This is finished now, so I'll be updating and tidying to make sure everything expires at the same time. Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed, and encouraged me to keep going with it! Disclaimer: None of the Alias characters here, or the backstory events referred to, are mine. They belong to J.J. Abrams, or someone associated with the television show. You already knew that.
Alias: Elusive
Chapter Eight: Poison
Barely dawn the next morning, and clouds already hung low. The wind threatened rain. "Known but to God," Vaughn read aloud, gripping the case that held the replica chalice. He had been here before, had seen the rows and rows of white crosses, but the words always got to him. Lost soldiers, their names and identities gone forever.
"Kind of hits home, doesn't it?" Sydney's voice was soft in his ear. A transmitter, this time, not a hallucination.
He heard the roar of waves in the distance. Omaha beach. There was a faint taste of salt in the air, even up here on the cliff.
"Stirring, isn't it?" Sark's dry, British voice was unwelcome in this place.
Vaughn stiffened, then turned to face him. Sark wore a long, grey overcoat. His right hand was in the pocket, presumably pointing a gun at Vaughn.
"I wouldn't expect you to think so. Last I checked, your loyalty went to the highest bidder," Vaughn said.
Sark shrugged. "A man may admire heroes. It doesn't necessitate his being one."
Vaughn decided to let that pass. "Where's Will?"
"In a moment," Sark said. "Where's your bodyguard? Grandma in the ski mask?"
Sydney was in the trees, watching, with the real chalice safely hidden nearby. "She had a euchre tournament," Vaughn said, deadpan.
Sark angled his head to one side. "Come on, now, you can tell me. Who is she? She's quite good."
Vaughn felt a ghost of a smile on his face. "You have no idea." The wind picked up, throwing the first raindrops, sharp and icy, against his cheek. It was good. The rain might keep bystanders away.
Sark waited a beat, then nodded. He held out his hand for the case. "May I?"
Rather than passing it to him, Vaughn set the case on the ground, then opened it. He crouched beside it, ready to spring if Sark moved too quickly.
Sark gave it a cursory glance. "Nice work. Looks authentic. If I didn't know you so well, I'd believe you had brought the real thing."
Vaughn controlled his reaction. "I did." Sydney had assured him that her contacts did good work. He'd been impressed at what they had produced, and how quickly.
It wasn't going to be enough.
"Mm-hmm," Sark said. "Well, the test is simple." He produced a vial from his pocket, offering it to Vaughn.
Just the sight of it made his stomach lurch. "I'm not thirsty, but you go ahead."
Sark smirked. "You'll find your friend behind the monument. Take the vial. I'll follow."
Vaughn heard Sydney's sharp intake of breath, but he was already moving, snatching the chalice out of the case, grabbing the vial out of Sark's hand, running.
Will lay on the marble steps, curled in fetal position, pale and panting. He lifted his head as they ran up, but gave no sign of recognizing either Vaughn or Sark. He squinted as though he were trying to focus, then his head dropped down again.
"Will! What have they done to you?" Sydney's cry in the transmitter told Vaughn that she had changed position, was seeing what he saw.
"Poison," Vaughn said, out loud.
"Obviously," Sark said, pulling up behind him. "Of course, that's not a problem, is it? If you've brought the real chalice."
"Back off," Vaughn growled, shoving Sark into a marble column.
Sark raised his hands. "You're wasting time."
Vaughn heard Sydney swear. "I'm coming in," she said.
He knelt beside Will, fumbling with the vial. "How long?" he asked Sark.
Sark shrugged. "He doesn't seem to handle it as well as you did. It's been… six or seven minutes, perhaps?"
They'd foreseen this, of course. Vaughn had a second vial, containing an antidote to the poison Sark had given him earlier, as close as Sydney's contacts could figure without having a sample. It would slow Will's symptoms, at least, and buy them time to get him to the real chalice.
Vaughn shifted to block Sark's view, then switched vials. He poured the new one into the fake chalice. The dark liquid swirled into the base. It smelled awful; sickly sweet. There wasn't much there. He hoped it would be enough. Hoped it would work.
Will doubled up, groaning, nearly knocking the chalice from Vaughn's hand. "Easy there," Vaughn murmured. He hated the feeling that they were gambling with Will's life. Sydney had assured him they weren't, had assured him the antidote would work. She was the smartest person he knew, except maybe Marshall. It had to be safe.
He felt Sark's steely eyes fixed on him. The man was as dispassionate as a scientist, watching Will, watching Vaughn, drawing conclusions. Had he seen Vaughn switch the vial?
It was cold on the steps, colder still with the rain coming down steadily and the wind whipping at their hair and clothes. Vaughn remembered the bone-chilling effects of Sark's poison. He pulled Will into a semi-sitting position, slumped against his chest, hoping to pass on some heat. Will was limp now, breathing shallowly. Unconscious already?
"Will. Will, wake up! You need to drink this," Vaughn said. He pressed the cup against Will's mouth. Will groaned and pulled away.
In his earpiece, Sydney's breathing was faster than his own. She had to be running. "I'm almost there," she said, as though she had sensed his thought.
Vaughn tipped the cup up, forcing the antidote into Will's mouth.
Will swallowed reflexively, then pushed Vaughn's hand away. "Nnnh," he said. He glared up, focusing somewhere past Vaughn's left ear.
Sark's eyes narrowed.
"Give it a minute," Vaughn said.
Sark shrugged. "Your funeral. Or his." He glanced around at the crosses. "You're in the right place for it."
Without warning, Will jerked straight, eyes wide and staring. The force of his movement knocked Vaughn back. The chalice clattered on the stairs, spilling the small amount of dark fluid that had been left. Blood. Against the white marble, it looked like blood.
Sark had taken a step back, his eyes nearly as wide as Will's.
"No! It's working," Vaughn said. He prayed he was telling the truth. "I've been through this. It gets worse before it gets better."
Will's body spasmed, convulsing. "He's having a seizure," Vaughn said, speaking for Sydney's benefit now.
"That didn't happen to you," she said. She burst out of the woods, a flash of black, hooded and masked.
Vaughn struggled to protect Will's head.
Sark had already scooped up the chalice. "You convinced me, Mr. Vaughn," he called over his shoulder. "It's the real chalice. I apologize for not trusting you with a sample of the real poison."
"Bastard!" Sydney launched herself into the air, tackling Sark. They fell together, Sark's arms outstretched. In seconds, she had him pinned, her forearm across his throat.
"There's a gun in his pocket," Vaughn called, when he saw Sark reaching for it.
Sydney shifted position, trapping Sark. "You'll have to get the chalice," she told Vaughn. "It's in my bag." Now he noticed the sling-like bag strapped diagonally across her back.
Vaughn hesitated, afraid to leave Will while he was still seizing.
Sark's eyes had gone wide. "I know your voice."
Sydney punched him in the chin, knocking his head back onto the pavement. Sark went limp. At the same time, so did Will.
Sydney moved like a panther. She was at Vaughn's side in a heartbeat, pulling the bag off over her head in a fluid motion. "Here," she said, passing him the chalice.
Will lay still, not even the rise and fall of his chest to reassure them. Vaughn leaned over, listening and feeling for breath, checking for a pulse. Nothing.
He felt, rather than saw, Sydney's eyes on him. Didn't look up at her, because he couldn't stand to see her heartbreak.
He started CPR, breathing for Will, compressing his heart, hoping he was doing more than just circulating whatever mix of poisons was in Will's system. Will's skin was cold against his face.
Beside him, he heard a choking sound.
"Hold it together. Stay strong. I know you can," he said, as he pumped Will's chest. He wasn't sure who he was talking to—Sydney? Will? Himself? Maybe all three.
Then Sydney was moving to Will's other side. "The chalice," she said. "Maybe Sark brought the real poison with him—."
But it was only a chance, and they had no way of knowing where Sark would have hidden it. Vaughn flashed back to the winery. Sark's voice. We'll save that rather unappetizing experiment for later, shall we?
"His blood, Syd! It can make the cure from his blood. There's a swiss army knife in my pocket. Front right."
A moment's hesitation, then he felt her swipe the knife from his pocket. She pulled Will's arm out, made a deep cut across his palm. Blood welled up in time with Vaughn's compressions.
Sydney forced Will's hand into a fist, then held it over the chalice. "Don't you die on me," she said. The fierceness in her voice took Vaughn by surprise. "Not you. Don't you dare."
How much was enough? Vaughn kept compressing, watching the bright liquid trickle out of Will's fist, into the cup.
"It's changing." Sydney held the chalice so Vaughn could see the clear liquid bubbling in the bottom.
A sound, behind them.
"Check Sark!" A gunmetal click told Vaughn he was too late with his warning.
