3. "I hear your smile. Fast as light. Two hundred miles."
Dr. Henry Miratomi has never heard of Milo Rambaldi.
He is not a professor, nor a scholar. He is a research scientist whose work garnered him some brief notoriety in certain academic circles several years ago. Without explanation, he suddenly ceased his research for reasons that were never explained to anyone, and faded once more into obscurity, his short-lived fame not even consequential enough to land him a mention in a college textbook.
Henry vaguely remembers a woman with long brown hair and a voice that could convince a man to run himself through with a sword if that's what it took to keep her talking to him.
He remembers betrayal.
That was before the haze set in. He doesn't think of her most days, nor does he ever really try to remember what remains so frustratingly out of reach. None of it matters anymore, anyway. Ignorance is indeed bliss, as far as he is concerned. Money comes from somewhere, once in a while, and he ferrets it away beneath his mattress, paying out only the barest minimum required to keep himself alive, saving the rest. For what? He can't remember, but he thinks it must be important.
Outside the square window too high to reach and too small to climb out, raindrops assault the glass; he listens, flat on his back in an unfamiliar bed (but what bed is not unfamiliar now?), and grows increasingly certain that the window will break and shower his face and body with tiny shards of glass, beaten into his skin by a merciless torrent of water. But he doesn't feel compelled to rise, or to explore these new surroundings. In his limited experience, everything comes to him, therefore it is unnecessary to ever seek anything out.
The door slides open. He does not bother to sit up, or to greet his visitor. There was another one earlier, a young man. Henry pretended to be asleep. The man did not investigate, merely closed the door and walked away.
He squeezes his eyes shut and hopes lightning will strike twice, no temptation of fate or Mother Nature intended.
"Henry?" The voice. "Do you remember me?"
His heart stops.
"I know you're awake." He knows he has never been a good liar, or at least that he isn't one now. "Stop screwing around."
He opens his eyes, but doesn't dare to look at her directly. That much, he remembers. "Nicolette." It comes to him from somewhere, the name to put with the face.
"I need your help."
"I can't help you. I can't help anyone."
"Yes, you can," she says, coming closer to sit on the edge of the bed. She takes a deep breath. "Your memories aren't lost, Henry..."
* * *
Sark almost pities the poor doctor. An hour alone in a room with Irina Derevko and you would be lucky to emerge alive, much less with whatever secret you'd previously been committed to guarding with your life still in tact.
The table in the kitchen is large enough that they could sit at opposite ends and nearly be in different rooms, but Sydney does not take a seat. Instead, she paces. Another hour passes.
"I'm sure they'll be out soon," he finally says, rather nicely, meaning: sit down or I'll have a difficult time explaining to my employer why her daughter is suddenly legless.
She glances at him as if she'd forgotten he was there, but does not stop.
"She's extracting some relatively harmless information from him. The man won't be hurt." He really can't keep this up much longer.
She makes a noise suspiciously close to a snort.
"Please," he begins.
"Look, I know he isn't a Rambaldi scholar."
He does not speak. One of the things he likes or at least doesn't mind about her is that she will often reveal what is sought without being prompted to do so.
"I can't explain why I lied. I mean, you would have to know, too, unless she didn't tell you why she sent you to pick him up. But since you're partners, of course she would tell you. It was stupid. I'm sorry."
It is as if she has begun to relish the sound of her own voice, the way she goes on.
"What I don't know if what she wants from him. I wonder if it's the same as what I wanted--what I want, I mean."
"Probably so." He wonders if he could care less about holding up his end of this conversation. It seems unlikely.
"Sydney, we aren't adversaries now," Irina chides brusquely, entering the kitchen. "We're collaborating."
"Reluctantly," Sydney reminds her.
Irina hands her a piece of paper with an address scrawled across it, as well as an open envelope which appears to contain a stack of train and airplane tickets. Sark observes with heightened interest. "That is where you'll go."
"And when I get there?"
"This is what you'll do." She holds out a vial of purple liquid, indicating that Sydney should take it from her. When she does not, Irina sets it on the kitchen table. "Your instructions are on the paper with the address."
Sydney skims the instructions and reaches out for the vial. "I'm going alone?"
"I think it's the only way, don't you?"
"You trust me to bring him back to you?"
"I just want you to bring him back. It doesn't matter where." With that, she leaves the room.
Sydney reads the instructions a second time, and again.
"You're really going alone, then?"
"She thinks it's the only way."
"It might--it might not be safe." Careful, now.
A raised eyebrow, a bemused smile. "You aren't seriously suggesting I require protection."
"Backup."
"I think I'll be fine, thank you." She rises, then hesitates: "Seriously, though. Thanks for offering. If there's no ulterior motive, which I doubt, it was a nice thing to do."
And then she's gone.
Sark sleeps alone that night, as he does most nights, and resists the urge to cover his face with a pillow when the noises begin down the hall. Miratomi's speaking voice is as bizarrely off-key as his singing voice, it seems. He tunes out the disturbing sounds and closes his eyes, trying to locate a higher plane to which he can ascend for now. Instead, he sees her, traveling alone, arriving alone, taking them on alone, and is surprised to find that, ulterior motives aside, he almost feels guilty for letting her go.
Well, you didn't really let her go, he points out. She would have gone alone whether you had wrapped your arms around her legs and demanded that she stay or whether you had seriously extended an offer to accompany her. You don't owe her anything, and you certainly don't owe Jack Bristow a damn thing either.
He pictures her, alone in the traveling compartment her mother arranged for, smiling at the man who comes to check her ticket. It will be an empty gesture performed out of habit, but still she'll be smiling, despite the possibility that her mother has knowingly sent her into yet another deathtrap, despite the potential for her father to reject her as a spectre from a past he's become viciously devoted to forgetting.
He almost feels sorry for her. Almost.
An hour later, he finds himself working hard to prevent his mind from sketching a portrait of Irina's face when she discovers he's gone.
She has the good doctor to play with now, anyway.
Dr. Henry Miratomi has never heard of Milo Rambaldi.
He is not a professor, nor a scholar. He is a research scientist whose work garnered him some brief notoriety in certain academic circles several years ago. Without explanation, he suddenly ceased his research for reasons that were never explained to anyone, and faded once more into obscurity, his short-lived fame not even consequential enough to land him a mention in a college textbook.
Henry vaguely remembers a woman with long brown hair and a voice that could convince a man to run himself through with a sword if that's what it took to keep her talking to him.
He remembers betrayal.
That was before the haze set in. He doesn't think of her most days, nor does he ever really try to remember what remains so frustratingly out of reach. None of it matters anymore, anyway. Ignorance is indeed bliss, as far as he is concerned. Money comes from somewhere, once in a while, and he ferrets it away beneath his mattress, paying out only the barest minimum required to keep himself alive, saving the rest. For what? He can't remember, but he thinks it must be important.
Outside the square window too high to reach and too small to climb out, raindrops assault the glass; he listens, flat on his back in an unfamiliar bed (but what bed is not unfamiliar now?), and grows increasingly certain that the window will break and shower his face and body with tiny shards of glass, beaten into his skin by a merciless torrent of water. But he doesn't feel compelled to rise, or to explore these new surroundings. In his limited experience, everything comes to him, therefore it is unnecessary to ever seek anything out.
The door slides open. He does not bother to sit up, or to greet his visitor. There was another one earlier, a young man. Henry pretended to be asleep. The man did not investigate, merely closed the door and walked away.
He squeezes his eyes shut and hopes lightning will strike twice, no temptation of fate or Mother Nature intended.
"Henry?" The voice. "Do you remember me?"
His heart stops.
"I know you're awake." He knows he has never been a good liar, or at least that he isn't one now. "Stop screwing around."
He opens his eyes, but doesn't dare to look at her directly. That much, he remembers. "Nicolette." It comes to him from somewhere, the name to put with the face.
"I need your help."
"I can't help you. I can't help anyone."
"Yes, you can," she says, coming closer to sit on the edge of the bed. She takes a deep breath. "Your memories aren't lost, Henry..."
* * *
Sark almost pities the poor doctor. An hour alone in a room with Irina Derevko and you would be lucky to emerge alive, much less with whatever secret you'd previously been committed to guarding with your life still in tact.
The table in the kitchen is large enough that they could sit at opposite ends and nearly be in different rooms, but Sydney does not take a seat. Instead, she paces. Another hour passes.
"I'm sure they'll be out soon," he finally says, rather nicely, meaning: sit down or I'll have a difficult time explaining to my employer why her daughter is suddenly legless.
She glances at him as if she'd forgotten he was there, but does not stop.
"She's extracting some relatively harmless information from him. The man won't be hurt." He really can't keep this up much longer.
She makes a noise suspiciously close to a snort.
"Please," he begins.
"Look, I know he isn't a Rambaldi scholar."
He does not speak. One of the things he likes or at least doesn't mind about her is that she will often reveal what is sought without being prompted to do so.
"I can't explain why I lied. I mean, you would have to know, too, unless she didn't tell you why she sent you to pick him up. But since you're partners, of course she would tell you. It was stupid. I'm sorry."
It is as if she has begun to relish the sound of her own voice, the way she goes on.
"What I don't know if what she wants from him. I wonder if it's the same as what I wanted--what I want, I mean."
"Probably so." He wonders if he could care less about holding up his end of this conversation. It seems unlikely.
"Sydney, we aren't adversaries now," Irina chides brusquely, entering the kitchen. "We're collaborating."
"Reluctantly," Sydney reminds her.
Irina hands her a piece of paper with an address scrawled across it, as well as an open envelope which appears to contain a stack of train and airplane tickets. Sark observes with heightened interest. "That is where you'll go."
"And when I get there?"
"This is what you'll do." She holds out a vial of purple liquid, indicating that Sydney should take it from her. When she does not, Irina sets it on the kitchen table. "Your instructions are on the paper with the address."
Sydney skims the instructions and reaches out for the vial. "I'm going alone?"
"I think it's the only way, don't you?"
"You trust me to bring him back to you?"
"I just want you to bring him back. It doesn't matter where." With that, she leaves the room.
Sydney reads the instructions a second time, and again.
"You're really going alone, then?"
"She thinks it's the only way."
"It might--it might not be safe." Careful, now.
A raised eyebrow, a bemused smile. "You aren't seriously suggesting I require protection."
"Backup."
"I think I'll be fine, thank you." She rises, then hesitates: "Seriously, though. Thanks for offering. If there's no ulterior motive, which I doubt, it was a nice thing to do."
And then she's gone.
Sark sleeps alone that night, as he does most nights, and resists the urge to cover his face with a pillow when the noises begin down the hall. Miratomi's speaking voice is as bizarrely off-key as his singing voice, it seems. He tunes out the disturbing sounds and closes his eyes, trying to locate a higher plane to which he can ascend for now. Instead, he sees her, traveling alone, arriving alone, taking them on alone, and is surprised to find that, ulterior motives aside, he almost feels guilty for letting her go.
Well, you didn't really let her go, he points out. She would have gone alone whether you had wrapped your arms around her legs and demanded that she stay or whether you had seriously extended an offer to accompany her. You don't owe her anything, and you certainly don't owe Jack Bristow a damn thing either.
He pictures her, alone in the traveling compartment her mother arranged for, smiling at the man who comes to check her ticket. It will be an empty gesture performed out of habit, but still she'll be smiling, despite the possibility that her mother has knowingly sent her into yet another deathtrap, despite the potential for her father to reject her as a spectre from a past he's become viciously devoted to forgetting.
He almost feels sorry for her. Almost.
An hour later, he finds himself working hard to prevent his mind from sketching a portrait of Irina's face when she discovers he's gone.
She has the good doctor to play with now, anyway.