"Where is he??" Sydney said, voice raised, frustrated. She was
staring at the empty cell that had previously held Sark. All that was left
in the room was a mattress on the floor, and a blanket, slightly rumpled,
right next to it. It must have been part of the façade Sark had left behind
after he had gone-Sydney knew that he never slept.
"Hell if I know, Agent Bristow." Devlin snapped, banging his fist against the glass. Vaughn was talking to Weiss off to the side, but Syd noticed he looked preoccupied. I wonder what he makes of all this, she thought. How could he have gotten out?
Jack Bristow stood erect in the corner, brooding and stoic. His face never changed, but Sydney had gotten a little better at reading him over the years. It was still difficult to tell what he was thinking-it was one of the reasons he made such a good agent. He turned when he saw her looking at him, walking over to her.
"Did Sark say anything to you at all that gave you the indication that he was planning escape? Anything you didn't file in the report?" Her father spoke low, to avoid Devlin overhearing. Sometimes Sydney wondered if her Dad was on anybody's side at all, keeping secrets from both SD-6 and the CIA
"There was nothing else." Syd was learning how to lie with expert efficiency. She was good enough to convince her own father now. God, I'm a horrible person, Syd thought, only half serious.
"Alright everybody . . . This was just a bonus, and it's gone now. Life will go on as normal. Sydney, you're still on for the mission to Moscow with Derevco. In the meantime, Weiss, assemble a team to investigate Sark's disappearance. Send out notices to the airports. I don't think Sark would be stupid enough to travel mainstream, but you never know, you could get lucky." Devlin didn't get distracted easily, and this time was no different. But it had been different for Sydney.
She sighed and gathered her jacket up, ready to go out into the evening rain once more. There was nothing more to be done.
_________________________________
Sydney listened to Sarah Mclachlan on the way home in an attempt to calm her shaky nerves. Even after she had parked in front of her house, she just sat there with her eyes closed, engine off, listening to the music. This week had been hectic. More hectic than others.
"Make me a witness . . . . . . . ."
The rain spattered rhythmically on the roof of her car.
"Take me out . . . . . Out of darkness, out of Doubt . . . . . . . . ."
The beat of the rain, the soft music, and the cool air only enhanced Sydney's fatigue. It wasn't long before she was fast asleep in the front seat, keys still in the ignition, the battery still running.
_________________________________
It was twelve and Syd still wasn't back yet. Francie was getting worried. She knew that at work her bosses were Nazis, but nobody's supposed to work late til twelve. If there was only some way that she could convince Syd to give up her job . . . . . . . Francie knew it paid well, but she could tell it was driving Syd insane. Nervously, she glanced out the window, her eyes widened in surprise.
Syd's car had been parked out front all along, with Syd asleep in the front seat. This job's really did take a lot out of her. Running out with her purple umbrella and bunny slippers (Jesus, it was cold), she rapped frantically on Syd's window. She was gonna run out her battery if she stayed in there much longer. Francie could hear Sarah Mclachlan crooning faintly through the speakers.
As soon as she heard the noise, Syd jumped up in rapt attention. Francie never understood how Syd never seemed to get groggy; she just bounced right up. It was like she ran on adrenaline. When Syd saw Francie, she shook her head, laughing at herself, and turned off the car.
"What were you doing?" Francie asked, laughing. "Hon, you need a vacation. Tell your boss if he doesn't give you time off soon, I'm gonna go down there and kick his ass myself." Sydney laughed, getting out of the car.
"Somehow Francie I don't think that would be a good idea. You see-" Sydney didn't finish. Francie looked down. She hadn't noticed the book that had fallen off her lap when she had gotten out of the car. Obviously Sydney hadn't either, judging from the surprised look displayed on her face as she picked the book up off the wet street.
Wiping some of the rain off the cover, Sydney looked down to examine the title. It was an old-fashioned, crimson hard covered book, with gold embossed lettering for the title. Francie craned her neck to read.
THE POEMS OF PABLO NERUDA
"Funny, I don't even remember having this with me in the car earlier . . . ." Syd said, distant. She was smiling one of those secretive smiles, that Francie knew usually led to trouble. Francie laughed, and grabbed her arm, dragging her under the umbrella and out of the rain.
"You're crazy sometimes, Syd."
"Somehow I get the feeling this wasn't in my car at all from the start . . ." Francie had no idea what she was talking about. But then she only understood her friend about half the time anyways, and that was fine with her. Syd stuck the book in her bag, and arm in arm they walked up the slick cement steps, into the house.
__________________________________________
3 AM.
The red numbers on Syd's alarm clock blinked at her, almost as if they were trying to tell her that nobody sane would be up at this hour except herself. But she couldn't help it. So far in this job she had managed to escape insomnia, but her stress had finally caught up with her. She looked down at her rumpled bedspread, the sheets twisted from her frantic kicking and tossing and turning. Groaning in frustration, Syd turned the alarm clock to the wall so that she couldn't see the numbers. The red light echoed off the wall, sending eerie red shadow bouncing around the room.
Finally Sydney just gave up and unplugged the damn thing. Her glance strayed to the book she had found in her car, now innocently resting on the bureau. This was his fault.
But had she expected anything less?? Not really. Syd knew that if Sark escaped he was bound to taunt her.
It was a beautiful book, simple, crimson cloth binding. Probably first edition, and, if she knew Sark, probably very expensive. She hadn't dared to open the cover yet, but she imagined the papers slightly browned with age, smelling the way all books smell when they have been scented with history. Sydney loved the smell of books. As a child she had gone with her mother to the University Library often just for the smell.
At this point, Sydney had given up going to sleep. Too many thoughts ran through her head for her to contend with dreaming-Best to put this time to good use and investigate things. A devious smile crossed over Syd's face. What I need, she thought, is a little atmosphere . . . .
In the back corner of the closet was an antique candelabra that Syd had bought at an auction two years ago, simply because it gave her the spooky, Poe-ish feeling. Fishing it out of the shadows now, she struck a match, illuminating the darkness and casting an eerie dim glow about the room, creating more shadows than light. Syd smiled again. She loved feeling spooky.
Her bare feet crossed the cold hardwood floor as she picked up the book off the bureau. Reading after midnight had to be one of the coolest activities she knew.
Scanning the book, Sydney saw that all of her favorite poems by him were in there- and a few she hadn't seen before. Just as she had finished the twentieth poem, a slip of paper fell out of the book, gliding to the floor softly.
Sydney picked up the folded scrap of the floor. The words written upon it were punched out from an old typewriter, slightly uneven:
"So that you will hear me My words sometimes grow thin as the track of the gulls on the beaches.
I like for you to be still, and you seem far away. It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove. And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you: Let me come to be still in your silence.
Oh, let me remember you as you were before you existed.
I am the one without hope, the word without echoes, he who lost everything and he who had everything.
How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
Your presence is foreign, as strange to me as a thing. I think, I explore great tracts of my life before you. My life before anyone, my harsh life. The shout facing the sea, among the rocks, running free, mad, in the sea spray. The sad rage, the shout, the solitude of the sea. Headlong, violent, stretched towards the sky.
Such a passion of weeping tied to my body. Shaking of all the roots, attack of all the waves! My soul wandered, happy, sad unending.
Who are you, who are you?"
Sydney read through the poem again. It was a mixed bunch of stanzas from various Pablo Neruda poems . . . cut together in a rather disorganized fashion, but Sydney got its meaning. Sark was trying to relay one last message to her-both hoping and fearing that she might be the one to understand him.
It was probably hastily done on his typewriter, recently after breaking out, inserted into the book before he could think enough to stop himself, Sydney thought, picturing it in her head. Toying with the idea of reporting this to Devlin, Sydney soon decided against it, knowing that the only thing they would do is search the words millions of times for hidden meanings as to his location-meanings that weren't there.
Sydney yawned. She was suddenly very tired.
It wasn't five minutes after she had closed the book and pinched out the candle flames between her fingertips that she descended into her blissful subconscious, sleeping better than she had in years.
A/N: My apologies to Pablo Neruda* if he is rolling over in his grave right now since I spliced his work. Pablo, buddy, wherever you are, I worship your writing, and I have nothing but the utmost respect for you!** Mini-bib: lines 1-4 came from the poem "So That You Will Hear Me", lines 5- 8 come from the poem "I Like For You To Be Still", line 9 came from the poem "Every Day You Play", lines 10-11 came from the poem "White Bee", 12- 14 came from the poem "Every Day You Play", 15-26 came from the poem "Thinking, Tangling Shadows".***
*If you have not read any of his work, you really should.
**I will marry the man who writes poetry like that for me.
***Thank God for Romantic Chilean Poets!!!
"Hell if I know, Agent Bristow." Devlin snapped, banging his fist against the glass. Vaughn was talking to Weiss off to the side, but Syd noticed he looked preoccupied. I wonder what he makes of all this, she thought. How could he have gotten out?
Jack Bristow stood erect in the corner, brooding and stoic. His face never changed, but Sydney had gotten a little better at reading him over the years. It was still difficult to tell what he was thinking-it was one of the reasons he made such a good agent. He turned when he saw her looking at him, walking over to her.
"Did Sark say anything to you at all that gave you the indication that he was planning escape? Anything you didn't file in the report?" Her father spoke low, to avoid Devlin overhearing. Sometimes Sydney wondered if her Dad was on anybody's side at all, keeping secrets from both SD-6 and the CIA
"There was nothing else." Syd was learning how to lie with expert efficiency. She was good enough to convince her own father now. God, I'm a horrible person, Syd thought, only half serious.
"Alright everybody . . . This was just a bonus, and it's gone now. Life will go on as normal. Sydney, you're still on for the mission to Moscow with Derevco. In the meantime, Weiss, assemble a team to investigate Sark's disappearance. Send out notices to the airports. I don't think Sark would be stupid enough to travel mainstream, but you never know, you could get lucky." Devlin didn't get distracted easily, and this time was no different. But it had been different for Sydney.
She sighed and gathered her jacket up, ready to go out into the evening rain once more. There was nothing more to be done.
_________________________________
Sydney listened to Sarah Mclachlan on the way home in an attempt to calm her shaky nerves. Even after she had parked in front of her house, she just sat there with her eyes closed, engine off, listening to the music. This week had been hectic. More hectic than others.
"Make me a witness . . . . . . . ."
The rain spattered rhythmically on the roof of her car.
"Take me out . . . . . Out of darkness, out of Doubt . . . . . . . . ."
The beat of the rain, the soft music, and the cool air only enhanced Sydney's fatigue. It wasn't long before she was fast asleep in the front seat, keys still in the ignition, the battery still running.
_________________________________
It was twelve and Syd still wasn't back yet. Francie was getting worried. She knew that at work her bosses were Nazis, but nobody's supposed to work late til twelve. If there was only some way that she could convince Syd to give up her job . . . . . . . Francie knew it paid well, but she could tell it was driving Syd insane. Nervously, she glanced out the window, her eyes widened in surprise.
Syd's car had been parked out front all along, with Syd asleep in the front seat. This job's really did take a lot out of her. Running out with her purple umbrella and bunny slippers (Jesus, it was cold), she rapped frantically on Syd's window. She was gonna run out her battery if she stayed in there much longer. Francie could hear Sarah Mclachlan crooning faintly through the speakers.
As soon as she heard the noise, Syd jumped up in rapt attention. Francie never understood how Syd never seemed to get groggy; she just bounced right up. It was like she ran on adrenaline. When Syd saw Francie, she shook her head, laughing at herself, and turned off the car.
"What were you doing?" Francie asked, laughing. "Hon, you need a vacation. Tell your boss if he doesn't give you time off soon, I'm gonna go down there and kick his ass myself." Sydney laughed, getting out of the car.
"Somehow Francie I don't think that would be a good idea. You see-" Sydney didn't finish. Francie looked down. She hadn't noticed the book that had fallen off her lap when she had gotten out of the car. Obviously Sydney hadn't either, judging from the surprised look displayed on her face as she picked the book up off the wet street.
Wiping some of the rain off the cover, Sydney looked down to examine the title. It was an old-fashioned, crimson hard covered book, with gold embossed lettering for the title. Francie craned her neck to read.
THE POEMS OF PABLO NERUDA
"Funny, I don't even remember having this with me in the car earlier . . . ." Syd said, distant. She was smiling one of those secretive smiles, that Francie knew usually led to trouble. Francie laughed, and grabbed her arm, dragging her under the umbrella and out of the rain.
"You're crazy sometimes, Syd."
"Somehow I get the feeling this wasn't in my car at all from the start . . ." Francie had no idea what she was talking about. But then she only understood her friend about half the time anyways, and that was fine with her. Syd stuck the book in her bag, and arm in arm they walked up the slick cement steps, into the house.
__________________________________________
3 AM.
The red numbers on Syd's alarm clock blinked at her, almost as if they were trying to tell her that nobody sane would be up at this hour except herself. But she couldn't help it. So far in this job she had managed to escape insomnia, but her stress had finally caught up with her. She looked down at her rumpled bedspread, the sheets twisted from her frantic kicking and tossing and turning. Groaning in frustration, Syd turned the alarm clock to the wall so that she couldn't see the numbers. The red light echoed off the wall, sending eerie red shadow bouncing around the room.
Finally Sydney just gave up and unplugged the damn thing. Her glance strayed to the book she had found in her car, now innocently resting on the bureau. This was his fault.
But had she expected anything less?? Not really. Syd knew that if Sark escaped he was bound to taunt her.
It was a beautiful book, simple, crimson cloth binding. Probably first edition, and, if she knew Sark, probably very expensive. She hadn't dared to open the cover yet, but she imagined the papers slightly browned with age, smelling the way all books smell when they have been scented with history. Sydney loved the smell of books. As a child she had gone with her mother to the University Library often just for the smell.
At this point, Sydney had given up going to sleep. Too many thoughts ran through her head for her to contend with dreaming-Best to put this time to good use and investigate things. A devious smile crossed over Syd's face. What I need, she thought, is a little atmosphere . . . .
In the back corner of the closet was an antique candelabra that Syd had bought at an auction two years ago, simply because it gave her the spooky, Poe-ish feeling. Fishing it out of the shadows now, she struck a match, illuminating the darkness and casting an eerie dim glow about the room, creating more shadows than light. Syd smiled again. She loved feeling spooky.
Her bare feet crossed the cold hardwood floor as she picked up the book off the bureau. Reading after midnight had to be one of the coolest activities she knew.
Scanning the book, Sydney saw that all of her favorite poems by him were in there- and a few she hadn't seen before. Just as she had finished the twentieth poem, a slip of paper fell out of the book, gliding to the floor softly.
Sydney picked up the folded scrap of the floor. The words written upon it were punched out from an old typewriter, slightly uneven:
"So that you will hear me My words sometimes grow thin as the track of the gulls on the beaches.
I like for you to be still, and you seem far away. It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove. And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you: Let me come to be still in your silence.
Oh, let me remember you as you were before you existed.
I am the one without hope, the word without echoes, he who lost everything and he who had everything.
How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
Your presence is foreign, as strange to me as a thing. I think, I explore great tracts of my life before you. My life before anyone, my harsh life. The shout facing the sea, among the rocks, running free, mad, in the sea spray. The sad rage, the shout, the solitude of the sea. Headlong, violent, stretched towards the sky.
Such a passion of weeping tied to my body. Shaking of all the roots, attack of all the waves! My soul wandered, happy, sad unending.
Who are you, who are you?"
Sydney read through the poem again. It was a mixed bunch of stanzas from various Pablo Neruda poems . . . cut together in a rather disorganized fashion, but Sydney got its meaning. Sark was trying to relay one last message to her-both hoping and fearing that she might be the one to understand him.
It was probably hastily done on his typewriter, recently after breaking out, inserted into the book before he could think enough to stop himself, Sydney thought, picturing it in her head. Toying with the idea of reporting this to Devlin, Sydney soon decided against it, knowing that the only thing they would do is search the words millions of times for hidden meanings as to his location-meanings that weren't there.
Sydney yawned. She was suddenly very tired.
It wasn't five minutes after she had closed the book and pinched out the candle flames between her fingertips that she descended into her blissful subconscious, sleeping better than she had in years.
A/N: My apologies to Pablo Neruda* if he is rolling over in his grave right now since I spliced his work. Pablo, buddy, wherever you are, I worship your writing, and I have nothing but the utmost respect for you!** Mini-bib: lines 1-4 came from the poem "So That You Will Hear Me", lines 5- 8 come from the poem "I Like For You To Be Still", line 9 came from the poem "Every Day You Play", lines 10-11 came from the poem "White Bee", 12- 14 came from the poem "Every Day You Play", 15-26 came from the poem "Thinking, Tangling Shadows".***
*If you have not read any of his work, you really should.
**I will marry the man who writes poetry like that for me.
***Thank God for Romantic Chilean Poets!!!