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** I am in no way associated with Alias. The usual disclaimers apply.

PART SIX

Sydney walked down the long, cold aisle without much sense of purpose. She didn't know what she was walking to – what she was needed for.

But she had been paged and told to get straight over to the prison where Sark was being held, and she always did what was asked of her.

She was greeted by a scrawny, overtly nervous guard and the NSA director with the deep voice at a briefing room at the end of the corridor.

"Agent Bristow, I'm Deputy-Director Whatts, this is Thompson…" He motioned to the guard before holding out his hand for her to shake.

She took his hand tentatively, still unsure of why she was here.

"Sir, why am I here?"

Whatts looked her up and down, scrutinizing her, before speaking.

"I think you'd better come with us."

***

She watched in shock more than horror.

The man who was usually so calm – so calculated - so controlled, was pressed against the wall with a bloodied knife in his hand and a look of absolute primitive rage on his face.

Around him, Sark's blood mixed with that of his victim, footsteps etched in deep crimson blood were dotted about the narrow cell and Sydney tried hard not to look at the splatters on the wall.

"Oh god… what happened?" She stared wide-eyed at Sark, his face almost unrecognizable.

"The sentence was handed down this morning…"

Sydney turned to Whatts.

"Death penalty?"

He looked at her, shaking his head.

"No. Life imprisonment. That seems to be the problem."

"He wanted to die?" Sydney looked at him questioningly.

"You know these terrorists. They always want to be the Martyr."

The guard started talking hurriedly to her after Whatts nodded in his direction.

"Sark bribed another prisoner who worked in the kitchen to smuggle him a butter knife. He's been sharpening it for a few weeks now – I guess ever since the trial ended. This morning he ambushed one of our guards. He killed him."

Whatts spoke up.

"Stabbed him forty-one times before turning the knife on himself."

Sydney turned her attention back to the cell.

"I know Sark's a killer, but he's usually so composed… so controlled."

"That's why we've asked for you to come in. You know him better than anyone in the CIA."

Sydney shook her head, glancing again to the disheveled figure in the cell. "I do not know that man. That's not the Sark I know…"

"Well then we need to figure out why…" Whatts looked at her with an eyebrow raised. "We're sending in a team to tranquilize him. A combination of the drugs and his current deteriorated mental state means that he'll probably talk – more so than he would under any truth serum. Our psychologists say that he's broken – your mission is to find out why, and anything else you can."

Sydney nodded hesitantly. "Yes Sir."

As if in answer to some pre-written cue, a team entered his cell. Sydney drew in a deep breath involuntarily.

She watched as a tranq dart hit Sark square in the chest. He pulled it out frantically.

"What is this! A tranq dart! Why won't you people kill me!" Sark screamed hoarsely, his eyes darting about the room. He pointed to the body of the dead guard.

"Look! I'm a killer! Kill me! I deserve to die!"

Another tranq dart hit him in the leg and he fell to the ground almost pathetically, slapping his hands down on the ground, splashing a pool of still blood.

"Just kill me!"

Sydney thought she heard him sobbing and tried to ignore her heart wrenching as she watched someone so strong – so fearless – slip into insanity.

***

He was strapped to a stainless steel table, his clothes changed from the standard prison garment into stark white surgical scrubs. Bandages covered his arms from where he had slashed himself.

Sydney walked over to him and reached up as if to smooth his hair off his forehead.

Her hand froze in mid air and she put it back down beside her stiffly, taking a seat on stool beside his bed uncomfortably.

"Sark."

She tried to keep her voice emotionless, cold.

He rolled his head to the side, his usually sharp blue eyes now a cloudy grey and tumbling about unsteadily from the drugs. He tried to focus on her, but his eyes kept rolling.

"Is that you, Syd?"

His voice almost sounded like that of a child and she cringed at the pangs of empathy she felt for him. She reminded herself that he was a killer. An assassin. She mentally recalculated all the horrific things she had seen him do.

"Sark… why did you attack the guard?"

He smiled maniacally. "Because I am a killer. That's what I do."

She swallowed again.

"Why do you want to die?"

His eyes rolled into the back of his head.

"Sark!"

She shook him firmly and he snapped back to attention.

He grinned stupidly. "What was the question again?"

She glanced at the wall where she knew Whatts and the psychologists would be watching from behind the two-way mirror.

"Irina?"

"No, Sark, it's Sydney Bristow… answer my questions."

"You look so much like your mother."

Sydney tucked her hair behind her ears. She finally had the chance to ask him about her – about her mother. She wondered if doing so would compromise her position in the CIA, if Whatts would condone her line of questioning.

"How did you meet my mother?"

Sark swallowed dryly. Smacking his lips together.

He was completely out of it, and as much as she hated him, Sydney couldn't stand to see someone so proud dragged down, humiliated.

She touched his arm lightly.

"Sark?"

He closed his eyes and smiled slightly, as if her touch was calming somehow.

"I was nine. So young."

His smile deepened.

"I was special. And she came to take me with her."

Sydney's breath caught in her throat.

"Take you where?"

"She was so soft…" he spoke vaguely, as if in trance. "Not like my real mother. Not like my real home. But she said she would take me away from them… and I went with her… but she left too - left me alone at that place."

Sydney saw a single tear slip from the corner of his eye and creep down his cheek.

"Where did she leave you alone?"

"At that school. No-one liked me. I was too different."

Sydney grappled with the enormity of what he was telling her. Sark had been a subject in the KGB version of Project Christmas. Her mother had made him into the man he was today. She winced.

"Sark… were there other children… Other… special… children?"

He nodded.

"Where are they now?"

He didn't respond.

"Sark…"

He opened his eyes and she could see the cloudiness clearing, could see the drugs wearing off.

"I am not going to live in a cell, Sydney. I can not stay here. You either kill me or set me free."

She shook her head.

"That's not going to happen."

He sighed and turned his head toward the mirror.

"I know things… I know who is disloyal to the CIA, I know where to find the other Project Christmas subjects, I know things… If you get me out of here, I will tell you everything."

Whatts' voice boomed through an intercom system.

"The United States does not negotiate with terrorists."

He smiled slyly again and Sydney could see the Sark she knew returning.

"You will have to… eventually."

He looked back to Sydney, his eyes almost pleading.

"Sydney, you know I am a valuable agent. Convince your superiors to release me into CIA custody and I will tell you everything you need to know about your mother, and about your missing two years."

Her eyes flicked over his face fleetingly.

"No." The word was no more than a whisper.

He smiled and spoke to her softly.

"We're not so different, you and I."

Her eyes were drawn to the dried blood caked underneath his fingernails.

"No Sark. We're very different."