A/N: From here on, I may be using situations from the show, but in a different timeline. So, just know that I'm aware that Sark and Sydney are both younger than they should be at the times of the events from the show. Enjoy!
Chapter 13
The shot went into the ground next to them, along with a second one for effect. Instantly animals and humans were sent in disarray. Sark sprinted away, mixing with the crowd. He didn't look back.
He made it to the small rodent section of the zoo before he dared look. No one was behind him, but he knew that wouldn't last. A children's playground was back in this part of the zoo, along with an employee parking lot. Sark leapt up on the fence, and swung his body over to the parking lot. He went to the car he left there. As he turned the car around, he saw Sydney running out in front of him.
She drew her gun, but didn't fire.
"Sark!!" he heard her yell. He didn't drive off, but just shared a look with her. With every ounce of emotion he had, he communicated what he could in a simple stare. She lowered her gun.
And Sark put the car in gear, and drove out a back exit.
"She didn't come," Irina observed. It was rather obvious, but Sark wasn't going to rub that in when he knew he was in trouble.
"No."
"What happened?"
Sark sighed. "She knows the truth now. But I think she's chosen the CIA over us."
"You gave her that choice?" The skepticism in Irina's voice was not lost on Sark.
"No, well, yes, but not for the CIA. I couldn't kidnap her indefinitely until she broke down to work with us. There's no forcing a person who you eventually have to trust," Sark said. He started to pace, but quickly forced himself to stop. He tried to maintain an indifferent look, but couldn't.
"You like her."
Sark jolted at that. "No, of course not," he replied a little too hurriedly. Irina smiled. "I respect her; there's a difference," he covered.
"I think you two would make a good match," Irina said. That made Sark's jaw drop. "But I thought you would sway her, and not the other way around."
Sark tried not to huff and puff like a teenager.
"I'm hardly about to run off and join the CIA, Irina," he responded with some conviction.
"But can you keep a clear head when you see her?"
Sark turned and walked out of the room. As he did, he didn't see Irina smile.
He immediately changed and went to the sparring room. As he wrapped his hands, the thoughts flooded his mind.
She set me up. How was that for gratitude? Sark thought Sydney would live up to her end of the deal. He hadn't hurt her at all while she was in his custody. He told her the truth, as much as he could, and this was how she repaid him?
Life wasn't fair; Sark knew that, but this was just beating him down.
Why wouldn't she even consider it? It was as if she never was curious about his intentions. Sure, he'd killed a few people in front of her, but hey, it happened.
She sees you as nothing more than an assassin.
Well, those kills were hardly planned assassinations; they more like murders of convenience.
Maybe he was a monster.
The hand wraps weren't straight, and that frustrated Sark to no end. Frantically, he tore the wraps from his hands, and started wailing on the punching bag barehanded.
The bag swung back violently as Sark beat the synthetic life out of it. He alternated hands, did combination punches and then one-handed punches repeatedly. All the while his mind went in circles.
Part of him wanted to be angry, wanted revenge for her betrayal. Part of him wanted to believe her and just fall in despair for what he had become. And part of him wanted to disappear.
His knuckles split fairly quickly, but the pain was more than welcome. It was physical, and distracted him from the turmoil he felt inside himself. Sark didn't stop until he couldn't take anymore.
He ran up the several flights of stairs to his room. He went to the bathroom sink, chest heaving, and turned on the water. It was cold, and it stung his hands bitterly.
Sark gasped, but ran both bloodied hands beneath the water. The blood ran down the sink to the drain, and suddenly guilt from the last couple of years hit him.
What have I become?
He played Sydney's words in his mind, hearing the tone in everything she said. Everything accused him. "Based on what I've observed about you, I wouldn't want to join you," she had said.
"How can you accuse my agency of wrong-doing when you have murdered innocent people!"
"If you worked for the US government, you would see the difference between avoiding capture and cold-blooded murder."
Murder. Monster. Sark.
He started shaking, like he had the first time he'd killed. His knuckles were still bleeding, the skin split into a deep canyon of exposed tissue and blood. He didn't care. He sank to the bathroom floor, lying on his back. His hands covered his face as if hiding from what he felt. Sark didn't even care when the blood fell in his eyes.
His back was so stiff that he heard every vertebrae crack when he stood up. A glance at the bathroom mirror startled him. The blood from his hands stained his face.
Sark splashed water on his face, rubbing away the dried blood. His hands were still sore, and probably would be visibly damaged for a week or so.
His room was untouched, which relieved him. He didn't need anymore moments of weakness for Irina to witness.
It was 9 a.m., later than Sark ever awoke, but he didn't care too much. He showered and dressed quickly.
When he saw Irina, there was no evidence of the pain he felt or went through the night before. The only evidence was his hands, which Irina merely glanced at. Sark's business face was on, though his mind was hardly enthused about it.
This was his life. For now. And he would lead it as was expected, cold, harsh, and automatic.
Until he could get out, he was a machine.
"Sark, what do you know about Milo Rambaldi?"
That threw him off. "He's an inventor from the 16th century." He waited for what she was getting at.
"He was also a prophet. Many of his designs and inventions were prototypes for current technology and weapons," Irina added.
"So what do the artifacts we've acquired do?" Sark had obtained probably 10 things related to Rambaldi, but only now was he learning what it was all about.
"To be honest, I don't know," she said. "Rambaldi left behind instruction books, so to speak. There is one page which concerns Sydney."
The disbelief was quite evident on his face, so Irina just stared back at him until the information sunk in.
"Sydney's in a 16th century instruction book written by a prophet or inventor?" Sark repeated. Just hearing those words from his own mouth made him want to crack a smile. Irina did smile at that.
"To sum it up in one sentence, yes," she replied.
"May I see the page?" Sark asked. Irina shook her head.
"No. I don't have it. Which is why I need you to get it."
There was something she wasn't saying. Her mouth was almost unnaturally neutral, which combined with her eyes staring at him intently, told Sark that there was more to this.
"You want the page all of a sudden? Or do you want it to offer incentive to Sydney for joining us?" Sark said. Irina smiled.
"That's more like you, Sark," she said, her smile now a full grin. "The page, along with a manuscript, is in the possession of Gerard Cuvee."
"In India?" Sark had heard of the man, and his reputation reviled that of Irina's. "How do you know this?"
Irina turned her attention to a file folder and smiled faintly as she said: "I used to work for him. He still thinks I do."
Sark was visibly perplexed by that, and that made Irina laugh out loud.
"Let someone think what he wants if it serves your purposes." Sark took that advice in, storing it away. "Everything you need to know is in here," she said, handing him the file. "Leave as soon as you can."
He knew Irina brought up the page as a way to distract him, or get him back in the saddle after his recent failures. Why she didn't demote him, he didn't know. But it didn't matter now.
The backstory on Irina and Gerard was an interesting one. They worked together, yes, but Irina used her skills to not only impress Gerard, but to woo him and become his confidant. Cuvee was under the assumption that Irina was undercover in Russia, trying to track down a formula Sark had already stolen months ago. Meanwhile, Irina's operation grew.
Sark thought it was quite ironic that a man as cautious and powerful as Cuvee was being deceived by his heart. The situation made Sark admire Irina more, but the mission he was on made him think about Sydney.
How could she be part of some 16th century writing? Do you even believe in Rambaldi?
If things went according to plan, Sark would have to confront Sydney again. He wasn't excited about that, but yet looked forward to seeing her again. He already tried a simple business plan, and that got shot down. His polite manners seemed to fail also.
Not that you laid down the charm on her heavily. That was true—which got Sark's mind whirling. If this page didn't convince her to come see Sark's side, maybe outright emotions would.
There already was a bit of chemistry between them, Sark thought. And she chose not to shoot you at the zoo. That had to mean something.
Maybe she's feeling bad about that. A bit of hope from that lifted Sark's mood.
Which turned from pensive to operational.
Sark flashed an acquired security badge at the guard, and entered the building in India's business district. The guard didn't even blink, which Sark accredited to the makeup he used to darken his face a bit. Sark was pretty pale, not uncommon for someone from the U.K., but he would definitely be out of place in India.
Sark walked on, into the elevator and presumably to the basement to get a cleaning cart. Instead, Sark, clad in the standard janitorial blue jumpsuit, pressed the button for the 47th floor.
Forty-seventh floor, 47th page . . . What was with Rambaldi and connections to 47?
He stepped out when the doors opened, and turned to his right. The office he looked for had no guard.
Sark checked his watch. The guards changed shift one minute ago, which would leave him 3 more minutes until the next guard came.
Using an electronic key splicer, Sark easily broke into the office. He shut the door quietly behind him, and then searched for the safe in the room. It was behind a Picasso, probably an original.
The safe only took 45 seconds to crack, with the aid of technology, of course. He opened it, holding his breath in anticipation of some alarm.
None sounded.
The pages of the book were yellowed, but not about to fall apart in his hands. That surprised him.
He lifted the book and put it into a plastic garbage bag. As he shut the safe, though, wailing alarms sounded.
Sark checked his watch. He had 30 seconds until the guard came, but the alarm would hasten that.
He quickly left the office, and was at the elevator when two guards came running.
"Did you see anything?" one asked. Sark shook his head and shrugged. He stepped in the elevator with the garbage bag of priceless Rambaldi works, and exited the building before anyone figured out what happened.
"Good work, Sark," Irina said. She looked at every page he'd brought back.
"I took the liberty of looking at the book, and didn't see any mention of Sydney," Sark said. He looked for Irina's reaction. She nodded.
"Did you notice this page," she said, holding up a blank. Sark nodded. "The writing has been concealed by a solution Rambaldi created. There are two solutions: one to conceal, and one to expose."
"Do you have the one to expose the page?" Sark asked. Inside he already knew the answer: Irina was leading him somewhere.
"No," she replied, predictably. "But I'm sending a team to get it."
"Where is it?"
"SD-6."
Sark paced back and forth in his office, wringing his hands and thinking about Irina's latest insanity.
Sending a team into SD-6? Not only that, but Sark looked up the operational plan. The team would be blasting in, holding everyone hostage until they gained access to the SD-6 vault. It was gutsy, which wasn't uncommon for Irina. But the team leader worried Sark.
Mackenas Cole. His file said he had a personal agenda when it came with SD-6. He already was a loose cannon of sorts. And Sark knew something would go wrong.
The team was still in route to Los Angeles, so Sark tried to find some way to distract himself.
He chose recent audio files from Sydney's apartment.
He played them in the background. Just hearing her voice was soothing, and it allowed him the incentive he needed to plan for his future.
Francie's voice caught his attention.
Francie: So what made your trip so long, Syd?
Sydney: I had a crisis with one of our clients. This company was suddenly unhappy about the bank.
Francie: But you calmed them down?
Sydney: Sort of. I appeased them for a bit. But I ended up losing them.
Francie: Oh, I'm sorry, Syd. Is the bank mad? 'Cause if so I'd use it as grounds to quit.
Sydney: (polite laugh) I know. No, the bank's not mad. But I kind of am. (Pauses) I . . . I didn't want to lose that client.
Francie: It's less work! Be glad. You'll see us more.
Sark stopped his pacing and scheming. Was it just him or was she lamenting her dealings with . . . him . . . .
Did she simply appease him until she could get free? Or did she really feel like she . . . lost him?
Maybe he wasn't the only tortured by their dealings.
Sark tossed around in his bed, on the verge of wakefulness and dreams. The sheets trapped him as he turned. Something was wrong.
He sat upright in his bed, the sheets still entangling him. Something inside was screaming. He half fell out of bed until he freed the sheets from his legs. He slipped on a pair of black slacks, left his white t-shirt untucked, and ran downstairs to Irina's office.
Her face confirmed his feelings.
"What happened?" he immediately asked. Irina sighed.
"It seems your feelings were correct," she said. "Cole failed, and got out of hand." Sark didn't interrupt, but pressed for more details with his earnest look.
"He ordered that everyone be killed at SD-6, after he broke into the vault." Sark felt anything in his stomach start to revisit him. "It seems, though, that someone stopped the team from carrying out that order. Cole escaped with the ampule, before the rest of the team was killed."
"Sydney?" Sark couldn't help but ask about her fate.
"She took the team out, with a few others, according to Cole. He's on his way back," Irina said. She looked down at the ground, some obvious emotions going through her. Then she steeled herself and looked directly at Sark. Sark knew what she wanted.
"I'll see to his execution personally."
And he did.
The 47th page had a startling depiction of Sydney. The drawing was in every way her. The text even had three physical signs identifying her. And supposedly, she would bring about Rambaldi's terrible work, whatever that was.
Irina was already breathing down Sark's neck to meet Sydney and tell her about it. But Sark knew something would go wrong. He stalled.
"I'll send her the information, which she'll predictably turn over to the CIA. The CIA most likely will be defensive, and imprison her. It'll prove that she can't rely on the agency," Sark said.
"Then she'll be ready," Irina filled in, nodding. "How do you know the CIA will imprison her?"
"Just a hunch," Sark said.
"And SD-6?" Sark shook his head.
"Sydney, with her self-righteous sense of morality, will refuse to give anything to SD-6 unless absolutely necessary." Sark waited for approval.
"Do it," Irina said, and turned away to other matters.