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Title by Rise Against, quote by Rob Thomas.
I. Rumors of My Demise Have Been Greatly Exaggerated
How do you sleep while the city's burning?
Where do you go when you can't go home?
How do you drink when there's blood in the water?
Where do you turn when the world moves on?
Sark found her purely by accident in the streets of London. Tripped over her, more accurately.
He saw the pile of garbage spilling out from the alley, and was fully prepared to step around it. Just as he did so, at that precarious moment that comes with every step—where balance is tenuous and sure-footedness comes only with the practice of having walked for all of one's life—just then, the pile moved. Sark was a man possessed of above-average grace, but that did nothing to save him from doing what anyone else would have done: falling hard on the pavement.
Since it was—unsurprisingly—drizzling in London that day, and the sidewalk was—also unsurprisingly—less than clean, Sark's indignation was more on behalf of his new and expensive suit than any bodily injury suffered. He pushed himself up with both hands, turning with a harsh word for the offending bum . . .
. . . and nearly choked on his own breath.
"Bristow."
She looked up at him with nothing but confusion and alarm in her eyes. Her hair was tangled and soaked with rain, and the blanket she'd wrapped around herself was just as saturated with water. There was no recognition, no spark of anger. That alone was enough to make him doubt his own eyes. Sark crouched down in front of her, careful to keep his knees off the wet pavement. He stared at her intently for an amount of time that would have incited the Sydney Bristow he remembered to slap him, or at least threaten him. Another Project Helix creation? A truly freakish resemblance?
"Sydney Bristow," he said clearly, looking the woman right in the eye.
Her lips moved—mouthing the name after him?—but she did not speak.
Sark glanced to the left and right, checking for pedestrians, cars, anything. He didn't even completely dismiss the notion that this might be the most bizarre and elaborate CIA operation ever conceived, all for the purpose of bringing him back into custody. Cursory examination revealed nothing, so, for lack of a better plan, he rephrased his words as a question.
"Is your name Sydney Bristow?" A little exasperation leaked into his tone, but there was no helping it.
"I think . . ." The woman bit her lip, looking wretchedly lost. "I think it might be."
This was truly just too strange. "Well," said Sark. "I think you might want to call the CIA and tell them you're alive." He took her hand—damp and startlingly cold—and wrapped her fingers around his cell phone. It was untraceable, and besides, he had others. He wasn't about to sit here and wait around for the extraction team to show up. He stood up in one fluid motion, fully intending to leave behind this strange apparition from the past.
The only thing stopping him was a pale, bony hand that shot out and clutched his arm with a surprisingly iron-like grip.
Sark looked down at the face of Sydney Bristow.
"Please," she whispered, barely audible over the sounds of the street. "Help me."
