******
She's been in the safehouse for three days now, sitting in the same stiff metal chair, pretending to sleep on the same dusty mattress, refusing the same overly spicy food. The circles under Jack's eyes are nearly as dark as those under her own, both of them trying to hammer out some picture of the last two years before she inevitably leaves the room, returning to the solace of the dusty mattress, unwilling to let him watch her cry. She is strong, she always has been; she can do this. She will do this. Even if she has lost her reason why.
What broke her, what really led her to believe she would snap, came on day two. After twelve hours alone she returned to the room, Jack sitting behind the small desk as if he'd never left.
"How did he die?" she demanded, without preamble.
"It was a car accident."
"Sloane?"
"No, we don't think so."
"A CIA agent dies in a car accident and you don't think it's suspicious?"
He ignores the barb. "He left the CIA. We found evidence -- heart tissue. The DNA matched...we were assured there was no way you could have survived."
"But...it must have been faked...someone--"
"Someone was too good for our best technology. There were no indications--" his voice grows quiet again, his eyes dart toward the corner. He clenches his hands into fists, and unclenches them, sliding them down his knees, as if he's uncertain what to do with them. He sits awkwardly on the corner of the metal chair. "Agent Vaughn stayed on for six months, chasing down leads, but it was apparent his focus was gone. He approached me, wanting to return to private life. I--" here, his voice grows softer again. "I thought it would be wise to let him go. The last time I spoke with him, he had accepted a job with a defense contractor and relocated to Florida. He lived there only a few weeks. I was informed of the accident, made a preliminary investigation -- it appeared to be straightforward. He was driving to work one morning when he swerved into oncoming traffic; he was trying to avoid a pedestrian in the crosswalk."
She left the room, without another word, and emptied the contents of her (empty) stomach in the tiny bathroom.
She felt as if she were walking in a living nightmare, looking for someone to pinch her, some way, any way, to wake up.
But she never wakes up, she never truly sleeps, and the debriefing sessions continue.
"There's no way Sloane still has that much control. I destroyed his warehouse."
Jack looks up, an odd glint in his eyes.
"So that was you?"
"Yes. I located his facility in Mexico City and placed explosives to trigger the C-4 planted underground. He hasn't changed tactics since SD-6."
"No, he hasn't. But he has become far more powerful. We think it's only a matter of time before he makes his move."
"But he can't --"
"He is. Whatever damage may have been done in the explosion, he still maintains enough power to continue his efforts."
"But I destroyed all the Rambaldi artifacts."
"Not all -- we know from a courier that he had the DiRegno heart shipped out of Mexico. We don't know what else he may have hidden."
She feels the urge to be sick again, even with her empty stomach. Two years, all her searching, all her work -- for nothing? Did she truly sacrifice so much for this? She makes her way to the tiny kitchen, forcing down bland soup and black coffee before she returns.
"It's imperative that your presence remain a secret. Sloane believes the Rambaldi prophecy was about you, and he will never stop searching for you if he knows you're alive."
"That's ridiculous -- I can't be. I've been to Mount Subasio."
"We've received more intel about Mount Subasio…"
He finishes the story. She pushes the metal chair back without explanation, slamming the door behind her as she goes. When your life can't possibly get any worse, that's when it gets worse. She should be used to that by now.
She steps into the tiny bathroom, peeling off her clothes. She reaches over to turn on the shower, hoping the scalding water will wash off -- something. Perhaps it will soothe her red eyes. She stops at the tiny mirror out of old habit. She looks at the line on her neck (gone by now) and the spot where one used to be on her forehead. No more lines on her arms, besides a shallow scratch inflicted by one of the muggers. And last, she looks at her chest. The deep wound below her ribs, the one she's never been able to place, and the mysterious line running much of the length of her sternum. A sudden cold thought grips her, a chill running the length of her spine. No. No, no, no. She grips the edges of the tiny porcelain sink, remembering her dreams.
"Sloane believes the Rambaldi prophecy was about you, and he will never stop searching for you if he knows you're alive."
"We were able to trace it to a monastery at the base of Mount Subasio, in Assisi."
She touches the flame to one corner, then another. The whole page turns to flame, blazes up, and is gone. She strips, shaking out her sweater, her bra, her pants, determined to rid them of the last traces of the crumbling paper. She watches the last specks of black dust wash away down the drain.
Sloane, his voice calm and his conversation intelligent, but his words…insane. The suspicion begins in her stomach and grows, the fear. He is crazy.
She feels it, the stab, the pain, the white-hot flash that burns her torso from the inside.
She pulled out the stitches in Berlin. She remembers the burning, the way the edges of the dark, rough thread stuck like barbed wire as she pulled them through the newly healed skin.
"We know from a courier that he had the DiRegno heart shipped out of Mexico."
"We found evidence -- heart tissue. The DNA matched yours."
Hands shaking, she steps out of the bathroom and into the humid air of the tiny room. She doesn't bother to turn the shower off. She feels like a pawn, a robot, arms and legs moving mechanically though some preordained dance. She can see nothing but the images in her dreams; hear nothing but the prophecy running through her head.
She crosses the tiny room, kneeling before the clothes she was wearing when she arrived at the safehouse. She pulls the white turtleneck over her head and reaches for the gun hidden in her folded pants. She pauses, her hand sliding up beneath her sweater, pressing it against the scar, centimeters from her heart. Not my heart. Not a heart at all.
She closes her eyes, whispering a prayer, begging forgiveness, from her father, from Vaughn. She slides the gun into her waistband.
She uses her fingers to pry the tiny window open, pushing hard against the years of dust and corrosion. She finally gets it halfway, just enough to slither through, one leg, then torso, then her other leg. Hanging from the narrow sill, she hovers just four feet from the ground. She drops, swinging to one side, bracing herself for the pain that shoots through her ankles. She crouches for a moment, one hand on the ground, letting her joints recover. Then she begins moving, quickly, darting into shadows and out of alleys, keeping out of the omnipresent electricity and the surreal glow of every-color neon lights.
She needs only an hour to retrace her steps, winding back to the alley. She pauses when she reaches it, eyes adjusting to the flickering light, nose adjusting to the sickly sweet smell of dumpster. She does not jump when she hears a voice.
"Hello, Sydney."
He steps from the shadows, dressed as always in a pressed suit, complete with tie, the rotting newspapers and bottlecaps crunching beneath his polished shoes.
That look is back on his face -- that smile. That insane smile.
She draws her arms behind her in a flash, whipping the gun out from her waistband. "Don't move."
He doesn't even pause, still walking toward her with slow, measured steps. "I've missed you these last two years."
Her eyes narrow. "Sloane, don't move."
"You did well with my guards in Mexico. I will confess; I was a bit disappointed. I had intended that they present you with more of a challenge."
She cocks the gun. "I mean it."
He stops, inches away. The gun barrel brushes against the gray wool of his lapel. One hand flicks out, a silver knife sliding from beneath his sleeve. He presses the silver blade to her side.
"I never thought you would accomplish everything so quickly -- but I should have known. I have such great plans for you; so much I can offer now. The time is finally ripe, Sydney."
Her eyes flick down to the knife at her side. With a start, she realizes she recognizes it -- the carved silver handle, bearing the symbol of an eye.
"Where did you get that?"
"You should be more careful what you leave behind." His other hand reaches out, slowly, two of his fingers tracing down her cheek. "I always believed you were my greatest accomplishment. And look at you now." A crooked smile, as his fingers continue to trace, over her chin, down her neck, coming to rest between her breasts. They press against the raised flesh of her scar.
She tightens her grip on the trigger. His knife slices through her sweater, the cool metal now resting against her skin.
"You understand now, don't you? All that time, all that planning -- you didn't really think I would let you destroy everything I owned? The most important Rambaldi work of all -- it's a part of you, Sydney. It is you. Sydney, do you realize your place in the prophecy?
This woman here depicted will possess unseen marks.
"Sloane, I don't care what you threaten. I will kill you."
"You haven't answered my question, Sydney."
Signs that she will be the one to bring forth my works.
"I think I have." She pivots around him in an instant, swinging toward her weak side, a move he wouldn't expect.
Bind them with fury...
The knife slices into her side; she grits her teeth against the pain and releases her right hand, wrapping her right arm around his neck. She brings her left hand up, holding the gun to his temple. She can feel the blood flowing from her side, sticky and thick as it seeps through her sweater.
...a burning anger...
She brings the gun lower, mimicking his motions, tracing over his chin, past his neck, down his sternum, pressing it against his heart.
...unless prevented...
He tightens his grip on the knife, sliding it further into her side.
…at vulgar cost...
"You don't want to do that, Sydney. That bullet will pass straight through both our hearts."
... this woman will render the greatest power unto utter desolation.
She pulls the trigger.
******