel her relax into my ministrations and she closes her eyes. I can feel her exhaustion and wonder who did this to her. Suddenly I wish I had been there, Sydney always has so much life while she fights. She makes her opponent feel inferior, just a blip on the radar.

I sigh, and continue the massage. Her hands are soft and delicate, odd that such lovely hands could kill. Again I look over her, examining the damage. Why is she sitting here? She should be in bed slipping coup and watching cartoons in flannel pajamas. With that my mind is made up.

"You should leave." My statement is crisp and I leave her hand on the table, moving mine to the safety of the lap.

I feel her stiffen but it is apparent her shoulder is better.

"Look, you are tired, hurt and should be in a hospital bed. You have asked me to tell you my story and I plan on doing so, but not on a day you look like you are dieing. So once again, go home!"

I instantly hate myself for letting her see I care, but it is too late for me to take it back, because she is rising to leave me.

Before she can disappear into her world I speak, "For another day, then?"

"Another day." That is all she says as she leaves me. The now familiar guard leads me to my plexi-glass cage and I am alone again. The only thing that remains of her brief visit are my warmed hands.

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The Beginning: Part Three

When she summons me again it is two days later and I am now prepared to speak. I find her in the aluminum chair and she looks much better, almost whole again. I breathe in, and then the words come.

"I was born on October 18th 1978, so that makes me twenty-seven years old. My mothers name was Anna Julia Sark, or at least that was her alias; but I will get to that later. My father was Andrian Alexander Lazeray, who you probably know better than I."

She raises her head and stares at me, "I don't remember him. I don't remember anything from those years." She says this all so-matter-of-factly.

I nod, "I was born in Galway, Ireland." I sigh and rest my head on my hands, "but this tells you nothing you can't find out on your own. You asked me for the story, or reason I became who I am today. So I will take you to the day that changed my life forever."

And I embark on my tale and as I speak my mind takes the journey, back into the past.

A/N: Big Question: Why does Sydney want to know?

Anyway, so do you guys like it? If you liked it, please review! Thanks!