Diclaimer: Alias belongs to
J.J.Abrams, Disney and whoever else, but not me. Ender's Game and Ender's
Shadow also do not belong to me. Wish they did.
Rating: Pg-13 For a little bit of violence, but not much. If you watch Alias,
there definitely should not be a problem
Summery: A snow Globe causes Sark to reflect on his past and himself.
Timeline: Up to where we are in season 3, or thereabouts
A/N: I want to say thanks to my beta, Katie!
This is my first entry for a fan-fic challenge! It's for the December challenge
@ Sd-1.com (I think I like challenges, forces me to actually finish things!).
The required elements were:
~Jack in a Santa suit
~Jack singing a Christmas Carol
~A Snowball fight
~A snow globe with sentimental value to a character (explain why)
~Use of the word "gingerbread"
~A poinsettia plant
PART 1
"Classic," Sark muttered, his lips edging their way into a smirk. "Oh, this is simply classic."
He was not surprised to see Jack Bristow; it seemed to him that at least one of the Bristows, often both, turned up at any operation of his that was of the least significance, and this one was important, very much so. In fact, Sark would have felt that the world was off balance if he didn't find a Bristow in the throng of post Thanksgiving shoppers who's every move he was watching.
No, it was not the presence of the elder Bristow that invoked Sark's comment. It was the fact that he was wearing a Santa suit. There, under mistletoe and a sign proclaiming "Meet Santa," sat a man whom Sark knew had few morals he wouldn't stretch, who would torture and kill if circumstances demanded, letting children climb onto his red velvet clad lap and demand toys for Christmas. Sark thoroughly enjoyed the sight, and told himself that if he ever met the person responsible for Jack's getup, he would have to thank him or her heartily.
After a few more seconds of taking in the image, Sark turned away from the screen displaying Jack, and looked at the other monitors, each showing the mall from a different security camera. He was sure Jack was not alone, and he had a keen suspicion that his partner would be Sydney. Only a little searching proved his hunch right, there she was, standing beside an obtrusively decorated pine tree, clutching a poinsettia to her chest as she watched over the boisterous children waiting in line to meet the one and only Santa Clause. The perfect picture of a hassled mother waiting for her youngster to get done, but Sark knew better. She was not looking out for her adorable little boy, she was waiting for Chuck Royer to arrive, recently acquired blueprints in hand, or more accurately in one pocket or another, undoubtedly Marshall had whipped up some device that would tell Sydney exactly which pocket.
It was a good plan the Bristows had; a better plan, Sark resentfully admitted to himself, than his own. It was a well known fact that Royer brought his five year old daughter on all the operations he could, a form of protection, who would shoot when they might hit a child? It was a surprisingly successful idea, though one of high risk for the girl. Logically Royer would stop after his transaction, and let the girl have her go with Santa—he was a loving father, just one that loved his own life more than his daughter's. So, obviously, Royer would wait in line, and Sydney would go up and flirt while she deftly pulled the blueprints out of his pocket. Jack was there for backup.
A damned good plan, and one that made life considerably easier for Sark. He knew how to play Sydney Bristow. He left the security office, delicately stepping over the puddle of blood surrounding a dead security guard.
A minute later he was standing in a shaded corner, face lowered and head covered by a hood, Sark hoped he looked enough like the typical dejected teenager not to draw attention. He was close enough to "Santa" to see and hear what was happing, he was waiting for Royer to show and Sydney to make her move, so that he could make his. He fingered the gun in his pocket impatiently.
"Santa," one child said very loudly. Sark winced, the voice was winy, and he hated the sound of a whiny child. "Santa, will you sing me a Christmas song?" Sark looked up, eyeing Jack.
"Why yes, of course, what song?" Jack said it is a jolly tone, but Sark picked up on the annoyance and anger that inevitably made their way in: Jack had not signed up for this.
"Auhhhhhhhh…mmmmmmm…I think…auhhhhhhh…Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer!"
"Well, ok then." And Jack broke into song:
"Rudolf the red nosed reindeer
Had a very shiny nose
And if you ever saw him
You might even say it glows ("like a light bulb" added a few children.)
"All of the other reindeer…
Sark grinned. Jack had a good voice, but that didn't change the fact that it was Jack, singing "Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer." Sark was amused, and a swift glance at Sydney showed that she was too.
"…you'll go down in—"
CRASH.
"Sorry, I'm so sorry."
"Oh, that's fine, here, let me help you."
Sark looked up and cursed. He'd let his mind wander and had almost missed his shot: Sydney and Royer were now bent over the poinsettia, Sydney had dropped it. Sark watched as she quickly slipped her hand into Royer's pocket and then into her own: she had the blueprints. Sark never understood why people always insisted on keeping important things in outside pockets. Of course, he told himself, he was in no position to chastise anyone, having missed Royer's entry completely.
Soon Sydney was smiling herself away from the line, and it was time for Sark to go to work. He strode confidently and quickly towards the group of children and grabbed a girl violently, shoving a gun to her head.
"Sydney!" He yelled, pointlessly, she had already turned, having heard the screams that were erupting around them. Her eyes widened fearfully.
"Sark, you wou—"
"Sure as hell would," he snapped. "Give me the blueprints." Royer's hand went angrily to his pocket, but Jack already had a gun pointed at him. That was good for Sark, Jack would be kept busy long enough for Sark to secure his position. Meanwhile Sydney was helplessly taking in her situation. Sark smiled, he knew he had won: threaten her life, and Sydney wouldn't budge, threaten anyone else and you could work her like clay. She would take risks if the gun was pointed at her, but never if it was pointed at an innocent bystander, especially not if that bystander were a child. She walked towards him, defeated, and handed Sark a disk. Royer yelped in furious astonishment.
"There. It's what I got from him," she said, managing to retain most of her dignity as she said it. She was beaten, but not broken. That was what Sark liked about Sydney, she couldn't be brought down easily. She was certainly a worthy opponent, she just had a rather obvious and convenient Achilles heal.
"Thank you," Sark said, pocketing the disk, an inside pocket.
"Now let her go," Sydney said, motioning towards the girl in Sark's arms, who was sobbing and shaking hysterically.
"Of course, but first…" Sark's free hand delved into a side pocket and came out with a small bomb, which was quickly thrown into the crowed children.
"I have one detonator, and people are watching you with the other. I have half an hour, you, Jack or any form of police try to follow me before then and it'll be set off."
"You couldn't!" Sydney exclaimed in shock, and Sark wondered if she really meant it.
"I could, and I will." Sydney's eyes widened more, but she managed to sarcastically choke out:
"It's a very original plan." Obviously she meant it as an insult, but Sark wasn't bothered.
"It works well. I'm guaranteed you won't move." He gave her a quick smile and strode off, breathing heavily. It was guaranteed to work, but that was only because Sydney didn't know that Sark had no one watching with a detonator.
PART 2
The airport was small, the type that had only a few stores cramped together in a commons. Sark hated airports, and he hated passenger planes, but a private jet would be conspicuous coming out of such a small town. Too easy to track. So he wandered desolately through the airport, waiting impatiently for his flight to board. That was another thing he hated, waiting for planes.
One of the stores was selling books, and as he always found planes too cramped to work in, Sark walked in, scanning the shelves. The selection was poor, and there was hardly anything of quality, only the latest romantic blockbusters. Finally he chose a copy of Ender's Shadow, he remembered reading Ender's Game a long time ago, and he figured if he remembered the book, it must have amused him well enough, since he normally forgot books that he read for pleasure. After all, he normally only read for pleasure on passenger planes, and he tried to block out his experiences on those.
As he meandered towards the counter he noticed a stack of snow globes. At first his eyes slide over them, but then they snapped back, shocked. He trembled, considered running out of the store, then checked his surprise and decided to buy one.
Twenty minutes later Sark had finally pushed his way to his seat, and was sitting, legs forced into what he considered a ridiculously uncomfortable position.
"There must be a better way to organize these things." He muttered to himself as he buckled his seatbelt. Moments latter he had to unbuckle it and stand up as an old lady pushed her way past him into the middle seat, the window seat being occupied by a slightly overweight man who was already snoring. I hate planes. Oh, I hate planes, Sark thought, sitting again. He delved into his bag in search of his book, but his hand ensnared the snow globe instead. Resisting the urge to drop it, Sark lifted it to his lap, determinedly not looking at it.
I don't know what I was thinking when I bought it. Absolutely crazy. It's just a coincidence. Probably not even that. I'm probably just making it up. Had a hard day. Stress. Yes, stress, that'll be it. It's just a castle, not…not there.
Slightly pacified, he lowered his eyes, and started. The old lady next to him muttered "oh dear!" Sark ignored her, didn't even hear her.
He hadn't been making it up. Inside the globe rested a medieval style castle with an impressive tower and an extravagant courtyard that promised continuation beyond the confines of the plastic bubble surrounding the scene. A striking tableau, and one exceptionally familiar to Sark.
"That's pretty," the old lady croaked, peering into the globe.
"I know," Sark whispered. "I grew up there." Wistfully, he tilted the globe, watching white flutter down upon it, covering the ground, just as he had seen true snow envelop the real grounds, so many years ago…
The first time Sark saw it snow at St. Bernard's School, it was through the frosted window of his Religion classroom. He was eight and thrilled, it had been several years since he had seen those cold pale flakes, they were one of the few things he remembered from before the school. Eagerly he watched them fall, sticking perfectly to the ground. There promised to be penalty to play in.
That the class proceeded without him did not bother him. Before he had noticed the snow he had been immersed in covering a page with crosshatching: paying attention in Religion was not his forte. He found the whole idea ludicrous: God, Jesus, all of it. He couldn't remember having ever practiced any form of religion before the school, and he saw no good or even plausible reason to start now. So he observed the snow without concern until he heard his name being called.
"Mr. Sark." Sark turned belligerently away from the window. Father Charles faced him. Sark hated the man. Or, he hated what he believed, which Sark thought to be close enough to the same thing. Really the Father seemed nice enough. Overweight, as such a figure is bound to be, the Father's pudgy face would shine as he taught the bible, his badly fit robes swaying to and frow as he practically pranced around the room in excitement, trailing the warm scent of gingerbread behind him. His enthusiasm disturbed Sark. Maybe if he lent such energy to a subject worth teaching…
"Mr. Sark," Father Charles repeated again. Sark did not reply, choosing instead to glare back, lips pursed, forcing the teacher to make another move. It was a tactic the teachers could never handle well, and consequently one of his favorites.
"Mr.Sark! Mr…oh, alright, would you answer the question?"
"I've forgotten what it was," Sark replied sarcastically. No need to say I wasn't paying attention, he thought smugly. Father Charles seemed to know what was going on, but rather than fight he asked again.
"Lent, Mr. Sark. What is Lent?" Sark sighed, replied, voice monotone and bored.
"The forty days leading up to Easter in which we starve ourselves or deprive ourselves for no good reason. Begins on ash Wednesday." The Father's nostrils flared slightly.
"And Easter?" What a ridiculously easy question. Are you playing with me? Sark thought. If so, he'd play back.
"Jesus was resurrected on Easter. Except that that is positively idiotic and one hundred percent impossible, because people don't just rise from the grave, and after all, that's all Jesus was, a person, a human. A do-gooder yes, but no Son of God because there is not God. A slightly touched do-gooder. Or maybe just a manipulative one." He finished coldly.
The children around him giggled cautiously. The enjoyed watching Sark's sparring matches with the teachers, but were wary of showing too much support, least they be punished with him, and undoubtedly he'd be punished. Indeed, it took only a few seconds for Father Charles to collect himself and demand Sark stay after class.
So an hour later Sark hung behind.
"Tough luck," a boy—a friend--named Sam Thompson said as he walked by on his way out. "Did you see? It's snowing!"
"Yeah, yeah," Sark replied irritably. "I saw."
"Well, he'll let you out. Eventually," Sam said consolingly. Sark rolled his eyes and gestured the other boy out the door.
"The faster you leave, the faster I leave."
The class cleared quickly, snow a better incentive than the promise of another day lolling in the dorms. The Father was sitting calmly behind his desk, a position he rarely took in his bouncing fervor of teaching. Sark was taken aback to see his face, though serious, was not angry.
"Sit down, Mr. Sark." Sark did so, trying to read his tone. Not angry…concerned. Concerned was the closest word Sark could come up with, though it didn't seem quite right.
"Father," he began, about to suck up a little, something he rarely did, but he wanted a chance to see the snow.
"Mr. Sark, I'm not going to punish you." Sark blinked, words failing at his lips. "I'm just going to…ask a favor of you."
"A favor, Father?" Sark asked weakly, feeling as if he had been unfairly wrong footed.
"Yes, Mr. Sark a favor. Really, we should have had this conversation a long time ago, but I was afraid it might…inflate your already over inflated ego," Father Charles said, not unkindly. With…no, not affection, Sark told himself, that made no sense. "The thing is, Mr. Sark, you are an amazingly intelligent boy, and equally articulate, astonishing for your age. It makes you something of…a role model for the other children, you've probably noticed." Sark nodded. Of course I have. I'm not stupid, you said so yourself. "Yes…well. I, I've quite given up on trying to convert you, you should know. I gave up by the third lesson I taught you. I rather regret, of course, loosing you, but that's your choice and I can only hope in the future…" he trailed off for a few seconds. "Anyway, seeing as you're a role model, the other children are obviously taking off of you. So I would appreciate it if…no not if you pretended to believe, Mr. Sark!" He said, accurately reading Sark's expression. "Faked belief is far worse than none at all. No, I would just appreciate it if you would refrain from ripping my religion to shreds in the middle of class." Sark didn't respond for a few seconds. This man was almost treating him as…as a threat.
"I'll refrain from "ripping your religion to shreds" if you refrain from asking me questions about it. After all, I only say what I feel." The Father smiled.
"Deal, Mr. Sark?" He asked, putting out his hand.
"Deal," Sark replied, taking it.
Sark fairly skipped down the stairs. Not only had he escaped punishment, but a teacher had seen him as what he had always believed himself: an equal. Deal. He thought happily. Deal. He's making deals with me, and I'm only eight!
Out the front door now, and into the snow, no time to waste finding a coat. Cold never bothered Sark much anyway. The crisp air was refreshing, grabbing Sark's elated sprits and intensifying them, as if the whole grounds were filling with his happiness. He could remember ever feeling this—THUMP! A snowball hit him squarely in the side of the head.
Sam and another friend, Ned, came scuttling up to him, laughing.
"That was quick!" Sam said. "What, did you get detention?" Sark didn't reply, he wasn't ready to share his secret with his friends yet. I'm an equal! Instead he scooped up a handful of snow, ignoring the chills it sent up his spine and threw it joyfully at another boy, who turned wildly, looking for the culprit. Soon a full blown snowball fight had erupted around them.
"You look happy about something," Ned commented to Sark as he tossed a snowball at a girl named Alicia, who screamed and ran. "Wimp," he said. Sark smiled, everyone know Ned loved Alicia.
"He got an easy punishment." Sam said. "That's why he's happy." Sark didn't correct him.
A few more minutes of flying snow and then Sam was stuffing a very heavy snowball into Sark's hand.
"It's Finnegan, throw this at him!" Sark narrowed is eyes. Patrick Finnegan was the person he hated most in the school, but as he weighed the snowball—obviously containing a stone—in his hand, he felt that at the moment he couldn't bare to throw it at anyone, not even Finnegan. A teacher wouldn't do that.
"Naw, I think I'll pass," he said, handing the snowball back.
"You'll—what are you talking about. You couldn't! I mean, this is perfect, he could never prove it was you—"
"I'm not going to do it." Sark said with a shrug and grin, feeling older than his friends.
A voice brought Sark out of his daze.
"Anything to drink, sir?" A face was smiling down at him.
"No, no thank you," Sark replied, voice hoarse. He found his vision blurred and blinked back what he told himself were not tears.
Sam's voice, so long forgotten, echoed in his ears. You couldn't! That's what Sydney had said to him today. You couldn't kill all those children. She had sounded like she meant it. Like she couldn't believe that he would do it. They were probably eight. Sark thought. Seven and eight, like I was. Like Sam was. And Ned. And Finnegan. Than a thought flickered through his mind unbidden, and unwanted. Could I? Could I kill them? His eyes fell again on the snow globe. Then I chose not to hurt my enemy. Now, would I choose to kill the innocent? And for the first time his mind responded NO. I couldn't. Revolted, he tossed the snow globe away from him, causing the old woman to exclaim. It rolled dejectedly to a stop in the middle of the isle, where it taunted him.
I'm not sentimental. I could. I could kill them if I wanted too. He told it.
I could. I COULD!
IcouldIclouldIclouldIclouldIclouldIclouldIclould.
The End