Title: Memories Never Fade
Author: J-J
Spoilers: none
Rating: PG
Summary: A Sark backstory fic.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sark or Irina; they belong to ABC, JJ and others. The plot, however, is my own and any similarities to real life etc are purely coincidental.
Classification: Drama/Mystery
Distribution: Dark Enigma and Cover Me. All others please ask
A/N: This was fun to write. It's my first real attempt at fanfiction and I hope it's not too crappy and confusing. All reviews are appreciated. Thanks go out to CG for her beta and prlrocks for doing a final read-through for me.
He takes the newspaper clipping out of the rusted tin box. Its hinges creak as he shuts the lid and unfolds the yellowing paper. The clipping feels light and delicate in his hands, like it will crumble to bits if he isn't careful. Despite its age, the words have not lost their intensity. Each letter, black and bold, etched within the page as if it were carved with stone. A shiver runs up his spine as he remembers the day his life changed forever.
"Just five more minutes, mum! I've almost won." "Honey, your father is already waiting in the car. We'll come back to the arcade later, I promise." "But mum, I'm about to set a new high score."
His mother taps her foot, glancing over her shoulder. Clutching the strap of her large brown bag, she calmly speaks again. The boy immediately takes heed, not wishing to further aggravate his mother.
"You can play another day. I've already explained to you how important this meeting is."
Without a word, the child steps away from the machine and takes his mother's hand. He cannot be more than five and yet his expression shows that he is wise beyond his years. There is fear in his mother's eyes, though any spectator would not have noticed any cause for it.
The pair walk out of the arcade and head toward the street with a steady gait. It is early September and the temperature outside is at a sweltering high. The boy squints in the sun as the mother pauses to withdraw a pair of sunglasses from her purse. It is a common pair of shades, nothing especially notable about it. The frame is a deep red color, not too thick and not too thin. The lenses are brown tinted and cast a reddish-tan glow on the mothers face as she lifts the pair to her face.
He always loved watching her do the commonest of things. The way she would brush her long wavy golden hair at night. How her face would light up whenever he brought her one of his drawings from the academy. Or how she would constantly wring her hands together whenever his father was on one of his extensive business trips.
He hasn't thought about that day in several years. He doesn't really know why he'd want to dredge up those memories again. He turns his attention to the clipping, which features a picture of the plaza. He remembers the place with acute detail. The arcade was located next to the large department store where his mother loved to shop. He always loved it when she took him with her when she went shopping because it meant a chance for him the play Alien Challenge. He was five at the time and couldn't reach most of the games, but Alien Challenge was a shooting game and all he had to do was point the black plastic gun upward to hit the target.
He went back there when he was fourteen, but the arcade was no longer in the plaza. Nor was the department store. As a matter of fact, the whole plaza had been torn down. In its place was a huge warehouse. He recalls staring up at the massive building devoid of life, feeling lost and violated.
He is not sure why he is so upset. He does not own the plaza and he no longer had fond memories of the place. None the less, he never expected the place to be gone. All traces of its existence wiped from the area. His emotions soon turn to disbelief. How can it be gone? Then anger, I'll make this right
He didn't have much money. Only a 50 pound note that he had lifted out of his foster mother's wallet. He had spent his own money on the train ticket. He didn't have any food or belongings with him either, just the clothes on his back.
There is a shopping strip about 10 blocks away from the warehouse. Very convenient. He walks in a hardware store and strolls casually toward the back where paints and the like are located. He spots a selection of spray paints and chooses the red and the blue. He also picks up a bottle of all purpose fast-drying glue. He calculates the total in his head, about 17 pounds-close to a third of his funds. He casts a furtive glance before slipping behind the last aisle. He checks to make sure there are no cameras around as he stuffs the spray paint cans into his oversized shirt. He tucks the shirt into his equally oversized hand-me-down jeans and zips up his brown weathered jacket. After making sure the cans are not sticking out and that he doesn't look too suspicious, he steps out from behind the shelf and proceeds to the checkout counter. The cashier doesn't give him a second glance. She smacks her gum and rings up the glue, speaking in a monotone, "That'll be 6.68."
He quietly hands over his 50-pound note and this draws a spark of attention from the girl. He pretends not to notice and she doesn't say anything. After passing him the change, he grabs his glue and murmurs a quiet "thank you" before walking briskly out of the shop. He lets out his breath, not realizing he was even holding it. He knows he should feel bad about stealing the paint, but he doesn't. In fact, he feels excited-proud even. He congratulates himself on his accomplishment and quickly walks, half runs back to the warehouse.
The street lamps light up halfway there, but they do not worry him. He must wait for dusk anyway.
The area around the warehouse is deserted. There is a lone guard reading a magazine at the front entrance. He does not want to be seen so he walks back the way he came.
Nearing the busier roads now, he spots a clock through the window of an antique shop. 19:14. He'll wait until it is 20:30 before returning. His stomach growls, and he realizes that he has not eaten since this morning, when he consumed the entire box of 'good' biscuits. He also drank a glass of his foster dad's best wine. It was sweet and burned on its way down. He didn't much care for the taste; that wasn't what drew him to it. That bastard will throw a fit when he finds out. He smiles and crosses the street to a diner.
The diner looks ratty and run down from the exterior, but inside it is warm and inviting, bustling with people. The powerful smell of deliciously greasy foods greet him as he pulls open the door. It is a weekday and there are few people in the establishment, but he heads for the back table anyway.
He doesn't have to wait long before a pretty waitress arrives at his table. Her hair is a rich golden color-like his mother's. She has it up in a messy ponytail with strands falling out of it and down in front of her face. He draws his eyes away from her hair and tries to concentrate on her speech.
"I'm sorry, can you repeat that?" "What would you like to drink," she repeats, raising her eyebrows slightly.
His hands acknowledge the menu she has placed in front of him and he glances at it briefly before replying, "I'll just take a water, thanks."
He can't afford to be wasteful.
She leaves to get his water and he turns his attention to the menu. The pictures of steaks and deserts tantalize him, but he reasons that he should choose something with nutritional value. He decides upon a burger with a side of salad. The waitress returns with his water and writes down his order. His eyes are once again drawn to her hair, which he now notices, is wavy. They exchange a minimum of words before she leaves again.
Sipping the water, his eyes wander around the room. The wooden tables are discolored by food spills and water rings. The walls are tile and he wonders absently why the tables are not plastic. The couple sitting two tables down is sharing a desert, a banana split. He tries not to ogle but he can feel the hunger more acutely now.
It takes ten minutes for the food to come. He knows. He counted. The waitress who carried his food out was not the pretty blonde girl. This one is older, with reddish-brown hair-like the lenses he remembers his mother wearing. She doesn't say anything as she sets down his food, but he whispers back a 'thank you.' His mother always said, "If nothing else, be polite."
After she leaves, he attacks his salad. He has never been a big fan of vegetables. The taste of meat has always been more tantalizing. He could imagine chewing a juicy piece of steak; he liked his rare. Eating steak required the death of an animal. Somehow the thought excited him. Eating salad is in essence eating leaves, which is akin to eating grass, like a cow would. The irony is not lost on him.
He is done with his salad in less than five minutes. It is not yet 20:00. He takes a sip of his water and separates the burger. He delicately pulls off the onion then grabs the half-empty Heinz ketchup bottle off the table. He squeezes some onto the meat and uses his spoon to spread the sauce. Placing the bun back on top, he takes a timid bite. It's not bad, though not exactly his favorite food. A burger just seems lower class to him, not that he could be considered upper class. His numerous foster parents have been neither rich nor classy.
With the help of imagination, he is able to turn a simple supper into an extravagant dining experience. He has succeeded in quickly passing the minutes. By the time he had finished the hamburger and drank the water, it was well past 20:30.
Leaving a generous 20% tip, (she got extra brownie points for her resemblance to his mother) he leaves the restaurant. A gust of wind greets him as he steps out of the building. He struggles to zip up his jacket, finding the zipper to be stuck. Giving up, he secures the newly purchased bottle of glue in his jacket pocket and resolves to holding the jacket closed.
Two minutes into the walk, he begins to feel queasy. He blames the most recent meal, but he knows it is not true. He ignores the nausea and tightens the jacket around him as he trudges on.
The warehouse is almost in sight, but the cans are becoming a real burden for him. He feels like a pregnant woman weighted down by the extra load. He pulls out the two metal tubes, carrying them in hand for a while. Pausing under a street lamp, he considers his options. He can either turn back now, avoiding possible danger and face his foster parents or go through with this and pray-no, hope that he gets lucky and makes a clean escape. Stalling, he reads the directions on the paint cans: "Shake before use."
Like his life. Only it is closer to "shake in the midst of using."
He reads the glue: "Apply sparingly and allow 2 hours to dry." Two hours is a long time. The glue no longer seems like a good idea.
He can feel his face turning hot despite the cool night air, and realizes that he has been standing under the bright light for over ten minutes.
He scolds himself for being so cowardly, and with new resolve, he once again heads toward the warehouse. As it comes into sight, he cannot believe his luck. The front guard is asleep, head hanging to one side, magazine slipped to the ground. Picking up the pace, he half jogs the rest of the distance. He can now hear the guard's heavy breathing. Careful not to wake him, he walks slowly toward the side of the building facing the street. He glances around to ensure that he is alone then sets the red can on the gravel floor before proceeding to uncap the blue one. He hesitates before shaking the can, afraid the noise might wake the guard. He rationalizes that if the shaking wakes the man, at least he cannot be accused of property damage. He has nothing to lose.
Tentatively drawing a line, he grows bolder as he sees the bright blue appear before his eyes and smells the acrid scent of harsh chemicals. He writes his words in blue and accents the piece with red. The red is vivid and intense upon the gray walls, even in the dim light. Red. Like that day.
He realizes that his hands are shaking. He steadies himself and stands up to walk to the bathroom. Setting the clipping down, he turns on the facet and splashes water on his face. The liquid feels cool and refreshing. He doesn't bother to grab a towel, just lets the water run down his face, into his eyes and onto his shirt. He blinks at himself in the mirror and lets out a breath. He's changed so much since then. He didn't know then, but he's grown more like his father everyday. He hadn't really considered the consequences. He knew they existed, he heard the nagging voice in the back of his head telling him no one every got off scotch free, but he didn't care. He was young and foolish then. Maybe he still is.
He steps back to admire his handiwork. "i will NOT forget." The words have a luminescent property, popping out at him from the gray metallic walls. Red paint is splattered all over with no apparent design. The scene looks horrific and yet it draws sympathy. He smiles, shaking the red can to apply a few final touches.
He hadn't heard the guard come up behind him, but then again if he had, he would not be tied up to this chair. The bonds are tight, uncomfortably so. He's not sure how long he has been sitting here, but if feels like an eternity. He has had time to digest his surroundings. This seems to be a storage room for grain. There are shelves piled high with burlap bags and the air smells of dust. The room has no windows and he idly wonders what would happen if he needed to use the bathroom. He feels like he is in a late night horror movie, tied up in the dark, waiting for the evil, bad guy to come.
The person who enters doesn't look evil. The 'bad guy' isn't a guy at all. She's tall and beautiful. Her auburn brown hair swings back and forth as she walks toward him. She is the last person he would ever expect to be his captor.
Their first meeting has always stuck in his head. Perhaps it was the circumstances, but he prefers to think it is because of her magnificent presence. She had such a glorious smile, bright and warm. She seemed almost motherly, albeit a very young and suave mother. He's not sure what she saw in him. This? He didn't even see it himself, but that's the thing about Irina. She always saw things other people didn't. That's what made her ten times more dangerous than anyone else. That and her deceptive demeanor.
He picks up the newspaper clipping again. Such a little sheet of paper and yet so powerful.
"What are you running from?"
He thought it was an odd question. It bore no relevance to his transgressions. Who is she?
"Nothing."
"Don't lie to me. I can see it in your eyes."
She's not mad, but he knows she's deadly serious. He keeps quiet. What he doesn't say cannot incriminate him.
"Then tell me, what are you doing here? Out on a little teenage rampage? I hardly believe you snuck out of you flat just to tag the warehouse. It's hardly an act of rebellion. Or perhaps you're just too stupid to conjure up a better form of entertainment."
He ignores her remark and instead shifts his gaze to the only door in the room. He doesn't have time to register the sting across his face before he feels her fingers jerk his ear up, causing him wince.
"Didn't you mother teach you to respect your elders? Look at me when I talk to you."
"I don't have a mother," he spits out angrily.
Confusion flashes briefly through her eyes, but it only takes her a moment to recover, "So you're nothing but a street urchin."
At this, she seems to lose interest in him and backs away. She's almost at the door when he calls out to her, "I'm not running from anything."
This sparks her interest and she half turns back to him.
"I just wanted to see this place again. I didn't mean to tag the wall."
"Oh? So you were demon possessed and you had no control over you own actions?"
"Are you going to let me go?"
"So soon? Didn't you say you wanted to come back here? Well you're here, might as well stay a while."
She turns to leave again, but now he's desperate, "Wait! Don't leave, I lied. I have to be home. My parents will telephone the police if I don't come home."
"You don't have parents. Remember?"
The next part is a blur. He doesn't remember much of what happened, except that he must have fallen asleep because he is on a cot. As to how he got here, he's unclear. He still has on the same oversized garb as before, only his jacket is gone, as well as his shoes. They were torn up anyway, he reasons.
His cheek is still sore from yesterday, but it is nothing he hasn't experienced before. He still has the bruises from his foster dad's last drunken outburst. He is in the same room as before, only without his constraints. He immediately heads for the door, and almost gets hit in the head when it opens.
She's carrying a tray of food: eggs, sausages, croissants and orange juice. His mouth waters as breathes in the delicious smell.
"I hope you slept well," she says cordially, as if it is perfectly normal for her to be entertaining a 14-year-old boy.
He is confused by this sudden change turn of events and is reasonably distrustful of her intentions, "What's going on?"
She ignores his question, setting the tray on his cot.
"Aren't you hungry?"
"Yes."
"Eat, then we'll talk."
She leaves before he can ask anything else. His gaze is drawn to the food and a rumble reminds him that he's hungry again. The food is probably poisoned. Never the less, he stuffs a sausage into his mouth and gulps down a half of the juice. Grabbing a croissant, he heads to the door, not wanting to delay his escape.
Surprisingly, the door is unlocked. His room leads to a set of stairs and he discovers that his room is really the basement of the warehouse. He climbs the stairs and presses his ear against the door in attempt to hear any outside movement. He hears nothing and proceeds to open the door. The full expanse of the warehouse lies before him, and he rejoices at seeing the door just a few yards to his left. Heading it that direction he is stopped cold by her voice.
"Leaving so soon? And without even saying goodbye?"
She knew him inside out. Even then she knew him better than himself. She played his fears, his desires and his drive for vengeance.
The article is titled Plaza Bombing Shocks World and Kills 23. He wasn't killed. Neither was his father.
"Mum, can I have a balloon?" The boy spots a vendor on the side of the street and runs ahead.
He's half a block away when the place explodes. One minute he is running to the cart, the next moment he is on the ground. He hears screaming all around him, but he doesn't know what is happening.
"Mummy? Mummy?" He turns back and runs, but someone stops him.
"Where are you going?"
"My mummy. I want my mummy."
The article said the bombing was the work of lone terrorist, Gerald Candar. An isolated incident.
He never saw his father after that day. The old lady who stopped him on the road took him to a shelter, where he was placed in his first foster home four months later.
He has since learned that his father worked in intelligence. A spy. A ranking official in SD-3.
When he accepted Irina's offer to join her mission, he did not know this. But she did. She knew his ambition would drive him to be a part of the intelligence world. She also knew that it would be his vengeance that kept him in it.
"What is your name?"
He's about to answer when he stops. Jonathan. His name. His father's name. The father he hasn't seen in nine years.
"Sark," he answers. His mother's maiden name. "Just Sark."
End.
Author: J-J
Spoilers: none
Rating: PG
Summary: A Sark backstory fic.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sark or Irina; they belong to ABC, JJ and others. The plot, however, is my own and any similarities to real life etc are purely coincidental.
Classification: Drama/Mystery
Distribution: Dark Enigma and Cover Me. All others please ask
A/N: This was fun to write. It's my first real attempt at fanfiction and I hope it's not too crappy and confusing. All reviews are appreciated. Thanks go out to CG for her beta and prlrocks for doing a final read-through for me.
He takes the newspaper clipping out of the rusted tin box. Its hinges creak as he shuts the lid and unfolds the yellowing paper. The clipping feels light and delicate in his hands, like it will crumble to bits if he isn't careful. Despite its age, the words have not lost their intensity. Each letter, black and bold, etched within the page as if it were carved with stone. A shiver runs up his spine as he remembers the day his life changed forever.
"Just five more minutes, mum! I've almost won." "Honey, your father is already waiting in the car. We'll come back to the arcade later, I promise." "But mum, I'm about to set a new high score."
His mother taps her foot, glancing over her shoulder. Clutching the strap of her large brown bag, she calmly speaks again. The boy immediately takes heed, not wishing to further aggravate his mother.
"You can play another day. I've already explained to you how important this meeting is."
Without a word, the child steps away from the machine and takes his mother's hand. He cannot be more than five and yet his expression shows that he is wise beyond his years. There is fear in his mother's eyes, though any spectator would not have noticed any cause for it.
The pair walk out of the arcade and head toward the street with a steady gait. It is early September and the temperature outside is at a sweltering high. The boy squints in the sun as the mother pauses to withdraw a pair of sunglasses from her purse. It is a common pair of shades, nothing especially notable about it. The frame is a deep red color, not too thick and not too thin. The lenses are brown tinted and cast a reddish-tan glow on the mothers face as she lifts the pair to her face.
He always loved watching her do the commonest of things. The way she would brush her long wavy golden hair at night. How her face would light up whenever he brought her one of his drawings from the academy. Or how she would constantly wring her hands together whenever his father was on one of his extensive business trips.
He hasn't thought about that day in several years. He doesn't really know why he'd want to dredge up those memories again. He turns his attention to the clipping, which features a picture of the plaza. He remembers the place with acute detail. The arcade was located next to the large department store where his mother loved to shop. He always loved it when she took him with her when she went shopping because it meant a chance for him the play Alien Challenge. He was five at the time and couldn't reach most of the games, but Alien Challenge was a shooting game and all he had to do was point the black plastic gun upward to hit the target.
He went back there when he was fourteen, but the arcade was no longer in the plaza. Nor was the department store. As a matter of fact, the whole plaza had been torn down. In its place was a huge warehouse. He recalls staring up at the massive building devoid of life, feeling lost and violated.
He is not sure why he is so upset. He does not own the plaza and he no longer had fond memories of the place. None the less, he never expected the place to be gone. All traces of its existence wiped from the area. His emotions soon turn to disbelief. How can it be gone? Then anger, I'll make this right
He didn't have much money. Only a 50 pound note that he had lifted out of his foster mother's wallet. He had spent his own money on the train ticket. He didn't have any food or belongings with him either, just the clothes on his back.
There is a shopping strip about 10 blocks away from the warehouse. Very convenient. He walks in a hardware store and strolls casually toward the back where paints and the like are located. He spots a selection of spray paints and chooses the red and the blue. He also picks up a bottle of all purpose fast-drying glue. He calculates the total in his head, about 17 pounds-close to a third of his funds. He casts a furtive glance before slipping behind the last aisle. He checks to make sure there are no cameras around as he stuffs the spray paint cans into his oversized shirt. He tucks the shirt into his equally oversized hand-me-down jeans and zips up his brown weathered jacket. After making sure the cans are not sticking out and that he doesn't look too suspicious, he steps out from behind the shelf and proceeds to the checkout counter. The cashier doesn't give him a second glance. She smacks her gum and rings up the glue, speaking in a monotone, "That'll be 6.68."
He quietly hands over his 50-pound note and this draws a spark of attention from the girl. He pretends not to notice and she doesn't say anything. After passing him the change, he grabs his glue and murmurs a quiet "thank you" before walking briskly out of the shop. He lets out his breath, not realizing he was even holding it. He knows he should feel bad about stealing the paint, but he doesn't. In fact, he feels excited-proud even. He congratulates himself on his accomplishment and quickly walks, half runs back to the warehouse.
The street lamps light up halfway there, but they do not worry him. He must wait for dusk anyway.
The area around the warehouse is deserted. There is a lone guard reading a magazine at the front entrance. He does not want to be seen so he walks back the way he came.
Nearing the busier roads now, he spots a clock through the window of an antique shop. 19:14. He'll wait until it is 20:30 before returning. His stomach growls, and he realizes that he has not eaten since this morning, when he consumed the entire box of 'good' biscuits. He also drank a glass of his foster dad's best wine. It was sweet and burned on its way down. He didn't much care for the taste; that wasn't what drew him to it. That bastard will throw a fit when he finds out. He smiles and crosses the street to a diner.
The diner looks ratty and run down from the exterior, but inside it is warm and inviting, bustling with people. The powerful smell of deliciously greasy foods greet him as he pulls open the door. It is a weekday and there are few people in the establishment, but he heads for the back table anyway.
He doesn't have to wait long before a pretty waitress arrives at his table. Her hair is a rich golden color-like his mother's. She has it up in a messy ponytail with strands falling out of it and down in front of her face. He draws his eyes away from her hair and tries to concentrate on her speech.
"I'm sorry, can you repeat that?" "What would you like to drink," she repeats, raising her eyebrows slightly.
His hands acknowledge the menu she has placed in front of him and he glances at it briefly before replying, "I'll just take a water, thanks."
He can't afford to be wasteful.
She leaves to get his water and he turns his attention to the menu. The pictures of steaks and deserts tantalize him, but he reasons that he should choose something with nutritional value. He decides upon a burger with a side of salad. The waitress returns with his water and writes down his order. His eyes are once again drawn to her hair, which he now notices, is wavy. They exchange a minimum of words before she leaves again.
Sipping the water, his eyes wander around the room. The wooden tables are discolored by food spills and water rings. The walls are tile and he wonders absently why the tables are not plastic. The couple sitting two tables down is sharing a desert, a banana split. He tries not to ogle but he can feel the hunger more acutely now.
It takes ten minutes for the food to come. He knows. He counted. The waitress who carried his food out was not the pretty blonde girl. This one is older, with reddish-brown hair-like the lenses he remembers his mother wearing. She doesn't say anything as she sets down his food, but he whispers back a 'thank you.' His mother always said, "If nothing else, be polite."
After she leaves, he attacks his salad. He has never been a big fan of vegetables. The taste of meat has always been more tantalizing. He could imagine chewing a juicy piece of steak; he liked his rare. Eating steak required the death of an animal. Somehow the thought excited him. Eating salad is in essence eating leaves, which is akin to eating grass, like a cow would. The irony is not lost on him.
He is done with his salad in less than five minutes. It is not yet 20:00. He takes a sip of his water and separates the burger. He delicately pulls off the onion then grabs the half-empty Heinz ketchup bottle off the table. He squeezes some onto the meat and uses his spoon to spread the sauce. Placing the bun back on top, he takes a timid bite. It's not bad, though not exactly his favorite food. A burger just seems lower class to him, not that he could be considered upper class. His numerous foster parents have been neither rich nor classy.
With the help of imagination, he is able to turn a simple supper into an extravagant dining experience. He has succeeded in quickly passing the minutes. By the time he had finished the hamburger and drank the water, it was well past 20:30.
Leaving a generous 20% tip, (she got extra brownie points for her resemblance to his mother) he leaves the restaurant. A gust of wind greets him as he steps out of the building. He struggles to zip up his jacket, finding the zipper to be stuck. Giving up, he secures the newly purchased bottle of glue in his jacket pocket and resolves to holding the jacket closed.
Two minutes into the walk, he begins to feel queasy. He blames the most recent meal, but he knows it is not true. He ignores the nausea and tightens the jacket around him as he trudges on.
The warehouse is almost in sight, but the cans are becoming a real burden for him. He feels like a pregnant woman weighted down by the extra load. He pulls out the two metal tubes, carrying them in hand for a while. Pausing under a street lamp, he considers his options. He can either turn back now, avoiding possible danger and face his foster parents or go through with this and pray-no, hope that he gets lucky and makes a clean escape. Stalling, he reads the directions on the paint cans: "Shake before use."
Like his life. Only it is closer to "shake in the midst of using."
He reads the glue: "Apply sparingly and allow 2 hours to dry." Two hours is a long time. The glue no longer seems like a good idea.
He can feel his face turning hot despite the cool night air, and realizes that he has been standing under the bright light for over ten minutes.
He scolds himself for being so cowardly, and with new resolve, he once again heads toward the warehouse. As it comes into sight, he cannot believe his luck. The front guard is asleep, head hanging to one side, magazine slipped to the ground. Picking up the pace, he half jogs the rest of the distance. He can now hear the guard's heavy breathing. Careful not to wake him, he walks slowly toward the side of the building facing the street. He glances around to ensure that he is alone then sets the red can on the gravel floor before proceeding to uncap the blue one. He hesitates before shaking the can, afraid the noise might wake the guard. He rationalizes that if the shaking wakes the man, at least he cannot be accused of property damage. He has nothing to lose.
Tentatively drawing a line, he grows bolder as he sees the bright blue appear before his eyes and smells the acrid scent of harsh chemicals. He writes his words in blue and accents the piece with red. The red is vivid and intense upon the gray walls, even in the dim light. Red. Like that day.
He realizes that his hands are shaking. He steadies himself and stands up to walk to the bathroom. Setting the clipping down, he turns on the facet and splashes water on his face. The liquid feels cool and refreshing. He doesn't bother to grab a towel, just lets the water run down his face, into his eyes and onto his shirt. He blinks at himself in the mirror and lets out a breath. He's changed so much since then. He didn't know then, but he's grown more like his father everyday. He hadn't really considered the consequences. He knew they existed, he heard the nagging voice in the back of his head telling him no one every got off scotch free, but he didn't care. He was young and foolish then. Maybe he still is.
He steps back to admire his handiwork. "i will NOT forget." The words have a luminescent property, popping out at him from the gray metallic walls. Red paint is splattered all over with no apparent design. The scene looks horrific and yet it draws sympathy. He smiles, shaking the red can to apply a few final touches.
He hadn't heard the guard come up behind him, but then again if he had, he would not be tied up to this chair. The bonds are tight, uncomfortably so. He's not sure how long he has been sitting here, but if feels like an eternity. He has had time to digest his surroundings. This seems to be a storage room for grain. There are shelves piled high with burlap bags and the air smells of dust. The room has no windows and he idly wonders what would happen if he needed to use the bathroom. He feels like he is in a late night horror movie, tied up in the dark, waiting for the evil, bad guy to come.
The person who enters doesn't look evil. The 'bad guy' isn't a guy at all. She's tall and beautiful. Her auburn brown hair swings back and forth as she walks toward him. She is the last person he would ever expect to be his captor.
Their first meeting has always stuck in his head. Perhaps it was the circumstances, but he prefers to think it is because of her magnificent presence. She had such a glorious smile, bright and warm. She seemed almost motherly, albeit a very young and suave mother. He's not sure what she saw in him. This? He didn't even see it himself, but that's the thing about Irina. She always saw things other people didn't. That's what made her ten times more dangerous than anyone else. That and her deceptive demeanor.
He picks up the newspaper clipping again. Such a little sheet of paper and yet so powerful.
"What are you running from?"
He thought it was an odd question. It bore no relevance to his transgressions. Who is she?
"Nothing."
"Don't lie to me. I can see it in your eyes."
She's not mad, but he knows she's deadly serious. He keeps quiet. What he doesn't say cannot incriminate him.
"Then tell me, what are you doing here? Out on a little teenage rampage? I hardly believe you snuck out of you flat just to tag the warehouse. It's hardly an act of rebellion. Or perhaps you're just too stupid to conjure up a better form of entertainment."
He ignores her remark and instead shifts his gaze to the only door in the room. He doesn't have time to register the sting across his face before he feels her fingers jerk his ear up, causing him wince.
"Didn't you mother teach you to respect your elders? Look at me when I talk to you."
"I don't have a mother," he spits out angrily.
Confusion flashes briefly through her eyes, but it only takes her a moment to recover, "So you're nothing but a street urchin."
At this, she seems to lose interest in him and backs away. She's almost at the door when he calls out to her, "I'm not running from anything."
This sparks her interest and she half turns back to him.
"I just wanted to see this place again. I didn't mean to tag the wall."
"Oh? So you were demon possessed and you had no control over you own actions?"
"Are you going to let me go?"
"So soon? Didn't you say you wanted to come back here? Well you're here, might as well stay a while."
She turns to leave again, but now he's desperate, "Wait! Don't leave, I lied. I have to be home. My parents will telephone the police if I don't come home."
"You don't have parents. Remember?"
The next part is a blur. He doesn't remember much of what happened, except that he must have fallen asleep because he is on a cot. As to how he got here, he's unclear. He still has on the same oversized garb as before, only his jacket is gone, as well as his shoes. They were torn up anyway, he reasons.
His cheek is still sore from yesterday, but it is nothing he hasn't experienced before. He still has the bruises from his foster dad's last drunken outburst. He is in the same room as before, only without his constraints. He immediately heads for the door, and almost gets hit in the head when it opens.
She's carrying a tray of food: eggs, sausages, croissants and orange juice. His mouth waters as breathes in the delicious smell.
"I hope you slept well," she says cordially, as if it is perfectly normal for her to be entertaining a 14-year-old boy.
He is confused by this sudden change turn of events and is reasonably distrustful of her intentions, "What's going on?"
She ignores his question, setting the tray on his cot.
"Aren't you hungry?"
"Yes."
"Eat, then we'll talk."
She leaves before he can ask anything else. His gaze is drawn to the food and a rumble reminds him that he's hungry again. The food is probably poisoned. Never the less, he stuffs a sausage into his mouth and gulps down a half of the juice. Grabbing a croissant, he heads to the door, not wanting to delay his escape.
Surprisingly, the door is unlocked. His room leads to a set of stairs and he discovers that his room is really the basement of the warehouse. He climbs the stairs and presses his ear against the door in attempt to hear any outside movement. He hears nothing and proceeds to open the door. The full expanse of the warehouse lies before him, and he rejoices at seeing the door just a few yards to his left. Heading it that direction he is stopped cold by her voice.
"Leaving so soon? And without even saying goodbye?"
She knew him inside out. Even then she knew him better than himself. She played his fears, his desires and his drive for vengeance.
The article is titled Plaza Bombing Shocks World and Kills 23. He wasn't killed. Neither was his father.
"Mum, can I have a balloon?" The boy spots a vendor on the side of the street and runs ahead.
He's half a block away when the place explodes. One minute he is running to the cart, the next moment he is on the ground. He hears screaming all around him, but he doesn't know what is happening.
"Mummy? Mummy?" He turns back and runs, but someone stops him.
"Where are you going?"
"My mummy. I want my mummy."
The article said the bombing was the work of lone terrorist, Gerald Candar. An isolated incident.
He never saw his father after that day. The old lady who stopped him on the road took him to a shelter, where he was placed in his first foster home four months later.
He has since learned that his father worked in intelligence. A spy. A ranking official in SD-3.
When he accepted Irina's offer to join her mission, he did not know this. But she did. She knew his ambition would drive him to be a part of the intelligence world. She also knew that it would be his vengeance that kept him in it.
"What is your name?"
He's about to answer when he stops. Jonathan. His name. His father's name. The father he hasn't seen in nine years.
"Sark," he answers. His mother's maiden name. "Just Sark."
End.