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

PART ELEVEN

Sydney pulled against the cuffs securing her to the metal chair. She wondered what tricks she was going to have to pull to get herself - and Sark - out of this one.

She looked around the Spartan cell - a mirror she guessed was two-way, herself, the chair, the cuffs, and no possible means of escape.

She sighed. She didn't even know if Sark was alive - she still couldn't contact him. When Moore's men had moved her into this cell they had neglected to remove the small silver disks on her temples that allowed her to communicate with Sark, and she ascertained that they had no idea what they were.

Sark... Sark can you hear me?

She unwittingly held her breath in wait for a reply, a reply that was not forthcoming. The only response was a vast, empty silence that disturbed her more than it should have.

Why should she mourn the death of a terrorist? A man who had tried on numerous occasions to kill her, had shot or killed her friends and countless other people for profit.

She scrunched up her face in an attempt to fight back the tears that no-one would ever see her shed.

***

Moore paced the the room as Vaughn talked animatedly to her. She kept glancing up at him - noticing how much he had changed since their first meeting two years ago - just after Vaughn had been told Sydney Bristow had been killed in action.

"Yeah, but the deal was clear Agent Vaughn, you guys deliver Sark - and your agent gets out of here before my men showed up. What am I going to tell the Covenant now? That I let a CIA agent go?" Her vice was thick with a French accent as her eyes narrowed, her almost feline features daring him to defy her.

"Tarra, Syd... Agent Bristow disobeyed the orders given to her to retreat. She was not privy to Whatt's deal with you."

"That's not my problem..."

Vaughn sighed, running a tired hand through his hair wearily.

"Tarra please, what do want, name it, and the CIA will give it to..."

"Is it really worth it? I mean, one agent? And not a particularly good one if I may so..."

"She's one of the best..." Vaughn looked to the ground.

Tarra's eyebrow raised characteristically, her face twisted in a mocking smile. "Oh yeah, she's real dangerous - she goes to pieces so fast people could get hit by the shrapnel...".

"Tarra..."

Tarra Moore sighed. She didn't know why she was letting the skinny American woman go free. But the repercussions of such an act was the last thing on her mind at this poignant moment in her life.

"Fine, but I am gonna have to kill all the guys that saw me bring her in."

"What are you going to tell the Covenant?"

"I'll tell them that Sark did it... But I'll need compensation... you know, to hire more guys..." She rubbed her fingers together to indicate the money she wanted.

Vaughn nodded slowly. "Do it..."

Tarra reverted back to her Jersey twang for a final flamboyant gesture and if Vaughn had not known she was a French national he would have been fooled by the accuracy of her assumed accent. "Then bring me the bling bling baby."

***

"What do you mean, 'planned'?" Sydney stared at Vaughn incredulously from the other side of the helicopter - suddenly needing to put all the space she could between them.

"It was a set-up. Moore contacted me, told me she now working for the Covenant and that she could get us the information we needed from the Covenant training facility in exchange for Sark."

"I don't understand..."

"I went to Whatt's with the offer, as you know he's been handling these Mole-related cases and is the liaison between the NSA and the CIA on this matter... He agreed that the trade was worth it. While you were pursuing Sark, a secondary team infiltrated the facility and obtained the information. Moore bought us a window of time and a cover story. She tells the Covenant that Sark tried to get into their training facility and she apprehended him. It's a situation of mutual benefit - we obtain the information without the Covenant knowing and consequently alerting their assets, and Moore gets Sark."

"So you just gave up Sark?"

Vaughn smiled. "It's okay Syd, she wanted him to kill him - he's not on the loose again."

Sydney looked at Vaughn and suddenly needed to throw up. Her eyebrows furrowed and she opened her mouth to say something - but the words choked in her throat.

"Syd, what's wrong? It's just Sark..."

Sydney swallowed and answered him softly - her voice no more than an uttered whisper as they set down at Langley, the chopper cutting through the morning air.

"Yeah... It's just Sark..."

***

Sark opened an eye slowly and carefully - and only slightly. He was unwilling to draw any unsavoury attention.

The room was white - so white - and he couldn't make out any distinguishing aspects. Wall to wall, floor to ceiling of pure white.

Maybe I'm dead, he thought, an ironic smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Funny that hell should smell like apple disinfectant and be a dazzling white.

He could feel the cold of steel seeping into his flesh from a table he lay on, and the starch smell of disinfectant told him he was in an infirmary.

He heard high heels clicking toward him, their shrill resonance echoing like the wretched sound of shrapnel falling after gunfire.

He could smell her rich vanilla scent as she approached.

"Hey Moore. How have you been?"

He opened his other eye and shifted slightly - the pain shooting through his spine urging him to stop.

She raised her shirt - a web of scars stretching across her stomach.

"I been better." Her Jersey drawl contrasted his crisp British enunciation.

He winced - not from the pain - he was used to it by now - but from an emotion that he had not felt in a long time. Guilt, perhaps?

She flicked one leg over over the metal bench he laid on, straddling his hips and leaning in close, her full lips close to him, her breath prickling his skin.

"But how about you, Mr Sark? How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been shot."

Her lips curved into a wide smile. "Always making with the witticisms, Mr Sark. I don't think I need to tell you that this is no laughing matter."

"I thought for sure you'd want me dead". He said it casually, trying to keep the uneasiness he was feeling from creeping into his voice.

She traced her fingers lightly down each side of his face, her cold skin itching his cheeks. Sark shivered involuntarily.

She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow. "Oh I want you dead, Mr Sark... Just not yet."

He swallowed as a a trolley stacked with surgical equipment was rolled in, its wheels screaming in protest.

Moore climbed off him and walked toward the trolley, picking up a scalpel and flicking it around her fingers in a grandiose movement that one would expect from the ostentatious agent. Another sinister smirk pulled her lips into a wide smile.

"Firstly, I want revenge..."