Oh Crying Souls

by Ashni

Sloane sends our favorite spy on a mission to retrieve an oddly-named vase. (Written for Hil's March challenge.)

Title: Oh Crying Souls
Author: Nicole
E-mail: AshniPerpetua@go.com
Website URL: http://ashni.dot.nu
Feedback: Definitely!
Distribution: Archival is allowed and very much appreciated, just let me know where please!
Disclaimer: Although I would never turn down the opportunity to own these characters (especially Vaughn *wink*), they are owned by J.J. Abrams, Bad Robot Productions, ABC, and Touchstone.  Which is probably good because I would completely screw the whole show up.
Summary: Sloane sends our favorite spy on a mission to retrieve an oddly-named vase.
Rating: PG (language, a little violence)
Classification: General/Action/Adventure
A/N: Thanks so much to Jess (labyrinthine), my awesome beta-reader for this fic!  She is truly amazing.  : )  And go check out Hil's Credit Dauphine challenge: http://www.creditdauphine.net/schallenge.html !  (Actually, go check out the entire site, it's THE BEST place to find Alias fanfic.)  This story was written as a challenge piece and I can't get that wacky vase out of my head.  lol!  -Ashni

Sydney crouched in the shadows, listening to the click-click-click of the guard's boots as he made his rounds.  Her fingers brushed the soft dirt beneath her feet and she kept her eyes locked on the cement walk in front of her.  Harsh yellow light provided the only illumination in the moonless night.

She watched the guard's hazy shadow stretch around the corner and when he appeared, she was ready.  She sprang at him soundlessly with a spray in her hand.  Before he could do more than turn in her direction, the guard fell to the ground, unconscious.

Sydney quickly dragged him off the walk, into the darkness that had cloaked her only moments before.  She divested him of his keys and tossed his two guns into the bushes before darting back into the light.  Not another guard was due here for at least ten minutes, but she didn't want to take any chances and ran for the door.

Inside, the building was dark and still.  The soft whispers her feet made over the tiled floor seemed shockingly loud.  She pulled out a small flashlight and looked around.  Now, where would Storni keep the priceless vase he had acquired?

the previous afternoon

Sloane paced along the length of the table, looking at the picture that every monitor displayed.  "The missing half of the Rambaldi journal you photographed for us in Pennsylvania several weeks ago contained a sketch of this bracelet, which happens to be in our possession," he told her.

Sydney peered at her screen.  "What are the beads made out of?  Glass?"

"After we saw the sketch we tested them.  Most are indeed glass.  Six, however, are not--half of the round black beads are made out of some material we've never encountered before."

Marshall spoke up.  "Remember that synthetic polymer you got from Malaga?  The one that was way ahead of its time?  The six beads in this bracelet--" he pointed to his monitor, "--are to us what that polymer must have been to Rambaldi's friends.  If he had any.  Which isn't all that likely, because if you were making these kinds of things, would you really have time to be hanging out at the local coffee shop or, you know, doing what normal people do?  I mean--"

"Marshall," Sloane said impatiently.

"Right."  Marshall sat down quickly and Sloane resumed his explanation.

"From what little of Rambaldi's writing we've deciphered, the other six black beads were also, at one time, made of this same substance.  We believe someone stole them and put the glass in their places."

"Where would someone hide them?"

"In this vase."  Sloane pressed a button and a dark maroon vase appeared on the screens.  Faces, their features decorated in white, made up the opening.  "It's called the Vase of the Crying Souls and it is in the possession of a man named Peter Storni.  A century ago, six of Storni's ancestors died in a tragic accident that consumed the lives of over two hundred people.  His great-grandfather made this vase in remembrance of them.  The eyes were originally painted on, but six have been replaced with the beads."

"You want me to retrieve the vase."

"You leave tonight."

present

She crept up the stairs, keeping her flashlight pointed in front of her.  The lack of windows unnerved her, for although she was accustomed to working in near-total darkness she had never been able to shake the sense of total isolation that accompanied it.  And this way, she couldn't track the guards circling the building.

A dark shape lying at the top of the stairs suddenly materialized as an angry guard.  Sydney threw herself against the wall and kicked out viciously, hitting the man under the chin.  With a gurgle, he stumbled backward.  She kicked again.  He hit the wall and slid down, the gun falling from his hands to land with a clatter on the stairs.  Sydney tensed immediately, alert to any commotion outside that would warn her that someone was coming to investigate the noise.  The night remained silent.

There was one advantage to having no windows.  She may not be able to keep an eye on the guards, but they couldn't keep an eye on her, either.

Shelves filled the walls, covered in books, papers, and objects taken from all corners of the world.  An African mask stared at her with hauntingly blank eyes from its resting place against an intricate glass sculpture.  Decorated rolls of papyrus balanced precariously on top pf am assortment of French porcelain figurines.  Sydney gazed at the collection in wonder even as she scanned its contents for the vase.  It rested in a corner, almost hidden by a set of colorful juggling cubes.  Focused again, she set the cubes aside and carefully drew out the vase.  The faces stared up at her, lips curled in tiny smiles.

 the previous afternoon

"The weird thing about this vase is its name," Vaughn said, standing beside a pile of boxes.  "Vase of the Crying Souls.  But if you look at the faces depicted, they're smiling, laughing--definitely not crying."

Sydney frowned.  "Why the name, then?"

Her handler shrugged.  "From what we've uncovered, the creator of the vase didn't mean it as a sorrowful tribute to the death of his relatives; rather, as a celebration of death as a part of life.  I think someone with more modern views decided that it wasn't grim enough," he said wryly, grinning.  "Which is just another way of saying that we don't really know."

"Hm."  Sydney's face turned introspective.

"What?"

Her head snapped back up.  "Oh . . . nothing," she said, a sudden smile brightening her features.  "I was thinking, that's all."

Vaughn looked curious, but he didn't comment.  "I don't have a counter mission for you, other than to be watchful, as always.  Without examining that bracelet, we can't create counterfeit beads."

"I see.  Why does Sloane want this bracelet completed, anyway?  It doesn't seem like it could possibly be another clue."

"According to your father, the Rambaldi journal led Sloane to believe that the bracelet holds the key to eternal life," Vaughn said sardonically.

"Maybe he wants it for Emily."

"You think Sloane would be that selfless?"

Sydney chuckled.  "Good point.  So I'm just supposed to be observant tonight."

"That's it.  When does your plane leave?"

She glanced down at her watch.  "Two hours."

"Good luck."

present

Sydney turned the vase over in her hands, marking the cheerful expressions on the faces.  It was smaller than she had been led to believe by the pictures, but she was grateful: there were very few things harder than trying to evade armed guards while lugging around a large object.

A groan and soft creak warned her that the guard on the stairs had woken up.  She looked around frantically, but it only confirmed what she had already known: there were no windows, and therefore no other ways to escape except the door.  She tucked the vase under her arm and crept to the door, not making a sound.

"Damn thief…stole my gun…"  She could hear his confused mumbling as louder creaks told her he was getting up.  She edged through the doorway into the open space behind him, prepared to knock him out again.

"Shit!" he burst out as he stepped on the gun and recoiled, arms flailing.  Sydney took the opportunity and shoved him forcefully.  With a string of curses, he toppled down the stairs.

She clutched the vase in both hands as she leapt down after him, going as fast as she could without tripping herself.  His unconscious body created an ominous shadow at the bottom.  She leapt over the last three stairs and didn't pause as she landed jarringly on the tiles behind him.

Angry shouts rang out outside.  The uneven thudding of booted feet on the walkway alerted Sydney that her time was running out.  She burst through the front door as a group of three guards came running around the left corner.  "Stop there!" the first one ordered.

She bolted to her right, propelled by a burst of adrenaline.  Bullets whizzed by her to bury themselves in the bushes as she turned suddenly to sprint for a truck that was parked a hundred meters away.  She stooped to pick up a rock and smashed it into the window as she reached the truck.  Shards of glass dug into her arm, but she ignored them as she scrambled to unlatch the door.  It opened and she flung herself in.  Bullets rocked the truck.

A quick search of the guard's key ring revealed a small silver car key.  Sydney held her breath as she tried the key in the ignition.  It fit and she grabbed the wheel as the engine roared to life.  The truck disappeared into the darkness, leaving the guards standing in the hazy yellow light, yelling curses at her escape.

the next morning

Sydney stood in front of her dresser, fingering her engagement ring.  After Danny's death, she had hidden many of their pictures together in the top drawer, unable to look at them without tears rising in her eyes.  But the story of the vase wove through her thoughts and she felt a new perspective strengthening her.  To celebrate, instead of mourn.  To accept.

One by one, she pulled the pictures out—all still in their frames—and laid them on the bed.  The two of them at Disneyland, looking absolutely ridiculous in matching Mickey Mouse hats.  The two of them at his college roommate's wedding, dancing, oblivious to the couples around them.  The two of them at a ski resort in Tahoe, the one and only time she had been able to convince him to come downhill skiing.  Picture after picture, memory after memory.

Francie came home while she was putting the pictures back up around the house.  The open happiness on Sydney's face surprised her and she busied herself with looking through the pictures, trying to discreetly gauge the stability of her roommate's mood.  Her fingers trailed across the glass covering the picture she held, gently wiping away the dust.

"Done with grieving, Syd?" she asked neutrally.

Sydney hung another picture frame on the wall before answering, "I just figured it was better to appreciate the life we had instead of trying to forget the life we didn't."

The obvious content in her voice brought delighted tears to Francie's eyes as she realized Sydney had found a way to deal with her loss.  "I'm proud of you, hon."  She hugged her and went to the kitchen before she could turn Sydney's happiness into a dramatic scene.  "I think I'm going to have some of that leftover pasta for lunch; you want any?"

"That would be great.  I'm almost done here."

"Okay."

Sydney picked up the last picture and looked around for a suitable spot.  She smiled as she realized the perfect place to display it.  "I'll be right there, Francie."

"Sure."

She went into the bedroom and cleared off her bedside table.  Then she placed the picture on the table, angling it to face where her head would lie.  For a long while she just sat cross-legged on her bed, lost in the memories of happier years.

"Lunch is ready!"

"Thanks," she called back quickly.  She looked thoughtfully at the picture again, then tenderly set her engagement ring next to it.  "I'm coming, Francie!"  Without even a lingering look, she left the room.  The time for regret was over.