Red and the Rat
"Well I certainly hope Mr. Sloane hasn't changed the code."
Sydney paused the moment on tape, watching the all too familiar smirk descend on Sark's features. Arms crossed, head held high, he once again reminded her of ever schoolboy jock she'd ever met. His Aryan features coiled expressively, ranging from bored to haughty, as if he didn't fear death, didn't fear the glowering hatred of the man behind the glass. He'd been right, his extraction had been clean and swift. So fast in fact that Jack Bristow barely had time to register the all to familiar scenario before Sark had gone, disappeared into the dusty underworld from whence he'd come. She rewound the video surveillance detailing Kendall's visit and leaned back into her new leather couch, sighing. Spread at her feet were mounds of paperwork, reports written by analysts on the mysterious Mr. Sark, his every exploit and every quirk.
It had been almost a week since the longest debrief of her life, culminating in the shock of the entire agency at her return, with two years lost in the span. Weiss was the first to grab her in a bear-hug, willing to accept without questions a gift from god or perhaps a gift from chance. Dixon had been next; overcoming his initial surprise, he cried openly into her shoulder. And Marshall, well Marshall had been ecstatic, running from his desk to her side in a frenzy of activity.
But Vaughn. Vaughn's reaction had been subdued, if you could call it a reaction. After all, he had already met her at the safehouse, and even then he had barely touched her. Spoken to her. If anything he looked ashamed. Ashamed, the word was curious. What could Vaughn possibly be ashamed off? Pain, yes, that would have made sense. But shame?
The others pitied her. With pity came the ridiculous tiptoeing. Her father, Will especially, and surprisingly, even Kendall. It was obvious he didn't think she was fit for active field duty. That was alright, even Sydney didn't think herself fit for field duty. After all, you don't just lose two years in the blink of an eye without some lingering effects. If the frequent visits to Barnett didn't convince her Kendall was treating her like tempered glass, then the Sark assignment certainly did.
Which brought her to the task at hand. Why they needed a psychological and chronological profile of Sark was beyond her. Maybe Kendall thought Sloane was grooming him as heir apparent, or perhaps the lingering ghost of Irina Derevko urged the Agency to overanalyze her operatives. Either way, Syd saw it as an exercise in futility, but an exercise nonetheless. The way they'd been looking at her lately, she was glad they even fed her busy work, rather then having her shipped directly to a mental hospital. Besides, in no other line of work was the day filled with lounging around in pjs flipping through glossy pictures of a twenty- something pretty boy.
"Mr. Sark, just who are you?" She mused aloud. Besides a cocky bastard with a penchant for torture that is. Idly, Sydney toyed with a picture of Sark flanked by two Armani suits, squinting into the sun and looking all the while a petulant boy who'd been denied a treat, verging on a tantrum. For a second she pictured an infantile Sark, complete with silk ties and that telltale smirk. At first the image provoked a small smile, but the smile tugged to a grin and soon Syd found herself in the midst of laughter, herself vacillating between tears of amusement and tears of pure abandon.
For a moment, she was brought to the brink. And she was surprised at forcefully her own heart wanted to go over the edge. But that nagging question which kept reappearing brought her short. Go where? That was the question wasn't it? Where was she going?
It had been unnerving, when, in the middle of a Barnett session, the perceptive blond woman had parroted Sydney's own thoughts. "So what now?" It had all the appearances of a simple question. After all, Kendall, Barnett, her father, they all expected the Sydney they knew to be hell bent on finding out the whys. Why she'd been abducted. Why she'd been left in the back of an ally, now of all times.
But the only why she really seemed to turn back to, was, why the hell should she care? Oh sure, the first few days remnants of a past life had driven her to pepper Kendall with questions, threw her at her father demanding field assignment with a vengeance compensating for loss. Loss of what.Vaughn? No, something else.
It was on day 5 that Sydney realized she was only going through the motions. Her attempts at reinsertion into the field had been half-hearted at best. A soothing bath in Will's gurgling outdoor hot tub had brought the disturbing notion to the forefront of her thoughts.
She didn't want to know. She didn't want to hunt down the perpetrators. She simply wanted to move on. And the missing years? The Sydney everyone knew wouldn't have let such an atrocity rest.
Was she still that Sydney?
All signs pointed to no. The scariest part? She was glad. The Sydney of yesterday had been caught up in a tangle of emotions, twists at every turn. That Sydney lead a life so wrought with turmoil and distress that it was alarming to think that she had ever been willing to face the day. But more than anything, that Sydney had taken herself a little too seriously.
"Methinks the lady doth dabble in histrionics." Syd muttered under her breath as she once again brought her favorite Sark picture up to the top of the pile. The ever present suit lacked a tie this time, and the sheen of his off-black shirt bespoke silk. Black on black. Silk on silk. He even managed to wear different shades of black well. Her first assessment still held, Sark exuded arrogance. But here, here he exuded something else. Maybe it was the lost expression on his face, revealing a sincerity Sydney had long disavowed from Mr. Sark. Maybe it was the incongruence of a Toys 'R' Us bag gripped tightly in his hand that cut years from his own age. The thought of Sark with children rang bells of immediate alarm. What ever the reason though, Sydney found herself staring at the glossy eight by ten and reminding herself that he was the enemy.
Still, it was too bad he was evil. Those lips did look ever so inviting.
Jack Bristow really needed to get laid.
Now where did that thought come from? It was not, and would never be, any of her business whether her father was being "entertained" behind the scenes. But now, listening to yet another one of his never-ending spiels on some set of files and the devil otherwise known as Sloane, Sydney felt she had finally put a finger on what made Jack Bristow twitch.
He obviously wasn't getting laid.
"Sydney, are you even listening?" Her father demanded, a look of irritation crossing his already dark features. "These files are of the utmost importance. They may lead to the location and capture of Sloane. Moreover, they may contain clues of your whereabouts for the last two years."
Yep. He definitely needed to get laid.
"We've received intel that Sloane will be traveling by train with the files to Paris tomorrow night. It seems that Irina's double cross has made him more than a little bit cautious about who does his transportation." Jack Bristow emphasized the word cautious with a little bit of venom and quite a lot of satisfaction.
It had come as a surprise, but not a shock (after seeing Vaughn's wedding ring, nothing could suitably shock Sydney it seemed) that "The Man" had sacrificed her entire enterprise in a final act of motherly rage. Apparently, Irina held Sloane directed responsible, though his involvement had never been substantiated, for Syd's supposed demise. Irina did not need such petty things as proof to act. A year to the day after Syd's disappearance, in a tremendous display of destructive power, taking, among others, the Rambaldi device Sloane had so meticulously built together, Irina's message had come loud and clear. Mess with my daughter, mess with me.
And then she'd disappeared.
Sloane had been more than a little peeved. Though, he had plenty of time to consider his mistakes when the CIA received Irina's parting gift, Sloane wrapped in a nice shiny bow, delivered on a silver platter, naked. The last part her father had coughed around, but had sent Sydney into paroxysms of laughter.
From what Sydney had gathered, Weiss was the one who initiated the two day celebration. The only sour note had been Sloane's escape from custody, but for 48 hours the bastard had sat in isolation, waiting pending assignment to Camp Harris. How he managed his own extraction, with his operation shattered by Irina's vengeance, even Jack couldn't comprehend. Bygones.
"Now, you'll travel with Agent Vaughn," his face blanched a bit at the name but he continued. "Review your identities carefully, if anyone tips Sloane off we may never get so close to him or his valuables ever again. Who knows what else he's going to have stored on that train. It is imperative that we catch him now, while he's still vulnerable. Sydney."
"Sydney."
Vaguely aware that her father was still speaking, she put on her best little girl smile and reached up to pat him unceremoniously on the head. "Dad, don't worry. Chill. I've got this."
". and I was so glad we got you back that I made you these glasses. Bear with me, I know they're a little over the top, but man do these babies scream swank. I think they'll make you look like Grace Kelly. Now Weiss, he always used the Marilyn Monroe as a brunette reference, but I didn't see it as much. Not that you couldn't do Marilyn, I'm sure you could do Marilyn, with the dress and the wig and the - do you want me to make you a blond wig? Because your dad specified redhead, but I could easily whip up- "
"Marshall, it's alright." Sydney watched in amusement as he all but burst before her with happiness. The ring on his finger was more than a little conspicuous, but that might be due to the fact that his hands were forever busy, bringing forth gadget after gadget of his own creation. Marshall. Good old Marshall, even matrimony couldn't change him. It was nice to know that some things in the world existed as constants.
As she turned to leave, she felt Marshall's hand on her elbow.
"Syd, one last thing." His face, once bright and happy turned to sadness. It was all he could do to address her again. "I have this for you."
In his hand lay a single gold ring, identical to the one Vaughn wore. For a moment confusion reigned.
"It's just that, you and Vaughn, your identities, well you're supposed to be- " He paused awkwardly. "And he already, what I mean is, they told me to make for you- "
"Marshall." Sydney gave him a compassionate smile. He wore his emotions on his sleeve, his pity for her a physical entity at that moment. His heart was too big for his body. "It's alright."
Her smile was genuine and somehow, despite the pain she felt she ought to have indulged in, it was alright. Because there was no pain, only a brief, lingering sadness overwhelmed by another sensation. Relief.
"Well I certainly hope Mr. Sloane hasn't changed the code."
Sydney paused the moment on tape, watching the all too familiar smirk descend on Sark's features. Arms crossed, head held high, he once again reminded her of ever schoolboy jock she'd ever met. His Aryan features coiled expressively, ranging from bored to haughty, as if he didn't fear death, didn't fear the glowering hatred of the man behind the glass. He'd been right, his extraction had been clean and swift. So fast in fact that Jack Bristow barely had time to register the all to familiar scenario before Sark had gone, disappeared into the dusty underworld from whence he'd come. She rewound the video surveillance detailing Kendall's visit and leaned back into her new leather couch, sighing. Spread at her feet were mounds of paperwork, reports written by analysts on the mysterious Mr. Sark, his every exploit and every quirk.
It had been almost a week since the longest debrief of her life, culminating in the shock of the entire agency at her return, with two years lost in the span. Weiss was the first to grab her in a bear-hug, willing to accept without questions a gift from god or perhaps a gift from chance. Dixon had been next; overcoming his initial surprise, he cried openly into her shoulder. And Marshall, well Marshall had been ecstatic, running from his desk to her side in a frenzy of activity.
But Vaughn. Vaughn's reaction had been subdued, if you could call it a reaction. After all, he had already met her at the safehouse, and even then he had barely touched her. Spoken to her. If anything he looked ashamed. Ashamed, the word was curious. What could Vaughn possibly be ashamed off? Pain, yes, that would have made sense. But shame?
The others pitied her. With pity came the ridiculous tiptoeing. Her father, Will especially, and surprisingly, even Kendall. It was obvious he didn't think she was fit for active field duty. That was alright, even Sydney didn't think herself fit for field duty. After all, you don't just lose two years in the blink of an eye without some lingering effects. If the frequent visits to Barnett didn't convince her Kendall was treating her like tempered glass, then the Sark assignment certainly did.
Which brought her to the task at hand. Why they needed a psychological and chronological profile of Sark was beyond her. Maybe Kendall thought Sloane was grooming him as heir apparent, or perhaps the lingering ghost of Irina Derevko urged the Agency to overanalyze her operatives. Either way, Syd saw it as an exercise in futility, but an exercise nonetheless. The way they'd been looking at her lately, she was glad they even fed her busy work, rather then having her shipped directly to a mental hospital. Besides, in no other line of work was the day filled with lounging around in pjs flipping through glossy pictures of a twenty- something pretty boy.
"Mr. Sark, just who are you?" She mused aloud. Besides a cocky bastard with a penchant for torture that is. Idly, Sydney toyed with a picture of Sark flanked by two Armani suits, squinting into the sun and looking all the while a petulant boy who'd been denied a treat, verging on a tantrum. For a second she pictured an infantile Sark, complete with silk ties and that telltale smirk. At first the image provoked a small smile, but the smile tugged to a grin and soon Syd found herself in the midst of laughter, herself vacillating between tears of amusement and tears of pure abandon.
For a moment, she was brought to the brink. And she was surprised at forcefully her own heart wanted to go over the edge. But that nagging question which kept reappearing brought her short. Go where? That was the question wasn't it? Where was she going?
It had been unnerving, when, in the middle of a Barnett session, the perceptive blond woman had parroted Sydney's own thoughts. "So what now?" It had all the appearances of a simple question. After all, Kendall, Barnett, her father, they all expected the Sydney they knew to be hell bent on finding out the whys. Why she'd been abducted. Why she'd been left in the back of an ally, now of all times.
But the only why she really seemed to turn back to, was, why the hell should she care? Oh sure, the first few days remnants of a past life had driven her to pepper Kendall with questions, threw her at her father demanding field assignment with a vengeance compensating for loss. Loss of what.Vaughn? No, something else.
It was on day 5 that Sydney realized she was only going through the motions. Her attempts at reinsertion into the field had been half-hearted at best. A soothing bath in Will's gurgling outdoor hot tub had brought the disturbing notion to the forefront of her thoughts.
She didn't want to know. She didn't want to hunt down the perpetrators. She simply wanted to move on. And the missing years? The Sydney everyone knew wouldn't have let such an atrocity rest.
Was she still that Sydney?
All signs pointed to no. The scariest part? She was glad. The Sydney of yesterday had been caught up in a tangle of emotions, twists at every turn. That Sydney lead a life so wrought with turmoil and distress that it was alarming to think that she had ever been willing to face the day. But more than anything, that Sydney had taken herself a little too seriously.
"Methinks the lady doth dabble in histrionics." Syd muttered under her breath as she once again brought her favorite Sark picture up to the top of the pile. The ever present suit lacked a tie this time, and the sheen of his off-black shirt bespoke silk. Black on black. Silk on silk. He even managed to wear different shades of black well. Her first assessment still held, Sark exuded arrogance. But here, here he exuded something else. Maybe it was the lost expression on his face, revealing a sincerity Sydney had long disavowed from Mr. Sark. Maybe it was the incongruence of a Toys 'R' Us bag gripped tightly in his hand that cut years from his own age. The thought of Sark with children rang bells of immediate alarm. What ever the reason though, Sydney found herself staring at the glossy eight by ten and reminding herself that he was the enemy.
Still, it was too bad he was evil. Those lips did look ever so inviting.
Jack Bristow really needed to get laid.
Now where did that thought come from? It was not, and would never be, any of her business whether her father was being "entertained" behind the scenes. But now, listening to yet another one of his never-ending spiels on some set of files and the devil otherwise known as Sloane, Sydney felt she had finally put a finger on what made Jack Bristow twitch.
He obviously wasn't getting laid.
"Sydney, are you even listening?" Her father demanded, a look of irritation crossing his already dark features. "These files are of the utmost importance. They may lead to the location and capture of Sloane. Moreover, they may contain clues of your whereabouts for the last two years."
Yep. He definitely needed to get laid.
"We've received intel that Sloane will be traveling by train with the files to Paris tomorrow night. It seems that Irina's double cross has made him more than a little bit cautious about who does his transportation." Jack Bristow emphasized the word cautious with a little bit of venom and quite a lot of satisfaction.
It had come as a surprise, but not a shock (after seeing Vaughn's wedding ring, nothing could suitably shock Sydney it seemed) that "The Man" had sacrificed her entire enterprise in a final act of motherly rage. Apparently, Irina held Sloane directed responsible, though his involvement had never been substantiated, for Syd's supposed demise. Irina did not need such petty things as proof to act. A year to the day after Syd's disappearance, in a tremendous display of destructive power, taking, among others, the Rambaldi device Sloane had so meticulously built together, Irina's message had come loud and clear. Mess with my daughter, mess with me.
And then she'd disappeared.
Sloane had been more than a little peeved. Though, he had plenty of time to consider his mistakes when the CIA received Irina's parting gift, Sloane wrapped in a nice shiny bow, delivered on a silver platter, naked. The last part her father had coughed around, but had sent Sydney into paroxysms of laughter.
From what Sydney had gathered, Weiss was the one who initiated the two day celebration. The only sour note had been Sloane's escape from custody, but for 48 hours the bastard had sat in isolation, waiting pending assignment to Camp Harris. How he managed his own extraction, with his operation shattered by Irina's vengeance, even Jack couldn't comprehend. Bygones.
"Now, you'll travel with Agent Vaughn," his face blanched a bit at the name but he continued. "Review your identities carefully, if anyone tips Sloane off we may never get so close to him or his valuables ever again. Who knows what else he's going to have stored on that train. It is imperative that we catch him now, while he's still vulnerable. Sydney."
"Sydney."
Vaguely aware that her father was still speaking, she put on her best little girl smile and reached up to pat him unceremoniously on the head. "Dad, don't worry. Chill. I've got this."
". and I was so glad we got you back that I made you these glasses. Bear with me, I know they're a little over the top, but man do these babies scream swank. I think they'll make you look like Grace Kelly. Now Weiss, he always used the Marilyn Monroe as a brunette reference, but I didn't see it as much. Not that you couldn't do Marilyn, I'm sure you could do Marilyn, with the dress and the wig and the - do you want me to make you a blond wig? Because your dad specified redhead, but I could easily whip up- "
"Marshall, it's alright." Sydney watched in amusement as he all but burst before her with happiness. The ring on his finger was more than a little conspicuous, but that might be due to the fact that his hands were forever busy, bringing forth gadget after gadget of his own creation. Marshall. Good old Marshall, even matrimony couldn't change him. It was nice to know that some things in the world existed as constants.
As she turned to leave, she felt Marshall's hand on her elbow.
"Syd, one last thing." His face, once bright and happy turned to sadness. It was all he could do to address her again. "I have this for you."
In his hand lay a single gold ring, identical to the one Vaughn wore. For a moment confusion reigned.
"It's just that, you and Vaughn, your identities, well you're supposed to be- " He paused awkwardly. "And he already, what I mean is, they told me to make for you- "
"Marshall." Sydney gave him a compassionate smile. He wore his emotions on his sleeve, his pity for her a physical entity at that moment. His heart was too big for his body. "It's alright."
Her smile was genuine and somehow, despite the pain she felt she ought to have indulged in, it was alright. Because there was no pain, only a brief, lingering sadness overwhelmed by another sensation. Relief.