The "Sandcastle Effect" was identified by researchers at the University of Notre Dame, Indiana and first published on June 18, 1997. It explained why sandcastles do not collapse after the sand in them has almost totally dried out.
-courtesy of UND
The Sandcastle Effect
A different breed of madness.
Delirium ignites beneath his brow, animalistic determination pulsating through his veins. Red constricts his chest, leaks from the wound at his temple, glides along the angular dips and rises of his face. His cream colored skin is almost translucent, spoiled by the occasional scar, and his body has become lean and toned from years of penitentiary malnourishment. Blue eyes, their magnetism dulled, flicker somewhere between desperation and persistence. She doesn't recognize him with his unruly hair and day old stubble, stumbling about like the shell of the virtuoso he once was.
Small beads of liquid glide down the toes of his black shoes like ricocheted rain against the kitchen window. She can see them because her head is heavy, anchored to the ground, cheek adhered to the snow with a mixture of blood and saline. A throbbing sensation reverberates from the side that he's viciously struck with the pole. Strands of brown hair fasten to her hands as she brushes them out of her mouth, resilient body too sore to retaliate.
xXx
They collided in the village square, with weapons at first. A switchblade in her hand, a pistol in his. The crowd quickly dispersed, wide eyed children herded into stores, fearful mothers hidden behind carts, and the local officials scattered about the cobblestone roads with temporary ailments. A swift kick as he'd turned towards the sound of a child's crying; the pistol was in her possession. He was nonchalant, almost carefree without the gun in his hand, and walked in circles about her.
He was after her, this much she knew. The target was long gone, dead and dissolving at the bottom of a nearby lake. If he was attacking her in public out of retribution, then he wasn't the man she'd remembered him to be.
And yet he'd followed her with such an intensity—only to run circles about her, dodging and defending himself rather than responding to her attacks. She'd decided that she had no time to waste curing whatever negative feelings he hadn't resolved. She brought back her hand, felt the butt of the pistol connect with his face, and fled as he pulled himself out of the collapsed vegetable stand.
A car chase followed, for almost an hour, though she wouldn't have called it a chase had he not occasionally rammed into her bumper. It was a pathetic display of his talents, and only when she had unexpectedly slammed on the brakes did the car accident occur. As she'd crawled out of the wreckage, he'd pulled her into the snow by the roots of her hair. She hadn't wanted to, but a slip of her hand and the blade swiped across his side. Deep. She could tell by the way he'd stopped for a moment, then gasped. And now she was fighting him, rather, fighting the strange desperation in his eyes.
xXx
A second too slow to lift herself with quaking arms. He pulls back his foot, heatedly kicks her stomach. The ground greets her warmly as she lands on her back. A scream encouraged by the spasms of pain rocketing through her body breaks the silence. The pole slips from his hands and falls with a racket as loud as thunder on a cloudless night.
"Do you know what they say about you, Sydney?" he asks in a low whisper, words slipped out between breaths.
She sees him crouch down beside her, close enough to touch, to hear his heavy breathing, to see the ribbons of steam emitting from his lips. Where the sweater creases as he bends is a scarlet patch, large, stretching across from the abdomen to the back like a shadow. His hand briefly touches it, then sweeps out in front of him in a gesture of sincerity. A choreographed, fluid motion.
A slight hiss is released between clenched teeth, then a sharp intake of air. He admires her persistence, but the strange symphony of gasps and rhetorical questions is boring him. He reconsiders his act of kindness, pulls his hand backwards to his injured side. A stifled groan as he tests the wound.
"I'm going to kill you," she replies.
He nods and taps his nose with his index finger. She focuses on the slight bend along the bridge; a second term of incarceration's worth of haggling for information. Images of Vaughn and Sark, testosterone growing to dangerous levels beneath the swaying light of a dim bulb. What else could she have expected from him?
Death is a horrible alternative, she has decided, for she's made plans to experience some semblance of an average suburban existence. A house with a picket fence and a porch swing, something eerily nostalgic yet completely modern. She thinks about it constantly, lets the idea woo her to sleep at nights in her empty apartment.
"You're a free agent now," he says with his eyes somewhat narrowed. Jealousy, perhaps? The one job he could never fully accomplish is the one that pays her bills.
She slowly stands, moving like a marionette with the constant stumbling and the shaking, finger tips so numb that she can't feel them bleeding.
"Let me guess. CIA?" she huskily inquires.
She deserted the CIA months ago upon her realization that Sloane was the undeniable powerhouse of APO. His malevolence followed her to her apartment, where it basked in Nadia's glow and boasted of its power as it drank her wine from her glass. Greeted her at the door before dinner, spoke of false regrets and fabricated histories. The wry grin and beady stare followed her constantly. It lagged behind her even on the field. His hoarse voice, emphasized by the spasmodic bursts of static, forever giving orders. She didn't like that thought; Sloane, in her head. The CIA agreed that suspension was the only punishment worthy of her refusal to follow his orders. She agreed that suspension was the final straw.
"I believe we've reached a junction, Sydney," he says, interrupting her thoughts, "for you see, once you die, I regain my freedom."
So it's come to this. Freedom for incarceration. She clucks her tongue, ashamed of the king, ashamed of the pawn. The fervor wanes as he sees her disappointment. She tilts her head downwards, refuses to make eye contact with this failure of a man. What ever happened to honor?
"I have no other choice," he says, adrenaline slowing, body aching, but no, it isn't regret she senses in his tone.
Relief floods through her though; his energy is waning, complying to the protests of his battered limbs, stopping in his unorganized pursuit. She the mouse, he the cat, when less than a year ago it would have been different. The farmhouse behind them is dilapidated, deteriorating paint, unsteady floor boards, everything normally associated with decay; it is the only form of shelter for miles, aside from the burning car wreckage down the road. She gestures towards the house with her gaze flickering between the gash at his side and the look of defeat in his eyes.
"How are they monitoring you?" she asks.
A look of surprise in response to the softness of her voice. The animalistic tendencies are ripening again, encouraged by her sudden vulnerability, her waning temper, her pity.
"Not too well, wouldn't you agree?"
She looks hesitant, lips parted, words caught between a breath and silence. If there exists honor among thieves; she turns her back towards him and begins her trek to the house.
A silence, and then he follows her, slowly and unthreateningly. There's no further use in fighting Sydney; she's already made her decision, seen enough of his act to decline the role he's planned for her. He calmly accepts this, but his conscience cultivates the possibility that she just might decide otherwise.
Once she hears his steady footsteps making their way through the snow, she lets her shoulders drop, loosening her muscles. Curiosity gnaws away at her head; why did the devil's advocate want redemption for his sins? The CIA certainly couldn't supply it.
"If you're looking for salvation, do you think the CIA will provide it? The CIA that's too blind to even see how corrupt their own departments have become?" she queries in a monotonous tone.
He stares at her back, gouges holes into her flesh. He's quite aware of the CIA's disreputability and doesn't need yet another person claiming they've discovered the fine line between right and wrong. Who is she to preach on immorality when she herself is carrying out death sentences for strangers?
"I guarantee you that I gain no more pleasure from this than you do. Although, you could greatly simplify matters if you sacrificed yourself for the good of America. The America you seem to have dedicated such a large portion of your life to."
A breadth of silence falls between them. He can see the shame pulling down her shoulders; forfeiting her youth for espionage, regrettably missing out on the chance to live normally, all the things that had finally propelled her to leave the CIA. Perhaps it was a thoughtless and snide remark, but as it is in Sark's nature to act as such, it is the closest to normal that she will ever get. He considers offering her some form of kindness, a comment, a gesture, even a look. After all, she intrigues him, satisfies his proclivities. But the task still remains at hand, one that he has devised on his own. A duty, rather, to himself and to his unfathomable nature. Though the CIA will be highly displeased, it little effects him how or what they think.
"Did I hurt you so badly that you'll find closure with my death?" she asks as she climbs up the steps to the front door. Some of the floorboards are loose, but she deftly maneuvers around them. He makes his way onto the porch behind her, holding to the railing as he tightens his hold on his wound.
Yes, he wants to say, but you can fix it. Instead, he pushes himself away from the paling and walks up behind her, daring her to flinch, to express some sort of weakness that he could use as leverage. But she remains steadfast, hand resting on the doorknob, waiting for a reply. She only asks because she already knows the answer.
"Is that why you won't run? Because they provide you with the opportunity to legally kill me?" she turns her head slightly to the side, so he can see her profile. Knitted brow, frustration, vehemence, sadness even. Compassion is a trait ill-suited for her. He connects her with sternness, wit, bitter sarcasm, but never compassion.
The desire goes far deeper than a simple feeling of animosity. The one person that has evaded him for years is standing close enough to touch, and yet he keeps his hands at his sides with such self restraint that sweat forms on his brow. She turns away to face the door again, awkwardness compelling her. There is a sudden convivial heat radiating from behind, brushing against her neck, almost like a spring breeze. But they are in Scandinavia with snow clouds looming above. She turns the knob without hesitance. His silence is enough for her.
He angrily pushes the door shut just as she opens it, the slam resonating throughout the house and onto the porch. She pulls her hand away, stung by the brashness, by his unwillingness to be passive and agreeable.
"I could kill you. Right here, and right now, on the porch of this abandoned farmhouse in the middle of Scandinavia, but that would be a horrible way to die, wouldn't it, Sydney?" he coolly explains, "you have plans for the future, a house in a normal suburban neighborhood, a husband who has never had the opportunity to fire a gun, children, innocent, truly innocent. You seem to know what propels me, what makes me attack you with such recklessness, but tell me, do you know why you can't bring yourself to kill me?"
She is stunned into silence, but the underlying meaning of his rant is numbing. A plea for his own execution. Men like Sark did not ask to die. They did everything in their power to live. She realizes that snow has begun to fall, thick and heavy, coating the sky with a cream white. Instead of going inside, she watches Sark as he rests his forehead against the wall, breaths leaving his lips like water, without stopping.
"The CIA could care less what happens to me," he says, pushing himself away from the house. He turns out to face the falling snow, one hand forever attached to the gash at his side. Without clients, without sources and without companions, a barely acceptable existence.
"I know," Sydney says after a moment's hesitation.
He turns to look at her, brow furrowed. Weeks of planning, how to tempt her, to frustrate her to the point of physical retaliation, wasted; she isn't the same Sydney, alternatively, he isn't the same Sark. He gauges the distance between the porch steps to the horizon speckled with lilac mountain peaks. Approximately several hundred miles. A walk he is willing to make to rid himself of this humiliation.
"So this is about honor, after all."
He nods, gestures towards the front door. She obligingly opens it, the hinges offering noisy resistance, and steps onto the dust-ridden floorboards that creak with the smallest application of pressure. The hallway stretches to the back of the house, touches the screen door that slams against the frame with each gust of wind. A constant drumming that matches the pounding of the blood through her head. She casts a weary glance over her shoulder. He mistakenly returns it, then limps past the door.
The walk to the kitchen is painfully slow. His efforts to conceal his limp are useless; she can hear the loud creak of protest from the boards as they absorb his weight, then the slow squeal of relief as he pulls his weaker leg forward. Presently, there is no purpose in killing him. No personal satisfaction would be gained, no material reward worthy of the time and effort. Little conflict would arise from her decision to tend to the gash at his side. Yet, the slam of the screen door, the ungainly rhythm of his stride, are all reminders of the Scandinavian weather and their recent scuffle.
He walks to the sink while she takes the steps two at a time, her body whining with tenderness. There should be tension in the air, throbbing, pulsating, driving them both to resort to violence, and yet the atmosphere is calm, as though he has already accepted this unplanned turn of events. There are two rooms upstairs, excluding the bathroom without running water, one with an iron spring cot and the other filled with empty cardboard boxes. She finds several moth eaten blankets among the boxes, throws them over her shoulder, sees the snow falling faster outside. If it is indeed Sark's intent to die this evening, the night will be long and arduous.
She pads down the stairs slowly, being careful to walk near the banister rather than in the weakened center, and sees him washing his wound with the gentleness of a child. His body is lean, toned, an acutely defined abdomen; overall, a remarkably maintained physique. Yet what impresses her most is the neatly folded sweatshirt, covered with blood but treated as though it were cashmere, beside him on the counter. After two years in a disreputable detention center, his habits are still the same. Perhaps there is hope for him yet.
He glances up at her briefly as she steps down into the kitchen, steps to the side to reveal the small fire he has created in the hearth. Snow is melting in the old pot that hangs over the flames, she realizes that much.
"Yes, it's rather primitive," he says as he tears a strip from one of the blankets, gaze constantly averted. "Do you mind?"
She lets him tend to his wound, then motions towards the fire.
"You made that fire? On your own?" she asks.
He finishes wrapping his injury, but refrains from putting the sweater back on. The look he gives her is brief, but holds a spark of the natural heated tendencies he once displayed. Relief warms her as she lays out a blanket by the fireside.
"I am no Maxwell Smart, but I am quite capable of lighting a fire," he replies, clearly amused at her ignorance. He picks up the lighter from the counter, waves it about, then sets it back down atop the table. She looks away, in spite of her enjoyment.
"I had no clue you watched television," she says as she sits down on the blanket.
"Your friend, Marshall, he requested that the reruns be broadcasted onto the surveillance screens. He took a strange pleasure out of discussing the impracticality of Smart's contraptions. Of course, it was just his way of handling the desertion of all his beloved coworkers," he replies as he carries his sweater towards the fire. She averts her stare when he sits down beside her.
"You realize that I have no grounds on which I could guiltlessly kill you," she stretches her legs out in front of her. "Your immature rants and fits won't make me any more inclined to allow you the dignity of dying honorably."
He rests his back against the counter, lets his hands dangle from his knees. There is nothing much left for him. Perhaps a cold cell with a thin blanket. The mangled remains of his self-respect. His efforts to convince her to kill him are waning. If he can't even die correctly, what else is left?
"How do you plan on leaving here?" he asks.
"I don't know," she humbly replies, eyes focused on the frayed edges of the blanket. She runs her finger along the dusty floor, then wipes it off on the sheet. The house once nurtured happiness, but now in its dilapidated state it only fosters mold.
"Well, neither do I," he says monotonously. She can see the loss in his languid movements, his sudden lack of interest in survival, the shoddy treatment of his wound. He's sitting beside her, and yet he's not. Without the witty banter, without the coy remarks and the air of persistence about him, he is just the shell of a man.
"Have you ever built a sand castle?" she suddenly asks, turning in time to see his curiously calm reaction. A shake of the head, then silence again.
"It stays standing. Even if all the sand dries out, it doesn't collapse," she explains. "It could stay standing for days, weeks, months—even though inside, it's dead. And yet, have you ever built a sand castle, then returned a year later to find it still standing?"
He stares at her with irritation. The banality of her explanation is unneeded, and slightly unexpected. He averts his gaze after she refuses to make eye contact, then tosses one of the sheets angrily into the fire. The flames are quickly extinguished and a darkness falls over them. She can see him smirking wryly, his blue eyes dancing with that familiar antagonism.
"And ultimately, you determine that the things which contributed to its demise are the factors which took part to its creation," he condescendingly explains.
"No," she replies, "that would be ridiculously clichéd."
She stands up, dusting the dirt from her clothes which have in the meantime, dried. He watches her with cautious eyes as she maneuvers around the counter, picks up the lighter from the table top. It lands between his legs, glints when it catches the light reflected by the snow outside. She crouches down beside him and presses her lips to his ear.
"Ultimately," she whispers, "you build a stronger castle."
A challenge. So this is her way of encouraging him to live. It isn't quite compassion, but it is the closest he will ever get with her, at least for now. With the room now cold and dark around them, he's inclined to move towards her for warmth and surprisingly, she doesn't move away.
Her hand touches the wound, testing the depth of the injury, prodding about his flesh as though it were a slab of meat. She can't quite explain what is making her look after him, creating this newfound peace with a former enemy, but the burden it pushes from her shoulders is alleviating. He catches her wrist before she moves her hand away, this sudden unexpected intimacy sending thrills down his spine. It was an emotionless gesture on her part, but to feel the heat of another human pressed against him in such a solicitous manner is refreshing. He releases her hand and knows that for now, it will take more than temporary lust to convince Sydney to accept him.
"You'll live," she reassures him. At that moment, she could do thousands of things to take advantage of his budding vulnerability; she could take his hand, rest her head against his shoulder, taste his lips like she's imagined doing since entering the house, but she doesn't. Instead, she'll help him become the Sark she remembers, who ruthlessly slaughtered innocent victims, who took pleasure in the torture of weaker men, because he was once the only person who she fully understood. In turn, he understood her just as well.
He starts another fire, thoughts of dying this evening burning up alongside the sticks in the hearth. She sits down beside him, closer than she was sitting before, but refrains from making eye contact with him. She is indeed a strange creature, willing to help him when he couldn't help himself. In another time, he might have found the honorable death he'd been seeking, but now he was glad to simply have her company. She hadn't even been curious as to why. Perhaps she'd already experienced it.
She finally gives in to her emotions and carefully takes her hand in his. He obliges and leans his head back against the counter. Warmth floods through him as the evening wears on and his body gives in to the temptations of slumber. He holds her hand, tightly, but nothing more than that bare sign of affection.
He listens to the sound of her steady breathing, her hand never moving, and finds the comfort that a bare cell could never provide. A friendship, possibly, if he dared to call it that after a lifetime of having denied himself the pleasure. He turns to find her staring at him, searching for whatever semblance he holds with the man he once was. She expects him to look away, furrow his brow in shame, but instead she sees the slight upturned corner of his lips.
Yes, she agrees, his company will suffice.
Author's note: This was done for aSark ficathonon LJ where the requests were for a winter mission in Scandinavia and a reference to the television sitcom Get Smart! Also, it was requested that there be no references to Lauren or commitment for Sark. Hopefully, you all enjoyed it. R/R D