OTitle: Conversation with God
Author: CG
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone, is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.
Summary: Set one year after Almost Thirty Years. Drugs are bad. Will is at his lowest, but has his moment of clarity while talking to Sark.
Author's Notes: This was originally done for Alias Improv #1. Words to include were – peace, frost, marble, hunter.
Spoilers: No spoilers that I know of.
Distribution: Sarkgasm, Dark Enigma, and Cover Me. Everyone else please ask.

The cracks in the ceiling, cracks that he had been using as his sole source of entertainment for the past few weeks, started to shift again into a different shape. Lying on his back at this moment reminded him of his youth. Days of innocence spent looking up at the light blue sky, as clouds formed various, constantly changing shapes.

Change, he could relate to that, so much had changed since those days.

Family life had never been the best, but he seemed to get through somehow. Friends were always there to help when it came to family, but just like his clouds, things changed.

The turning point in his life he knew all too well. Daily, he was reminded of the lengths he had to go to, losing his sobriety, good name and the only job he felt he was right for, just to keep from death. Now he resided, not sure if one would call it living, in this hole in the ground. A shack, for lack of a better word, weathered and covered in filth.

As he felt the onset of nausea, he realized it was time again. Reaching for a bedpan, now used for storage, he found the last of his possessions. Nearly all of his belongings were gone, either sold or stolen. He was left only with the sweat stained mattress his body had conformed to, and one barely standing wood chair that sat unoccupied in the corner.

Before the sickness set in, he loaded his spoon with the next to the last dose of the frosted brown powder, and fumbled to light his fire source. The welcoming smell of liquefaction produced an overabundant amount of saliva, forewarning his endorphins of the upcoming pleasure.

With a steady hand, this being the only time he found himself solid, he loaded the syringe. As he wrapped his arm with the yellow rubber hose he was now able to tie swiftly, sadness resurfaced. This was what he'd been reduced to. His current state partially stemming from the single hit administered by Jack Bristow one-year prior.

Just like always, the rush he felt as he injected the liquid in his vein, took away all that pain and turmoil. Just like always, he faced the fact it wouldn't disappear for long.

As he closed his eyes, he felt the beauty of the moment. It was always beautiful, the first ten seconds was the ecstasy that he lived for. When the moment that he craved was finished, he allowed the heaviness to take over his body as he melted into the dingy mattress, welcoming the proverbial cotton wool blanket that had wrapped around him.

No thoughts occurred at first, the glow of comfort and peace was all that mattered. Soon, he knew in the back of his mind, was when the fun began. The latest batch that he had purchased, called P-funk by Orlando his dealer, had been combined with PCP, creating visions that ranged from rainbow colored hologram butterflies, to lawn gnomes playing hopscotch. He didn't mind them, it was like having contact with the outside world he simultaneously craved and feared.

With his body now running slow, completely calm, he's struck by immediate fear at the sound of a familiar voice, "So this is what you've been reduced to Will Tippin," recognizable, yet his accent was less prevalent than he recalled. "A stick figure, with a dirt caked body and long frizzy hair."

Allowing just a peek, Will opened one eye, and found Mr. Sark sitting in the only other piece of furniture in his room, carrying a smile more intimidating than he remembered. Due to lockjaw all but wiring his mouth shut, he replied between clenched teeth, "How did you find me?"

Unable to move, Will watched as Sark eyed him, taking his sweet time to reply, "Like any good hunter finds his prey, through the smell of fear, or in your case, the scent of stale urine, feces and everything else bodily that produces a stench."

Knowing all too well he was right, having no water to bathe in or any energy to move from his bed the past few weeks, normal routines such as showering were foreign to him, Will became slightly embarrassed. The few times he couldn't make it to the bathroom and ended up releasing his bowels in bed, still lingered about the room. Slowly, he found the energy to open both eyes and then situated himself against the wall.

"What do you want to do to me now," he accused. "No need for truth serum," he continued, "I'll tell you anything you want to know if it means you leaving."

Sark smiled, amused by Will's hopelessness, "Wouldn't you like to know."

Will wiped the beads of sweat from his face with his bony hands, feeling his sunken eyes and the gauntness he'd been too scared to view in a mirror. Still weak from the drugs, his voice was just above a whisper, "What are we fucking thirteen now? I'm not up to playing games, I have no contact with your world anymore."

They sat in silence as Will was momentarily saddened with that thought of losing his friends, he wasn't even surprised when Sark replied, "You knew she wouldn't have wanted a second rate reporter of your sort. Action and adventure were the keys to keeping someone like her, not sitting about writing stories on who makes the best Rum Raisin Pudding," Sark's words cut him. "I even had more of a chance with her than you."

"Don't flatter yourself, Sydney wouldn't get mixed up with someone who had a hand in torturing one of her friends," Will spat back, with a hint of jealousy.

Sark's eyes widen, surprised at his excitement, "But she'd want a sorry sap like you, one that couldn't get hard, even with the aid of a vacuum," Sark laughed. "Remember, Michael Vaughn is the one who is pleasing her now, as you sit here trying to whack off to memories." Will found his anger level rising, it had been weeks since he'd felt any raw emotion.

Sark continued to taunt him, "Come on Will, you haven't forgotten already how it went down."

Just six months prior, Will decided to take the plunge and told Sydney how he felt for her. With hope, he poured himself out, words of love and adoration. After his admission, all that was returned was the bullshit line of "friends forever", and the immediate crushing blow to his heart. That same night as he lurked the streets of LA, detached and in large amounts of pain, was when he met Orlando. The person who reintroduced him to the rush of the painkiller he secretly loved, even the first time he had tried it.

As if he was reading his mind, Sark continued his thought, "And now you're here."

Looking around at the chipped paint and partially caved in ceiling, Will wrapped his arms around his knees in the sit up version of the fetal position. With his head buried, Will slightly swayed. "Leave me alone, just leave me alone."

Sark sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You are alone Will."

With that said, Will came to the realization he had been alone, ever since he made the decision to drop out of site. No one had come looking for him. He hadn't even talked to Sydney or Francie in almost two months. Hell they probably didn't even notice he was no longer around.

Feelings of self-loathing and pity consumed him and he began crying, his rocking motion increasing in speed. "Why are you doing this to me?" Will cried. "Wasn't it enough to have me physically tortured for hours," He lifted his fingers and repeatedly jabbed them into his temple, trying to make it all go away. "You're crazy, no one can torture someone to that extent and still be sane."

"I'm crazy," Sark scoffed as he sat back again in the chair, "Tsk, tsk Tippen. Looks to me like someone has lost his marble."

With his eyes closed, Will had the vision of a single green marble, rolling through never-ending darkness. The clarity of the marble, the specks of orange, red and blue found all through it, plus the serenity concentrating on something so simple as it was spinning through blackness brought, calmed him enough to stop the rocking. "What do you want," he asked, with more of a demanding tone.

"The real question Will, is what do you want?" Sark questioned. "You sit here day after day injecting yourself with that vile liquid, looking as unkempt as one possibly can. You have hallucinations of colored bugs fluttering about and pointy hat creatures playing childish games, considering them your mates. In fear, you stay locked up in this drab, pathetic excuse for living quarters, only opening the door for your dealer to bring the smack."

Hanging his head in shame at the truths he was now digesting, Will could only wonder the same, "I don't know what I want." He was so engrossed with the thought of where he wanted his life to turn, that he didn't hear the creek of his front door opening. "I wouldn't know where to begin."

With Will listening intently, Sark continued his unexpected reasoning, "Try the beginning," Sark explained. "Why am I here."

Will stared at the man who constantly haunted his dreams. Memories flooded back, of the bruising and swelling, that physically disappeared in a matter of weeks, yet stayed with him emotionally to this day. The same man seemed to be helping him, trying to get him out of this dreadful lack of life he had spiraled down to. Still oblivious to the people that had entered through the front door, his first rational thought escaped, "You represent my pain and fear, plus the ability I possess to face and overcome it all."

Wearing a cotton facemask and plastic gloves, Sydney entered the shack, accompanied by her father. To her dismay, she found what appeared to be a form of Will, huddled in the corner. A tear slid down her cheek as she took in the vision of her friend, nothing close to the man he had once been. She looked in the direction where he was conversing, finding an empty chair and wondered aloud, "Who are you talking to?"

Sark smiled at Will's intelligence, "Maybe not so second rate after all. Now who, would you say, is responsible for divine intervention?"

Will didn't feel the need to hesitate. Months of treatment gave him the answer, "God."

Sydney froze at his answer. He still appeared to be in a delusional state, "Dad, he thinks he's speaking with God." She knelt down and placed her hand on his shoulder. "Will, it's Sydney. Are you okay?"

Will watched as Sark stood and proceeded to walk out the door, "You're not alone, Will." He commented as he left.

Will turned the corners of his mouth up and allowed a smile to form, "I'm not alone."