9. "Each time and I do it now - fast forward to a better spot."
And if the words he had wanted to hear were not the words she said, perhaps now that no one will be able to contradict his own retelling of events, he can turn the right phrases for her and read between the lines. "I'm sorry," she said, for stealing time from your life, for locking you in your room the second your loyalty appeared to wane. For expecting you to come back, and knowing that you would; for not apologizing sooner. For ensuring that you would not be able to save the girl who once seemed to be your last chance. "I'm sorry," she said, and it might be the only confession she could have made in her last moment that he would have believed.
He turns the moment over and over in his head as the truck rattles over every single bump in the poor pavement below. Her controlled, lurching last gasps; the fear (the hope?) that every touch could drive the glass further into her skin, the way she'd let it happen. This could not have been an accident, not any part of it--not her own death, finally, nor his survival. A spontaneous decision, an impulse motivated by grief? Clearly she was not above such actions, since all it had taken to commit him to prison was the slightest hint that one day he might leave her of his own volition, rather than hers.
Did she really love Bristow enough to grieve, or were the inevitable consequences of his death what she dreaded: her daughter's reaction, or the reinvigorated search for her that would begin once the demise of Bristow was discovered by the government he'd served? If everything she had done was for the purpose of guiding Sydney toward this ridiculous "destiny," perhaps what came next would be the unleashing of her daughter's foretold unseen fury. Maybe she didn't want to stick around to watch Sydney's destruction.
Or maybe she did it because she'd finally been convinced of his allegiance. Maybe she did it to set him free.
Still, they will be coming up on the city soon. He knows he must decide whether to carry out Irina's final order or to let it go, disappear, find a new employer to serve, go into business for himself. The opportunities for him now, outside this world, seem virtually endless.
At the city limit sign, he knocks on the back window of the truck's cab. The driver slows, slightly, and Sark jumps from the back. He lands on his feet.
* * *
When he finds her it is impossible to determine how long she has been crouched against the wall in the same position, but the body on the floor five feet away from her looks to have been there for quite some time. His first reaction is simply awe. How is this possible? How could she have done it? How can those three figures be gone--presuming, of course, that any of them actually are?
It is not until she lets out a long, low moan that he remembers the proper reaction.
"Sydney?" he asks, cautiously.
She looks up, and her eyes refuse to focus, mirroring the look in Irina's eyes before he left her alone. It is this disturbing similarity that leads him to the first, urgent question; wondering why he should care about the answer seems beside the point now. "Are you all right?" Pause. Rephrase. "Are you injured?"
Sydney doesn't answer. Instead, she glances over at Sloane. He supposes this must be her response, for lack of a more explicit explanation, so he moves on. "He's dead?"
"Yes," she finally says.
"Okay. Let's go."
He lifts her to her feet, and they stumble toward the door.
* * *
"I know it's a lot to ask," he says, kneeling beside her in Sloane's driveway, where her legs have abruptly crumpled beneath her. "But I need you to trust me right now."
Her eyes don't flash. She doesn't hiss accusations into his ear. He considers this a good sign, unless it simply means she doesn't recognize him.
So he leans in, slowly, as if to kiss her, but if that is what she is expecting, she is mistaken; he can't, not ever again, not with Irina's blood lingering in his mouth, not with her father's blood on his hands and his lover's blood forever staining her own. Their past, such as it has been, is best recollected now as a series of misguided maneuvers and stupid mistakes, never again to be repeated.
She doesn't flinch when the needle pierces her skin, and it is only then that he realizes: the Sydney with whom he was once acquainted, however superficially, is already gone. It's a rationalization for what he is about to do, of course, but it doesn't seem false. She's not there.
He retreats, waits for his action to have a reaction. Her face doesn't change.
After she loses consciousness, finally, he carries her to Sloane's car. He scrawls a note and tucks it into her hand.
That is the last time he ever sees Sydney Bristow.
* * *
She wakes up a few hours later, in a panic, adrenaline shooting through her limbs.
She takes a deep breath. She can't remember why she's afraid.
There is a folded square of paper clenched in her fist. She opens it and reads:
"Sydney, this is a gift. My advice to you is this: use it wisely. Don't look for answers. Trust me."
So, her name is Sydney. Clue number one. A wallet lies beside her on the seat. She checks it for identification, but it has been emptied of everything but some money. Enough to get her where she's going.
Wherever that is.
The keys to the car she's in (hers?) rest on the passenger seat as well. She starts the car and puts it into drive.
* * *
It's funny, the things she remembers, the names she hasn't forgotten. Not her own--that one would have been gone, if not for her mysterious benefactor. No, these are names like Browning, Frost, Byron, Bishop. Henry Ford, Ronald Reagan, Roosevelt, Kennedy.
These are the things she knows, because these are things that are known. The only facts missing from her knowledge store are those directly related to her former identity. Her parents, for example. If she's closer to 30 than 20, they must be closer to 50 than 40. Are they still alive, out there, somewhere, wondering about her? Or was she orphaned at birth?
When she is first spoken to since the event, it is at the hotel where she registers for an evening while she tries to sort out where to go now, what to do. The man behind the counter speaks to her in Spanish, and she responds in kind. The phrases ring through her head, echo in a dozen different languages. But the language she speaks to herself most often seems to be English, and it is accentless, so she must be American (1492, Columbus). Therefore, she should return to America (Nina, Pinta, Santa Maria). No, too vague, too easy to get lost. Maybe she should stay where she is until the money runs out. After all, she speaks the language.
The note said, "Don't look for answers."
But her curiosity is her most defining characteristic at this point, perhaps the sole remnant of the woman she used to be.
So she just can't resist the temptation.
And if the words he had wanted to hear were not the words she said, perhaps now that no one will be able to contradict his own retelling of events, he can turn the right phrases for her and read between the lines. "I'm sorry," she said, for stealing time from your life, for locking you in your room the second your loyalty appeared to wane. For expecting you to come back, and knowing that you would; for not apologizing sooner. For ensuring that you would not be able to save the girl who once seemed to be your last chance. "I'm sorry," she said, and it might be the only confession she could have made in her last moment that he would have believed.
He turns the moment over and over in his head as the truck rattles over every single bump in the poor pavement below. Her controlled, lurching last gasps; the fear (the hope?) that every touch could drive the glass further into her skin, the way she'd let it happen. This could not have been an accident, not any part of it--not her own death, finally, nor his survival. A spontaneous decision, an impulse motivated by grief? Clearly she was not above such actions, since all it had taken to commit him to prison was the slightest hint that one day he might leave her of his own volition, rather than hers.
Did she really love Bristow enough to grieve, or were the inevitable consequences of his death what she dreaded: her daughter's reaction, or the reinvigorated search for her that would begin once the demise of Bristow was discovered by the government he'd served? If everything she had done was for the purpose of guiding Sydney toward this ridiculous "destiny," perhaps what came next would be the unleashing of her daughter's foretold unseen fury. Maybe she didn't want to stick around to watch Sydney's destruction.
Or maybe she did it because she'd finally been convinced of his allegiance. Maybe she did it to set him free.
Still, they will be coming up on the city soon. He knows he must decide whether to carry out Irina's final order or to let it go, disappear, find a new employer to serve, go into business for himself. The opportunities for him now, outside this world, seem virtually endless.
At the city limit sign, he knocks on the back window of the truck's cab. The driver slows, slightly, and Sark jumps from the back. He lands on his feet.
* * *
When he finds her it is impossible to determine how long she has been crouched against the wall in the same position, but the body on the floor five feet away from her looks to have been there for quite some time. His first reaction is simply awe. How is this possible? How could she have done it? How can those three figures be gone--presuming, of course, that any of them actually are?
It is not until she lets out a long, low moan that he remembers the proper reaction.
"Sydney?" he asks, cautiously.
She looks up, and her eyes refuse to focus, mirroring the look in Irina's eyes before he left her alone. It is this disturbing similarity that leads him to the first, urgent question; wondering why he should care about the answer seems beside the point now. "Are you all right?" Pause. Rephrase. "Are you injured?"
Sydney doesn't answer. Instead, she glances over at Sloane. He supposes this must be her response, for lack of a more explicit explanation, so he moves on. "He's dead?"
"Yes," she finally says.
"Okay. Let's go."
He lifts her to her feet, and they stumble toward the door.
* * *
"I know it's a lot to ask," he says, kneeling beside her in Sloane's driveway, where her legs have abruptly crumpled beneath her. "But I need you to trust me right now."
Her eyes don't flash. She doesn't hiss accusations into his ear. He considers this a good sign, unless it simply means she doesn't recognize him.
So he leans in, slowly, as if to kiss her, but if that is what she is expecting, she is mistaken; he can't, not ever again, not with Irina's blood lingering in his mouth, not with her father's blood on his hands and his lover's blood forever staining her own. Their past, such as it has been, is best recollected now as a series of misguided maneuvers and stupid mistakes, never again to be repeated.
She doesn't flinch when the needle pierces her skin, and it is only then that he realizes: the Sydney with whom he was once acquainted, however superficially, is already gone. It's a rationalization for what he is about to do, of course, but it doesn't seem false. She's not there.
He retreats, waits for his action to have a reaction. Her face doesn't change.
After she loses consciousness, finally, he carries her to Sloane's car. He scrawls a note and tucks it into her hand.
That is the last time he ever sees Sydney Bristow.
* * *
She wakes up a few hours later, in a panic, adrenaline shooting through her limbs.
She takes a deep breath. She can't remember why she's afraid.
There is a folded square of paper clenched in her fist. She opens it and reads:
"Sydney, this is a gift. My advice to you is this: use it wisely. Don't look for answers. Trust me."
So, her name is Sydney. Clue number one. A wallet lies beside her on the seat. She checks it for identification, but it has been emptied of everything but some money. Enough to get her where she's going.
Wherever that is.
The keys to the car she's in (hers?) rest on the passenger seat as well. She starts the car and puts it into drive.
* * *
It's funny, the things she remembers, the names she hasn't forgotten. Not her own--that one would have been gone, if not for her mysterious benefactor. No, these are names like Browning, Frost, Byron, Bishop. Henry Ford, Ronald Reagan, Roosevelt, Kennedy.
These are the things she knows, because these are things that are known. The only facts missing from her knowledge store are those directly related to her former identity. Her parents, for example. If she's closer to 30 than 20, they must be closer to 50 than 40. Are they still alive, out there, somewhere, wondering about her? Or was she orphaned at birth?
When she is first spoken to since the event, it is at the hotel where she registers for an evening while she tries to sort out where to go now, what to do. The man behind the counter speaks to her in Spanish, and she responds in kind. The phrases ring through her head, echo in a dozen different languages. But the language she speaks to herself most often seems to be English, and it is accentless, so she must be American (1492, Columbus). Therefore, she should return to America (Nina, Pinta, Santa Maria). No, too vague, too easy to get lost. Maybe she should stay where she is until the money runs out. After all, she speaks the language.
The note said, "Don't look for answers."
But her curiosity is her most defining characteristic at this point, perhaps the sole remnant of the woman she used to be.
So she just can't resist the temptation.