OMBRETTA
by Nicole
A/N: Since this is tied in to my series, "Familiar
Face," I'm sticking with the girl names….Ombretta means "shadow"
(from the Italian word "ombra"). I understand this won't
attract too many reviews since it's not about the characters we all know and
love, but I'm viewing it more as an exercise to get into the mind of the
twisted sister I created for Sydney.
Feedback / E-Mail: nicole@lafetra.com
Disclaimer: I don't own "Alias" or any of the characters in it,
which, although it makes me sad, is a good thing because I would completely
screw it up.
Classification / Genre: Action/Adventure
Summary: In "Familiar Face," Sydney's sister turned from
being her ally to her worst enemy. But what's Kesi's story, anyhow?
Rating: PG-13 (violence)
Special Thanks: To everyone who wanted to see the back story behind this
twisted character I created, and especially to Amanda and Jenai, who
miraculously saved this chapter!
Part 2: Stars and Tears
I don't remember resenting her. My training revolved around Sydney, my very identity revolved around Sydney, but I didn't resent her. I was something she could never be. I was myself, yes, but I was also her. I could infiltrate her life and pass myself off as her with no one the wiser. Her happiness, her friends, her world: finally they were mine as well.
Or so I repeated to myself over and over again, through the long nights when my father was away. Perhaps I actually believed it.
But something else drove me on. "Sydney was chosen because she matched a profile," Father had told me. "You have been chosen because you match Sydney." The tiny hope began to rise that someday, Sydney would be chosen because she matched me.
* * *
They've lost my trail. I smirk as I watch the Russian soldiers stumbling around in the darkness. I check to make sure they're in no position to find their way out before doubling back through the trees. I have my own agenda to follow.
The deserted laboratory seems too convenient. Hidden behind a bush, I scan the grounds before me. No one appears, I don't even notice a shift in light, but my suspicions refuse to rest. No K-Directorate guard would run off into the forest without leaving someone to watch his post. There has to be someone hidden.
What if he sent someone else to help me? At first it seems an unlikely possibility, but as the minutes creep by and building remains silent and still, I realize the idea is not all that crazy. I fooled K-Directorate once, in Pennsylvania on my first mission; surely Father couldn't have believed I would be nearly as effective the second time. Besides, I've already come to the conclusion that he sent me as a test, a final opportunity to prove myself more loyal than she. And if I'm right, only one correct solution presents itself: to kill Sydney.
So maybe that's what this is all about. Maybe someone else was sent to take out the guards so that I could kill her unhindered. Now confident, I slide out from the cover of the bush and use the night as cover as I make my way down the slight slope to the laboratory. Sydney should be close to the end of the tunnels by now. Well, I'll be waiting. By the time I get back to the communications station, there will be no reason for Jack to suspect that I'm responsible for the death of his darling Sydney, and even if he does, I can take care of him. His death would be harder to explain, but not impossible.
I hesitate as I step into the light, ready to bolt at a gunshot. Nothing. Keeping my back to the wall, I pad softly to the corner. The silence remains and I relax slightly.
Suddenly a dark shape springs at me from behind the wall. I have no time to think before my reflexes take control. I step to one side and pivot smoothly, driving him to the wall with a well-placed kick. I slam my elbow into his face. The sharp snap of bone breaking is quickly lost in the clatter as his gun hits the ground. Enraged by the pain, he charges at me.
As I prepare myself to meet his attack, a faint glint catches my eye. I barely restrain a curse. Then he's on me and I'm twisting violently to avoid his knife while struggling to lock my hands on his neck. More than once I feel the steel kiss against my skin as we fight for control. He grabs my arm and twists it cruelly behind my back. My tears flow freely as I spin out of his grip and sidestep out of the way.
By luck he trips on a stone. I waste no time in smashing his knife to the ground with one booted foot, nearly slipping on the soft fingers. My other boot on his throat stifles his scream. His eyes widen and he begins to claw at my leg frantically, but I just shift my weight and watch dispassionately as his struggles weaken. Finally he goes limp, all resistance gone.
I've never killed a man before.
Slowly, I remove my foot from his throat, ready for a renewed attack. He does not move, and I wipe the bloody knife on his shirt and stow it in my pocket. Then I lean closer. From his jacket spills a cascade of wallet-sized photographs. Despite my reservations, I find myself drawn in by the desire to know who this man was whom I killed, the desire once again to escape into a life not my own.
The first photograph is of a little girl with pigtails. The contaminated light makes it impossible to tell what color hair she has, but even if I had been in broad daylight I doubt I could've shaken the image of another girl, with fine brown hair and lively brown eyes, that came over me. A girl who looked like me, but wasn't. A girl whom Father saw when he looked in my direction, whom I could never be.
I can still picture in my mind the only time I ever saw him excited. My nanny and I were staying in Los Angeles for once, under assumed names. Father ordered us both to stay in the hotel, for fear someone would see me and start asking unwelcome questions. We both obeyed without protest.
My nanny was reading to me when Father burst into the room. His cheeks were tinged red and he was smiling broadly. I leapt off the bed and ran to him, overjoyed at the unexpected visit. He swung me up into his arms before setting me down at the tiny counter.
I waited patiently as he grabbed a piece of paper from his jacket and set it down in front of me. I examined it with all the seriousness my seven-year-old self could manage. At the top was a box of circles, ranging from tiny specks to disks the size of a button. Along the bottom was another box of circles in a different pattern, as well as the words Left, Right, Top, Bottom, and Back.
"This is the same group of stars," my father explained to me eagerly, "Just rotated. Now which way was this—" he pointed to the top stars, "—rotated to get this?" He pointed to the bottom.
I stared at the page blankly, feeling his excitement slowly drain away as the silence stretched interminably. I tried to visualize the stars turning, but the image wouldn't stay in my mind. Finally, I turned to him and shrugged helplessly.
"I don't know."
He replaced the page with another one, and then that with yet another, but I could only reply "I don't know" each time. Soon, understanding this strange test became unimportant next to redeeming myself in my father's eyes.
"I don't know!"
At my outburst, Father set the pages down and turned towards me. I couldn't meet his eyes, couldn't understand why I had failed. "I don't understand," he said softly, mirroring my thought. "Sydney can see it with such ease." The thud of the door closing echoed in my ears and when I looked back up, he was gone. I quietly took the stars to my room.
Nights would find me desperately searching for answers among the papers Father had left behind. While my nanny slept in the corner, I spent hours sitting on the toilet seat in a dark bathroom, my knees drawn up to my chest, holding a flashlight in one small hand. I always woke up the next morning sprawled on my hotel bed with the pages of stars stacked neatly on the side table. My flashlight flickered weakly and within three days the batteries had died.
When we left Los Angeles, I hid the stars in a tiny opening in my suitcase where I had cut the fabric away from the bottom. I kept the folded papers in my pockets for weeks afterward, until finally the self-hatred overwhelmed me and I flung them into the fire. My nanny held me as we watched the flames consume my failure.
It had been two years since I first heard the name "Sydney Bristow," but I hadn't found out anything more about her in that time. Now I found myself faced with more questions. Who was this girl, who could draw meanings out of paper stars? Who was she, who could make my father so happy? But to me, the most important question was the most perplexing of all.
Why wasn't I her?
Suddenly furious with the renewed emotions of that time and my own foolish innocence, I rip up the photograph of the pig-tailed girl and throw the pieces into the bushes. Barely remembering to pick up his gun, I stumble away from the dead man and run into the laboratory as the tears threaten to fall.
to be continued…
