Title: Scarlet
Author: Christina
Email: miss_scarlett89@hotmail.com
Rating: PG to PG-13. because I'm a bit young to be writing smut : )
Feedback: I would love nothing more than to have a whole page of reviews. : )
Summary: An original look at Sark's early teenage years. Doesn't follow the clues from Endgame.
'Ship: None.
Distribution: Just ask.
Disclaimer: I don't own Alias, Sark, Irina, or Khasinau. I am only a fourteen-year-old girl with nothing to do and no money because I have spent it all on the first season DVD.
A/N: Thanks so much to rwysydney the beta and giving me the support!
Part One:
I hear her enter the room, even though she tries to be silent. She gently shakes me, trying to awaken me.
"Andrew.Andy." She notices me looking at her and smiles.
"Happy birthday, love."
I give her half a smile. "Don't you think I'm getting a bit old for this, Mum?"
She pretends to look hurt.
I sigh. "Well, then, this year was the last year."
"All right. Now." She reveals a green box she'd had hidden in one hand, and gives it to me. My birthday present.
I tear off the paper, brush back the tissue paper and find-
"A watch," says my mother. "It belonged to your grandfather."
I carefully rotate it about. Silver. I slip it on my wrist. Large. My mother has probably saved for weeks to repair and clean it. It is in perfect condition.
"Thank you, Mum. I'll keep it safe, don't worry."
"I know you will." She kisses me on the top of my head. "Now get ready for school before you're late." She leaves.
She works as a maid from seven in the morning to six at night. A few of her clients are my classmates' parents. A fact I've kept well-hidden.
* * *
I have always kept to myself at school, staying away from the other boys and their great ambitions to play rugby for Britain. I have nothing against the sport, however.
Any attraction I have had for any girl so far has been purely physical. I have yet to meet someone with both looks and a personality.
I have other things to occupy my mind.
* * *
I make sure my mother is asleep before going to my bureau, removing the bottom drawer, turning it over, and carefully untaping the documents I have hidden underneath.
Clothed in black, I slip out the back with the documents under my jacket.
I walk unnoticed, away from the houses, into the town, and end looking up at the worn lettering of an old warehouse.
The lock on the back door is ridiculously easy to bypass, and within ten seconds the door has swung open.
I carefully survey my surroundings as I approach a pile of crates stacked in the corner.
"Who's there?" asks thick, Russian voice.
"Your contact," I say. "I have some information you may find useful."
"I see. You are late."
"I had other business to attend to." If homework counts.
"Come and sit."
I step in.
There is a chair waiting for me, across from a man that I can only describe as bushy. Vassilii Savanoff. I sit.
"What do you have?"
I take the documents from my jacket.
"Information on the Hughlett-Garner Building, as promised. Blueprints, type of security system- and the codes to bypass it. It should be enough."
Savanoff takes the documents. He stares at them. Then at me.
"Just how old are you, Mr. ."
"Sark," I say. It is the name my contact gave me, the name he advised me to use in my dealings.
"Fifteen, sixteen? Your contact did not mention that you would be so young. This is excellent."
I wait while he rifles through them. His age estimate is inaccurate. I have been fourteen for close to sixteen hours.
When he has reached the last page, I say, "I was promised a certain amount by your contact."
"Ah, yes." He reaches down by his side and draws out a small silver case. "Fifty thousand pounds." He gives it to me and I open it. I check to make sure it is all there. Then I hold up one note. It doesn't look counterfeit.
I put it away and quietly close the case. Then I stand to go. "One more thing," I say. "I would appreciate it if you gave me back my watch."
Savanoff laughs, reaches in his coat and removes it.
"Only after you give me mine."
Simultaneously, we toss the watches.
"I hope to see you again, Mr. Sark. It was a pleasure doing business with you."
"I only wish I could share that sentiment." I begin walking towards the back door.
I'm not sure what it is. Maybe a sound, a shadow. Something tells me get down on the floor and it's a good thing too as a bullet flies directly through the spot where I'd been standing less than a second before.
Somehow I pull myself up, and as I sprint away, back home, Savanoff's laugh rings in my ears.
* * *
I can't identify an exact moment or an exact reason why I got involved in these activities. All I know is that a few years ago, I was young, ambitious, and poor. Desperate for a challenge and a few extra pounds.
People needed information, so I found it and gave it to them.
"Mr. Ellison, will you come see me for a moment?" The voice of my teacher jerks me from my thoughts.
I go to her desk, and she points at my math paper with a red marker.
"Why have you written 'Andrew Sark' at the top of this paper?"
I freeze for a second, staring at it.
"I am assuming it is yours."
"Oh, yes." I say, snapping out of it. "Absent-mindedness, I suppose. We- my mother and I thought that maybe we could go to Sark next holiday." Absent- mindedness, honestly. More like sheer stupidity. I curse myself as I go back to my seat.
I think about the future. I will travel the world in style, with black convertibles, tailored suits, fine wines, and everything I want. I will be rich, and respected, and nothing will stand in my way.
No one notices the slight smile on my face.
* * *
After school, behind an old barn, I take a bus to central London to meet with my contact, whom I trust enough to deposit my earnings in a hidden account.
In Switzerland.
It totals to more than half a million pounds.
His name is Khasinau, he tells me.
He has been my mentor, in a way, giving me advice, showing me techniques in self-control and dealing with clients, giving me access to technology I need that I would not have otherwise.
He gives me the impression that he works alone, independently, but somehow I feel he is a part of something bigger.
* * *
The next morning, I scan the paper, looking for news of a break-in. I don't expect there to be much, and I don't expect it to be entirely truthful. The government has it in their best interests not to tell the public everything. Especially since the Hughlett- Garner building contains some of their most vital military weapons.
Instead, I read that eight men were apprehended and identified after attempting to break into the building. And, as I scan the names, Savanoff's does not appear.
I stare at the article in disbelief. This is the first time my intel was incorrect. Perhaps a number was off in the security deactivation code.
Whatever the case, I have earned fifty thousand pounds in exchange for nothing. Which would be pleasing, really, if Savanoff was not at large.
And was not feeling slightly vengeful.
I sigh, fold the paper, and lean back.
My mother senses my sudden uneasiness. "Is something wrong?" she asks, taking a sip of coffee.
I shake my head absently.
There is no telling what this man will choose to do. If he believes there was a simple error on my part, I may be abducted, tortured, and set free. Which is probably the best- case scenario. If he thinks that I deliberately gave him false intel.
"Andrew, you're pale. Is there some sort of virus going around?"
"I- I don't think so. It's just sort of. cold in here." I can't concentrate enough to invent some plausible explanation.
This isn't me. I am used to being in control. Not like some agitated tiger, pacing around in a cage, or a small animal, trapped in the corner. For the first time, I feel. afraid.
My mother says, "If you're sure," but still looks concerned.
And inexplicably, I fill up with complete love and compassion for her. I feel that I must reassure her, hug her and tell her that she means the world to me and that I'm sorry if I ever disappointed her, like I'll never be able to ever, ever again.
But I don't.
Instead, she gives me her customary kiss on the cheek, picks up her bag, and walks out.
And I am left alone in the house.
I have never noticed.
Never noticed. how silent it is.
Damn it, I can't stop thinking about it all! I jump up, nearly knocking my chair over, and dash to the window and look out.
Everything is normal. Nothing unusual outside.
I can hear my watch ticking.
I have to get out of here.
* * *
All through school, I cannot focus, even though I normally can. I keep looking out, positive that I will see Savanoff's ugly face staring back at me.
* * *
I walk home.
For the first time, I would rather be with someone, instead of alone.
And I get a feeling.
Maybe, to the right of me.
Casually, I glance over my shoulder.
No one.
I continue.
There it is again.
Anxiously, I look back.
No one- or maybe- but.
Someone is following me. I know it.
I duck into the nearest shop and pretend to look at the candy prices while I try, TRY to think of what the hell to do.
My first instinct is to call my mother. Ask her to come home early. That I think I might be coming down with something after all.
I have no money to call. And I don't know where she is. She could be at any house, anywhere in town.
I am being paranoid, I tell myself. Or am I?
I return to my house as quickly as I can.
I bolt everything.
I know it will have no effect, but the result is somewhat comforting.
I try to read.
I keep glancing out the window.
* * *
I nearly jump when I hear the key turn in the lock.
She's back.
I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding.
I feel safe again.
Dinner passes normally.
And just before I leave for bed, I get, again, the feeling I had this morning. an overwhelming, overpowering gratitude and love for my mother. The urge to give her a hug and just thank her.
But again, I don't.
"Night, Mum."
"Night, Andy."
And I close the door.
* * *
Late at night, I lie, half-awake, half-asleep.
I hear my mother, walking back to her room. She's been up for awhile, doing some sewing and reading. It's nearly one. Must have been really busy.
I hear the faint creak of the bed as she settles in.
It's hard, really, to think about anything. when it's so peaceful.
* * *
It's the weekend.
The sun is coming through my window in big, long streaks.
For awhile, I take it in, my mind free of thought.
Then it hits me.
My mother's footsteps aren't that heavy.
Shit.
I bolt out, thrust open my door, and I hear it slam against the wall as I sprint to her room.
Once near the handle, I reach for it, ready to yank it out if I must. And I freeze.
Open it, my brain urges me. Hurry!
But my hand won't respond.
Finally, with both hands, I slowly, shakily turn the handle. And I pull.
She looks peaceful, lying on her back, with a slight smile, as if she is having a wonderful dream. In fact, she looks completely normal.
Except for the single bullet wound squared right in the center of her forehead.
A trace of scarlet runs down from the spot and onto her cheek.
There is a small piece of paper lying on her stomach. I pick it up.
In the future, you will be wise to leave adults' business to adults. You have been warned.
I stare through the words, through the paper.
Then I tear it in half.
Twice.
Three times.
Four.
Then I throw the tiny scraps away.
I ring the police.
"This is Andrew Ellison, of Hobson Road. I've just found my mother.sh. she's been shot. Through the head."
I go to my room. I sit, silent, eyes out the window, and only when I see the cars pulling up beside the house do I wipe the tears away.
Author: Christina
Email: miss_scarlett89@hotmail.com
Rating: PG to PG-13. because I'm a bit young to be writing smut : )
Feedback: I would love nothing more than to have a whole page of reviews. : )
Summary: An original look at Sark's early teenage years. Doesn't follow the clues from Endgame.
'Ship: None.
Distribution: Just ask.
Disclaimer: I don't own Alias, Sark, Irina, or Khasinau. I am only a fourteen-year-old girl with nothing to do and no money because I have spent it all on the first season DVD.
A/N: Thanks so much to rwysydney the beta and giving me the support!
Part One:
I hear her enter the room, even though she tries to be silent. She gently shakes me, trying to awaken me.
"Andrew.Andy." She notices me looking at her and smiles.
"Happy birthday, love."
I give her half a smile. "Don't you think I'm getting a bit old for this, Mum?"
She pretends to look hurt.
I sigh. "Well, then, this year was the last year."
"All right. Now." She reveals a green box she'd had hidden in one hand, and gives it to me. My birthday present.
I tear off the paper, brush back the tissue paper and find-
"A watch," says my mother. "It belonged to your grandfather."
I carefully rotate it about. Silver. I slip it on my wrist. Large. My mother has probably saved for weeks to repair and clean it. It is in perfect condition.
"Thank you, Mum. I'll keep it safe, don't worry."
"I know you will." She kisses me on the top of my head. "Now get ready for school before you're late." She leaves.
She works as a maid from seven in the morning to six at night. A few of her clients are my classmates' parents. A fact I've kept well-hidden.
* * *
I have always kept to myself at school, staying away from the other boys and their great ambitions to play rugby for Britain. I have nothing against the sport, however.
Any attraction I have had for any girl so far has been purely physical. I have yet to meet someone with both looks and a personality.
I have other things to occupy my mind.
* * *
I make sure my mother is asleep before going to my bureau, removing the bottom drawer, turning it over, and carefully untaping the documents I have hidden underneath.
Clothed in black, I slip out the back with the documents under my jacket.
I walk unnoticed, away from the houses, into the town, and end looking up at the worn lettering of an old warehouse.
The lock on the back door is ridiculously easy to bypass, and within ten seconds the door has swung open.
I carefully survey my surroundings as I approach a pile of crates stacked in the corner.
"Who's there?" asks thick, Russian voice.
"Your contact," I say. "I have some information you may find useful."
"I see. You are late."
"I had other business to attend to." If homework counts.
"Come and sit."
I step in.
There is a chair waiting for me, across from a man that I can only describe as bushy. Vassilii Savanoff. I sit.
"What do you have?"
I take the documents from my jacket.
"Information on the Hughlett-Garner Building, as promised. Blueprints, type of security system- and the codes to bypass it. It should be enough."
Savanoff takes the documents. He stares at them. Then at me.
"Just how old are you, Mr. ."
"Sark," I say. It is the name my contact gave me, the name he advised me to use in my dealings.
"Fifteen, sixteen? Your contact did not mention that you would be so young. This is excellent."
I wait while he rifles through them. His age estimate is inaccurate. I have been fourteen for close to sixteen hours.
When he has reached the last page, I say, "I was promised a certain amount by your contact."
"Ah, yes." He reaches down by his side and draws out a small silver case. "Fifty thousand pounds." He gives it to me and I open it. I check to make sure it is all there. Then I hold up one note. It doesn't look counterfeit.
I put it away and quietly close the case. Then I stand to go. "One more thing," I say. "I would appreciate it if you gave me back my watch."
Savanoff laughs, reaches in his coat and removes it.
"Only after you give me mine."
Simultaneously, we toss the watches.
"I hope to see you again, Mr. Sark. It was a pleasure doing business with you."
"I only wish I could share that sentiment." I begin walking towards the back door.
I'm not sure what it is. Maybe a sound, a shadow. Something tells me get down on the floor and it's a good thing too as a bullet flies directly through the spot where I'd been standing less than a second before.
Somehow I pull myself up, and as I sprint away, back home, Savanoff's laugh rings in my ears.
* * *
I can't identify an exact moment or an exact reason why I got involved in these activities. All I know is that a few years ago, I was young, ambitious, and poor. Desperate for a challenge and a few extra pounds.
People needed information, so I found it and gave it to them.
"Mr. Ellison, will you come see me for a moment?" The voice of my teacher jerks me from my thoughts.
I go to her desk, and she points at my math paper with a red marker.
"Why have you written 'Andrew Sark' at the top of this paper?"
I freeze for a second, staring at it.
"I am assuming it is yours."
"Oh, yes." I say, snapping out of it. "Absent-mindedness, I suppose. We- my mother and I thought that maybe we could go to Sark next holiday." Absent- mindedness, honestly. More like sheer stupidity. I curse myself as I go back to my seat.
I think about the future. I will travel the world in style, with black convertibles, tailored suits, fine wines, and everything I want. I will be rich, and respected, and nothing will stand in my way.
No one notices the slight smile on my face.
* * *
After school, behind an old barn, I take a bus to central London to meet with my contact, whom I trust enough to deposit my earnings in a hidden account.
In Switzerland.
It totals to more than half a million pounds.
His name is Khasinau, he tells me.
He has been my mentor, in a way, giving me advice, showing me techniques in self-control and dealing with clients, giving me access to technology I need that I would not have otherwise.
He gives me the impression that he works alone, independently, but somehow I feel he is a part of something bigger.
* * *
The next morning, I scan the paper, looking for news of a break-in. I don't expect there to be much, and I don't expect it to be entirely truthful. The government has it in their best interests not to tell the public everything. Especially since the Hughlett- Garner building contains some of their most vital military weapons.
Instead, I read that eight men were apprehended and identified after attempting to break into the building. And, as I scan the names, Savanoff's does not appear.
I stare at the article in disbelief. This is the first time my intel was incorrect. Perhaps a number was off in the security deactivation code.
Whatever the case, I have earned fifty thousand pounds in exchange for nothing. Which would be pleasing, really, if Savanoff was not at large.
And was not feeling slightly vengeful.
I sigh, fold the paper, and lean back.
My mother senses my sudden uneasiness. "Is something wrong?" she asks, taking a sip of coffee.
I shake my head absently.
There is no telling what this man will choose to do. If he believes there was a simple error on my part, I may be abducted, tortured, and set free. Which is probably the best- case scenario. If he thinks that I deliberately gave him false intel.
"Andrew, you're pale. Is there some sort of virus going around?"
"I- I don't think so. It's just sort of. cold in here." I can't concentrate enough to invent some plausible explanation.
This isn't me. I am used to being in control. Not like some agitated tiger, pacing around in a cage, or a small animal, trapped in the corner. For the first time, I feel. afraid.
My mother says, "If you're sure," but still looks concerned.
And inexplicably, I fill up with complete love and compassion for her. I feel that I must reassure her, hug her and tell her that she means the world to me and that I'm sorry if I ever disappointed her, like I'll never be able to ever, ever again.
But I don't.
Instead, she gives me her customary kiss on the cheek, picks up her bag, and walks out.
And I am left alone in the house.
I have never noticed.
Never noticed. how silent it is.
Damn it, I can't stop thinking about it all! I jump up, nearly knocking my chair over, and dash to the window and look out.
Everything is normal. Nothing unusual outside.
I can hear my watch ticking.
I have to get out of here.
* * *
All through school, I cannot focus, even though I normally can. I keep looking out, positive that I will see Savanoff's ugly face staring back at me.
* * *
I walk home.
For the first time, I would rather be with someone, instead of alone.
And I get a feeling.
Maybe, to the right of me.
Casually, I glance over my shoulder.
No one.
I continue.
There it is again.
Anxiously, I look back.
No one- or maybe- but.
Someone is following me. I know it.
I duck into the nearest shop and pretend to look at the candy prices while I try, TRY to think of what the hell to do.
My first instinct is to call my mother. Ask her to come home early. That I think I might be coming down with something after all.
I have no money to call. And I don't know where she is. She could be at any house, anywhere in town.
I am being paranoid, I tell myself. Or am I?
I return to my house as quickly as I can.
I bolt everything.
I know it will have no effect, but the result is somewhat comforting.
I try to read.
I keep glancing out the window.
* * *
I nearly jump when I hear the key turn in the lock.
She's back.
I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding.
I feel safe again.
Dinner passes normally.
And just before I leave for bed, I get, again, the feeling I had this morning. an overwhelming, overpowering gratitude and love for my mother. The urge to give her a hug and just thank her.
But again, I don't.
"Night, Mum."
"Night, Andy."
And I close the door.
* * *
Late at night, I lie, half-awake, half-asleep.
I hear my mother, walking back to her room. She's been up for awhile, doing some sewing and reading. It's nearly one. Must have been really busy.
I hear the faint creak of the bed as she settles in.
It's hard, really, to think about anything. when it's so peaceful.
* * *
It's the weekend.
The sun is coming through my window in big, long streaks.
For awhile, I take it in, my mind free of thought.
Then it hits me.
My mother's footsteps aren't that heavy.
Shit.
I bolt out, thrust open my door, and I hear it slam against the wall as I sprint to her room.
Once near the handle, I reach for it, ready to yank it out if I must. And I freeze.
Open it, my brain urges me. Hurry!
But my hand won't respond.
Finally, with both hands, I slowly, shakily turn the handle. And I pull.
She looks peaceful, lying on her back, with a slight smile, as if she is having a wonderful dream. In fact, she looks completely normal.
Except for the single bullet wound squared right in the center of her forehead.
A trace of scarlet runs down from the spot and onto her cheek.
There is a small piece of paper lying on her stomach. I pick it up.
In the future, you will be wise to leave adults' business to adults. You have been warned.
I stare through the words, through the paper.
Then I tear it in half.
Twice.
Three times.
Four.
Then I throw the tiny scraps away.
I ring the police.
"This is Andrew Ellison, of Hobson Road. I've just found my mother.sh. she's been shot. Through the head."
I go to my room. I sit, silent, eyes out the window, and only when I see the cars pulling up beside the house do I wipe the tears away.