Title: Masada SD-6
Author: Rhythm
Spoilers: This takes place immediately after "Q&A". Everything afterwards
is very, very different.
Disclaimer: The show belongs to J.J. & Co. Syd and Vaughn belong to each
other. I own only the pretty pictures in my head.
Archive: Probably - but ask me first, just in case.
Feedback: You only have to send feedback if you read the story…
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Masada SD-6
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Note to readers:
The following is an interpretation of events that occurred between the 18th and the 20th of March, 2002. The information used here has been gathered from news briefs and reports, from eyewitnesses and survivors, and from educated guesses. According to the CIA, the FBI and the LA police, however, none of what you are about to read…ever happened.
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Chapter 1
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He hugs her close when the gunfire from outside shatters the window; shards flying everywhere, onto clothes, into their hair, over the agents' bodies on the floor. Sounds, muted before, now blaring. A searchlight from the helicopter above shining down harsh and bright upon them, a voice over a bullhorn demanding immediate surrender. He brushes at a scratch on her face, leaning in and breathing deep – her smell of sweat, gunpowder, no longer even vaguely of soap. His face in the hollow of her neck, his arms tight around her.
Pulling away, slowly, unwillingly, finally. Deep gaze, unblinking. Words unnecessary; course of action settled already. Turning in unison toward the lights as shouts from outside giving orders that won't be needed. Steeling of will, clearing of mind; ready.
He grips her hand as they break into a run.
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One, two, three, four – four steps from the door to the desk. Pacing. One, two, three, four – Vaughn's fingers part the blinds as he peers out at the common area, at the bee-busy workers in their cubicles. 7 a.m., work day beginning – fourteen hours since Sydney drove into the ocean. The car, pulled from the water; no body inside. Earlier, there was hope against hope, hope against understanding, against logic. That has faded. He sits down at his desk and leans slowly forward, head in arms.
The light from the desk lamp turns early morning into artificial noon, out of place, eye-aching and offensive. Darkness is better suited to worry, more appropriate to self-condemnation. The leather chair creaks as he buries his head further into his coat sleeves, making his own personal dim hole of denial. Fingers that tremble slightly make trails through his hair as he silently reviews the past day's events, reconsidering, rewriting, reproaching. Do overs, second chances, not possible.
If the phone would ring, if a voice would say reassuring things on the other end, if the voice, clear and strong, would belong to Sydney. I'm ok, just a mistake. All's well.
{Sydney in the sunlight, arms outstretched, embracing him finally, troubles past, future ahead.}
If only.
His secretary, all blonde control and competence, asks from the doorway if he'd like a coffee. Her voice is compassionate in his ears, and he waves her away. No dilution of these emotions, please; they are to be replayed, again and again, until the footage of that car parting the water is indelible in his head. There must be blame here, harsh and uncompromising. Every detail must be reviewed, every error caught, then added to the column of guilt stacked high behind his eyes.
Failures. Frightening that the word should be relevant here, ghastlier still that it should be plural. A prophecy to be debunked, disproven; it hadn't happened. An arrest to be stopped; he hadn't done it. In silence he had sat, as Sydney's eyes accused him of being a fraud, a betrayer, the worst of friends. The worst of enemies.
The breakout had been easier even than he had hoped. A simple stick-up, hands-in-the-air easy. They'd been off before anyone had seen a thing. But Sydney…he had not seen forgiveness in her eyes. Anger, yes, and confusion. True, in his car he'd made her laugh, as she squirmed out of her clothes in his trunk –
It doesn't matter. The car he'd given her to drive to safety is waterlogged now and useless, and the images in his head are beginning to congeal, forming an accusatory portrait of Sydney, staring with dead eyes as the water rises around her. Slowly rising, caressing first her jawbone, then her lips; filling her nose and ears and finally immersing the eyes. Eyes, magnified by the refraction into terrible great terrible pools of indictment.
When the phone rings, loud and alarm-like, he reflexively knocks it off the desk with a jerk of his arm. Still ringing, it lies belly up on the floor, and he stares at it. Sydney – he wants it to be her voice that he hears. Forgiving, comforting…what if it isn't? Then who? What? Is it better to not know? Voice mail is about to pick up; he reaches down and pulls it up to his ear.
Jack Bristow. Something about air and tires and – alive? A sudden spasm jolts him, and the phone drops from his grasp. It slides under the desk; with a curse he dives after it. Crouched under his desk with the phone in a death grip against his ear, he listens in silence as the blood pumps up to his face, leaving him flushed, pounding ears nearly drowning the voice out; she's all right, but there's very little time. Too much time since the breakout. The CIA plane is being watched, time for a backup plan. A new cover identity, a fast drive to another airport, a jet to Italy.
Everything will be fine if she gets to Italy.
Jack's voice is suddenly more intense, more insistent; Vaughn realizes he's been nodding into the phone, a little too shellshocked to speak. SD-6 has assigned him to an undercover mission, Jack says, and he leaves in just a few hours. Take care of her, Jack says. There is great seriousness in his voice. Help her.
Of course he says he will.
He rises to his feet, straightening a vertebra at a time. There is a second of stillness; big shifts require adjustment. Then, as a furtive smile crawls across his face, he springs into action, the second chance energizing him and speeding him on his way. He turns off the lamp, leaving the room in shadow as he softly closes the door behind him.
{Sydney in the sunlight, arms outstretched, embracing him finally, troubles past, future ahead.}
Suddenly it's possible.
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There are some advantages to being presumed dead. In this case, the advantage is that the FBI won't be staking out Sydney's house; there is time to go by and pick up necessities for the trip. Traffic is light today; she is but a few minutes away from home. Vaughn glances at her every block or so, just out of the corner of his eye, making sure she's really there. She looks small, somehow, leaning against the passenger side door; still a little wet in her clothes, a little drawn, definitely tired. To Vaughn, the smell of saltwater is an encouraging sign of her actuality; otherwise she looks far too much like the ghost she's supposed to be.
He had expected to be sympathetic but businesslike when he picked her up, just like normal. Another day of work, another mission, another meeting. This time, to his surprise, he has trouble meeting her eyes. Maybe it is the blue velour track-suit that he'd given her to wear, that she still wears, like a reminder that his efforts have failed to keep her safe. She is safe, but not thanks to him. Maybe in spite of him. He slows to a stop at a red light, silent.
"One more block, then take a right," she says, and he is grateful for the lack of condemnation in her voice. It makes him smile, encouraged, and she looks at him with a little confusion.
"It's a little weird that you don't know the way to my house," she says.
He agrees. So much time together, never to have been over. Naturally, it was always impossible. Far beyond imprudence. There had been thoughts, of course, at least on his part – appearing at her door, pretending to be just another guy from the bank. An accountant, an analyst, something equally appropriate for discouraging questions. Vaughn knows her address – he has it memorized – but he never showed up with wine or flowers or even a classified countermission file. And even today, he's not coming in.
"I'll let you out a few houses down, then circle the neighborhood. Five minutes enough?" he asks as he takes a right.
"Should be," she says, "I pack light."
"I bet it'll be nice not to have to take along those outfits SD-6 makes you wear. No stilettos, no spandex getups."
"Well," she says as a mischief-line creases in between her eyes, "they're rarely any worse than blue velour track suits."
"Hey," he says, "you knocking my taste in clothing?"
She laughs, and the worry melts from her face. "Totally."
Motioning him to a stop, she puts a pale hand on the door. He sees a broken nail on the index finger, and, for a second…he sees
{ that same hand, frantically tearing at the hubcap of an underwater tire, desperately seeking the air that will prevent asphyxiation and arrest.}
Then the hand, dry again, pulls the release on the door and pushes it open.
"Back in five, right?"
He nods, and she shuts the door softly. He knows he should pull away immediately – every second he stays in place is another chance for someone to spot him – but he doesn't put the car in drive again until Sydney closes her front door behind her.
Circling the neighborhood, he takes a left; back the way he came.
He's often wondered about how Sydney packs for one of her missions for SD-6. There are so many things to bring and so little space; all the accessories of a cover identity (push-up bra, stockings, fake hair and eyelashes); the tools of a spy (always rope, always gadgets). And, crammed in wherever they will fit, the personals; dainty undergarments, sensible shoes, maybe melatonin for the jet lag. It seems strange to Vaughn that he is the least sure of what Sydney takes for herself.
Whatever it is, she has learned to fit it all into a stewardess-size carry-on.
He comes back toward the house from the opposite direction as before, and it isn't until he is a few driveways away that he sees the black Suburbans. Three of them, parked front to tail on the street, just far enough away from Syd's apartment that he didn't see them the first time. As he passes, he sees a man with an telephone earpiece and a suit, talking animatedly to no-one Vaughn can see.
And as Syd's front door comes into view, he sees more men, masked and in black, assault rifles in hand. They are grouped on the porch but part to make way for
Sydney.
She sees him as they lead her toward the vans; one quick flash of recognition before she averts her eyes. His foot hovers, panicked, over the brake. A moment of wild indecision – jump out to save her now, before she's too far gone; and maybe die bloody and shamed on the grass. Or wait, possibly until she's beyond his reach. Either way is insanity.
He presses hard on the gas.
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End of Chapter 1
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