Sydney limped over in her chair; strands of hair covered her face. She woke
up slowly, but didn't dare to sit up straight too quickly. She moaned due
to the throbbing in her head, but luckily, the light in the room didn't
make her squint. The room was filled with darkness beside a hanging light
above her. She could not tell either the width or the length and that
scared her.
Unknown to many people, including Vaughn, Sydney had a small phobia of the dark. Being afraid of monsters was not the case; it was fear of the unknown. She didn't know what stood 3 feet or 10 feet ahead of her and that frightened her. This fear might've been provoked when she was a little girl. While her father was on what he liked to call "business trips", Sydney would wake from terrible nightmares-most of them involving her mother-and nobody would be there to comfort her.
Actually, there had been someone, the Spanish maid, but it meant nothing to Sydney. She was just doing her job. Sydney needed love from a parental unit, from the only one she had. Sometimes, she would bite her lip and sit in the dark until she grew tired once more. Since then, a fear of being alone in the dark grew.
As a spy, though, she could not let this fear be known.
Soon the sounds of footsteps grew closer and Sydney stiffened. Soon Sark came into her line of vision. 'He looks tired,' Sydney noted, 'Possibly weak.'
"Good evening, Miss Bristow, I trust you slept well." He spoke with his usual charming British accent. Sydney had to admit, she had a weakness for accents.
"Fuck you," but she dare not show it.
"I'm glad to see you as well," Sark smirked, "I'm here to inform you that shall be speaking with my advisor, Mr. Sloane, momentarily. Your mother will be joining him."
"I don't have a mother; she died nearly 30 years ago,"
"On the contrary, I believe you do and she's alive and well." He retorted.
"Where am I?" Sydney changed the subject, her voice solid and stern. She had to show that she was un-fazed with all that she had gone through. To show weakness this far along the road could be very dangerous.
"You're in an abandoned factory, that's all you need to know for now," He told her. He loved being in this situation, Sydney was finally the weak one instead of an equal. She was the one being controlled, the puppet on the strings. Sark was the puppet-master now.
"Why are you doing this?" she said, locking her eyes onto his, "You know you are much greater without Sloane or Irina. You can be your own boss, not having to report to anyone. I can see you hate this. You hate having to be somebody else's bitch and do all the work. Sark, your capable to do so much more." His name rolled off her tongue, and he repressed the shivers that went down his spine. Before Sark could say something in return, there were the sounds of a cluster of boots approaching the area. Sark closed his mouth and nodded, as he stepped off to the side.
Sloane stepped into the lighten area. His ugly, beaten, old face showed a story of a man who had had his downfalls in life. Every wrinkle, every crease in his face showing frustration and sadness all at once. Sydney wanted to scoff, 'pathetic,' she thought, 'you're a pathetic, old fool.'
"Sydney, my darling baby Sydney. How lovely it is to see you," he gleamed, and over his shoulder she could see her mother. She hadn't changed, her demeaning eyes and scowl remained on her face, "You've been meddling in my plans again . now what have I told you before?" Sydney remained quiet, staring into the dark oblivion in front of her as she soaked in the worse, "Sydney, you know what I said before, I'll kill you if you try to interfere. Why can't people listen to me?," he raised his voice, showing the emphasis on his words, "Guards," he motioned with his hand.
At that moment, five guards with guns in their hand all stepped forward and surrounded her. The guard in front of her pointed his gun to her face, only inches from touching her nose.
"Ne pas tirer jusqu' à mon signal," he commanded them sternly.
France.
Sydney was in France. She had flown from Havana, Cuba to somewhere in France in only a matter of hours. The guard that stood in front of her, nodded at his command. Sydney kept her composure.
Meanwhile Sark stood in the corner, observing the scene. He grew uneasy at the sight of the guns. Sark knew of Sloane's plans to try to scare Sydney, but he wasn't serious about killing Sydney.
Was he?
"Sydney, I've loved you like a daughter since you were born. Even before that, I've always looked at you as if you were my own flesh and blood," he said, the expression on his face remained solid and strong, but like many other people in this terrible world, you're considered a threat." Sark's eyes shot between Sydney, Sloane, and the guards.
"Prêt," Sloane announced. A tear rolled down Sydney's cheek as she closed her eyes. Sloane looked unmoved, his eyes continually to stare at Sydney. Rage and Sadness mixed. No, no, no this is not right. This is not in the plan.
"Dessein," he continued. Sark was in panic mode now. What should he do? More like, what could he do?
"F-" Sloane began but was interrupted.
"STOP!" Sark yelled, knocking the gun out of the hands of the guard that stood in front of Sydney. All of them looked at him in bewilderment.
Unknown to many people, including Vaughn, Sydney had a small phobia of the dark. Being afraid of monsters was not the case; it was fear of the unknown. She didn't know what stood 3 feet or 10 feet ahead of her and that frightened her. This fear might've been provoked when she was a little girl. While her father was on what he liked to call "business trips", Sydney would wake from terrible nightmares-most of them involving her mother-and nobody would be there to comfort her.
Actually, there had been someone, the Spanish maid, but it meant nothing to Sydney. She was just doing her job. Sydney needed love from a parental unit, from the only one she had. Sometimes, she would bite her lip and sit in the dark until she grew tired once more. Since then, a fear of being alone in the dark grew.
As a spy, though, she could not let this fear be known.
Soon the sounds of footsteps grew closer and Sydney stiffened. Soon Sark came into her line of vision. 'He looks tired,' Sydney noted, 'Possibly weak.'
"Good evening, Miss Bristow, I trust you slept well." He spoke with his usual charming British accent. Sydney had to admit, she had a weakness for accents.
"Fuck you," but she dare not show it.
"I'm glad to see you as well," Sark smirked, "I'm here to inform you that shall be speaking with my advisor, Mr. Sloane, momentarily. Your mother will be joining him."
"I don't have a mother; she died nearly 30 years ago,"
"On the contrary, I believe you do and she's alive and well." He retorted.
"Where am I?" Sydney changed the subject, her voice solid and stern. She had to show that she was un-fazed with all that she had gone through. To show weakness this far along the road could be very dangerous.
"You're in an abandoned factory, that's all you need to know for now," He told her. He loved being in this situation, Sydney was finally the weak one instead of an equal. She was the one being controlled, the puppet on the strings. Sark was the puppet-master now.
"Why are you doing this?" she said, locking her eyes onto his, "You know you are much greater without Sloane or Irina. You can be your own boss, not having to report to anyone. I can see you hate this. You hate having to be somebody else's bitch and do all the work. Sark, your capable to do so much more." His name rolled off her tongue, and he repressed the shivers that went down his spine. Before Sark could say something in return, there were the sounds of a cluster of boots approaching the area. Sark closed his mouth and nodded, as he stepped off to the side.
Sloane stepped into the lighten area. His ugly, beaten, old face showed a story of a man who had had his downfalls in life. Every wrinkle, every crease in his face showing frustration and sadness all at once. Sydney wanted to scoff, 'pathetic,' she thought, 'you're a pathetic, old fool.'
"Sydney, my darling baby Sydney. How lovely it is to see you," he gleamed, and over his shoulder she could see her mother. She hadn't changed, her demeaning eyes and scowl remained on her face, "You've been meddling in my plans again . now what have I told you before?" Sydney remained quiet, staring into the dark oblivion in front of her as she soaked in the worse, "Sydney, you know what I said before, I'll kill you if you try to interfere. Why can't people listen to me?," he raised his voice, showing the emphasis on his words, "Guards," he motioned with his hand.
At that moment, five guards with guns in their hand all stepped forward and surrounded her. The guard in front of her pointed his gun to her face, only inches from touching her nose.
"Ne pas tirer jusqu' à mon signal," he commanded them sternly.
France.
Sydney was in France. She had flown from Havana, Cuba to somewhere in France in only a matter of hours. The guard that stood in front of her, nodded at his command. Sydney kept her composure.
Meanwhile Sark stood in the corner, observing the scene. He grew uneasy at the sight of the guns. Sark knew of Sloane's plans to try to scare Sydney, but he wasn't serious about killing Sydney.
Was he?
"Sydney, I've loved you like a daughter since you were born. Even before that, I've always looked at you as if you were my own flesh and blood," he said, the expression on his face remained solid and strong, but like many other people in this terrible world, you're considered a threat." Sark's eyes shot between Sydney, Sloane, and the guards.
"Prêt," Sloane announced. A tear rolled down Sydney's cheek as she closed her eyes. Sloane looked unmoved, his eyes continually to stare at Sydney. Rage and Sadness mixed. No, no, no this is not right. This is not in the plan.
"Dessein," he continued. Sark was in panic mode now. What should he do? More like, what could he do?
"F-" Sloane began but was interrupted.
"STOP!" Sark yelled, knocking the gun out of the hands of the guard that stood in front of Sydney. All of them looked at him in bewilderment.