Title: The Courier

Author: DOKChairman

Time/Spoilers: Don't know; it's a future fic. Assume everything up to "Truth Takes Time" is fair game.

Disclaimer: I don't own Alias. I don't own anything, really. I am in fact a poor person with no worldly goods. If you would like to take pity on me and donate money to my Poor Writer's Fund, please send me an e-mail with your offer. Thank you.

Chapter 5: Murphy's Law of Thermodynamics

There is no white light at the end of a tunnel. And there is no last second slide show of your life. At least there wasn't for Michael Vaughn. Vaughn's last moments consisted of ruminations, deep ponderings on whether or not he would meet the same fate as his father. Perhaps Eric had been wrong. He certainly wasn't experiencing the things his friend had experienced when he had looked Death in the eye and Death had blinked. There was nothing. Nothing but rain and the cold unforgiving ground of a darkened street in the middle of nowhere. To the rest of the world, the life ending on that wet street would go unnoticed and unremarked.

That was the kind of death they signed on for. In Langley, Virginia, there stands a wall for such deaths. 34 stars to signify the 34 agents who died on darkened streets. To the man who could feel the life draining out of him, he knew it would not be much of an inconvenience to add one more.

He closed his eyes as the droplets of rain soothed his burning skin. Dying would not be so bad, he knew. It would be a release from the pain and the suffering, and the burden of Atlas would no longer be his. That forced a small, almost wistful, smile to grace his pale lips, and for the last time, he closed his eyes.

"Agent Vaughn, you can't leave me just yet."

Vaughn's eyes exploded open at the hard slap across his face. He moaned quietly and struggled to focus his eyes on the man leaning over him, momentarily shielding him from the welcomed rain. "H-Holly?" Vaughn asked groggily, still straddling the thin line between pain and bliss.

"Yes, Vaughn, it's me. I know that you're in a lot of pain right now, so I'll make this brief." Holly paused momentarily to slap Vaughn's face again, waiting till he had Vaughn's full attention; or at least what amounted to Vaughn's full attention. "I wanted to know if you had any last words you'd like me to give to anyone back home?"

Vaughn barked out a laugh, the sound cruel even to his own ears. "You're not serious. You're asking me for last words? You just shot me you son of a bitch!" Vaughn could feel some fire flowing through his veins as the anger sparked inside of him. "I got some last words for you. Why don't you stick that gun in your mouth and blow your fucking head off!"

Holly merely frowned disapprovingly and stood up, straightening his clothes needlessly. "I merely wanted to add credibility to my story for when I am debriefed. Surely a man as in love with Agent Bristow as you obviously are, would have something to say for her at the moment of his death. Making up something like that is a lot harder than using the words straight from the source."

Vaughn glared up at the towering man and struggled to sit up. He slowly inched his way backwards to rest his back against the bench, clenching his teeth through the pain the whole way. He looked steadily at Holly and then spoke slowly, already feeling his renewed strength dissipating, "You can tell Sydney that I love her and that if she skips the freeway most mornings, cause of construction, she can shave off 15 minutes of her morning commute."

Holly snorted and swiftly kicked Vaughn in his stomach, just above the bullet wound in his side. Vaughn yelped like a wounded dog and fell onto his side, moaning pathetically. Holly crouched down and lifted Vaughn's face by his chin so that he could look him in the eyes. Vaughn was struck by the lack of emotion in Holly's light brown eyes, and he knew that whatever remorse or sympathy that might have colored Holly's actions were no longer there. "I admire a man with a sense of humor, Vaughn. Especially a man knocking on death's door. But only to a point."

Holly suddenly squeezed Vaughn's chin like a vice, his fingers burrowing into Vaughn's skin like so many knives through warm butter. Holly spoke slowly, enunciating every word carefully, "You have passed that point, Agent Vaughn. I thank you for securing and transporting the case for me, but now it is time to relieve you of your burden."

With an unnecessary flick of his wrist, Holly sent Vaughn's temple crashing into the immovable ground, and Vaughn felt his vision clouding. For the briefest of seconds, he closed his eyes and gazed upon nothingness. And then he was pulled back to reality with a sharp tug of his arm.

Holly was unlocking the handcuff from Vaughn's wrist. Fighting against every screaming nerve in his body, he suddenly jerked his arm out of Holly's grasp. The case fell on its side and Vaughn swung his legs in a wide arc, impacting solidly against Holly's right knee. Holly contorted his face in pain and nearly collapsed, shooting out his arm to the bench for support.

Vaughn, knowing that literally every second counted, used Holly's momentary vulnerability to press his attack. Pushing up from the ground, Vaughn managed to climb to his knees. With a swift, purposeful strike with his elbow to the front of Holly's knee, Vaughn completely brought Holly to the ground. Vaughn then half-crawled to Holly's moaning body and grasped the back of the man's head, his fingers slipping slightly through the matted, wet hair.

Much like Holly had done to him only seconds before, Vaughn did the same, only with more force than Holly had ever intended. Much later, after Vaughn had long since left the bleeding and broken body on a dark and rain soaked bus stop, he would wonder if what he had done had really been necessary. A large part of him, the part that made him Michael Vaughn, would scream no, but there would always be a little part of his mind that resided in deep dark corners and only came out when survival was at its highest peak, that would scream a resounding yes.

Ruthlessly, and with little hesitance, Vaughn jammed Holly's head straight into the concrete of the sidewalk. Holly's nose broke instantly on the first impact, and blood splattered the ground, which was quickly wiped away by the rain. Holly moaned and came to his senses just long enough to throw back an elbow that caught Vaughn in the center of his chest. Vaughn sucked in a deep breath of air, mixing the smell of blood with the slightly stale taste of the London showers.

Holly's ultimately futile gesture did little to stifle Vaughn's resolve, and Vaughn retaliated swiftly with two forceful shoves of Holly's face into the ground. Holly stopped moaning on the second, and stopped moving all together on the third. After the fourth shove, Vaughn came out of the furious stupor that had overcome him and realized that Holly was no longer a threat.

Weakly, Vaughn released Holly's hair from his grip. He was not sure that the man was still alive, nor did he care. He rolled away from the body and landed flat on his back, half his body lying on top of the sidewalk, the other half stretching out into the street. He turned his face upward, opened his eyes, and sucked in huge lungfulls of air. Raindrops wetted his parched throat, and never had Vaughn felt relief like he did now.

But his relief was short lived, for he knew that he couldn't stay where he was. Fortunately for him, Agent Holly had provided him with a means of transportation. Vaughn slowly, and carefully to ensure that his wound had the least amount of pressure on it as possible, rolled onto his stomach and crawled to the still body of Agent Holly. He hurriedly, for he could feel himself grow increasingly weak, searched Holly's person for the keys to the waiting car.

Vaughn found them in the right pocket of Holly's jacket. He fished them out and grinned triumphantly; every ray of sunshine was to be savored. Vaughn turned around and slowly began his journey to the car. The door was already open, bright, warm light spilled from inside the car's dry embrace, and Vaughn again felt renewed vigor. He felt hope.

***

Sydney woke slowly from a surprisingly restful sleep. She gingerly lifted her head off the back of the cushioned seat, and tentatively rolled her head in a circle to make sure all the kinks were out. This was one of things she hated most about flying: The stiffness and muscle ache from sitting in one place for too long. The jet lag never seemed to bother her, which she was eternally grateful for, but she always felt like visiting a chiropractor after an especially long flight.

She looked over to her right and smiled faintly at the sight of a drooling Eric Weiss. Well, perhaps drooling was too harsh a comment, Sydney thought. It really was only a small couple of drops hanging on the end of his chin as his head lolled to his right and rested against the fuselage of the plane.

She chuckled lightly to herself, and started with some surprise when she realized that was the first laugh she had had in...God knows how many hours. She stopped laughing at the thought, but the smile never left her face and she reached over to gently shake Weiss.

Weiss woke in only a manner that Eric Weiss could awake in. His body seemed to convulse and his arms and legs flailed wildy for a very brief two seconds like someone had just shoved a cattle prod up his...well, you get the idea. He mumbled incoherently and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and chin in a move that looked well practiced to Sydney. She couldn't help but giggle lightly when Weiss finally awoke completely and sat up straight in his seat.

"Huh? Wha?" Weiss turned his head to face a still giggling Sydney. "What's so funny?"

Sydney began to laugh harder now and rummaged around in the seat pocket in front of her, pulling out a Kleenex box and presenting it to Weiss. "Here, you might want to...uh...wipe your chin." Weiss had gotten most of the drool with his hand swipe, but there was still some left on his chin.

Weiss glared at Sydney, but he didn't have his heart in it. He practically ripped the box out of Sydney's hand in his haste to pull a kleenex out and wipe his chin. He grumbled, "Stupid Mike and his stupid getting himself shot at. Why couldn't he just stay home and not make me have to fly all over the world saving his no good ass?"

Sydney was laughing even harder now; a full body laugh that brightened up her whole face. Weiss continued grumbling, but secretly he was grinning inside almost as wide as Sydney. Some people were blessed with many talents, others only a few. Weiss knew that he was competent in many things, but excelled at very little. Except for when it came to making people laugh. That was something he had always prided himself on, and was a talent that he tried to exercise whenever possible. So it made him very happy and quite pleased with himself to see Sydney genuinely laugh.

He had begun to worry about her before they had even gotten on the plane. His worry had developed into total concern over her defeatist and self-reproof during their talk earlier. It was a relief to see her lightening up a bit. He knew that she would be no help to Vaughn if she mired herself in blame and self pity. Hopefully, with her in a slightly better mood, she'd be able to think more clearly. Or at least more rationally.

"Nice to see that I amuse you. Would you like me to sing and dance for you too? Maybe juggle?"

Sydney began to calm down, but her brown eyes twinkled at the thought of Weiss singing and dancing. "No, Weiss, but thanks for the offer. Maybe after we find Vaughn, I'll take you up on that."

Weiss blinked at the optimism in Sydney's voice and her choice of words were not lost on him. Could he have cheered her up this much in such a short amount of time? He didn't think so, which actually made him quite glad. He was sure that he had helped, but Sydney seemed to have done most of the work. He slowly shook his head in slight wonderment. She had an amazing ability to compartmentalize and deal with horrible things. He didn't envy her that ability at all.

"You seem considerably more upbeat. Have a nice dream about you and Vaughn?" Weiss wiggled his eyebrows exaggeratedly.

Sydney laughed and lightly smacked Weiss's arm. "Haha, Weiss, that's not funny." The smile faded a bit and her lips became thin and more serious, "I've just decided that you were right earlier. This isn't my fault, at least not all of it, and blaming myself is counterproductive. Vaughn needs me to keep a clear head, so that's what I'm going to do."

"That's great to hear, but I gotta admit, I'm a little disappointed." Weiss paused until Sydney looked at him confusedly, then he grinned and added, "I mean from now on, this means I won't be able to legitimately manhandle you when you're being stupid."

Realization dawned on Sydney's face, "Ahhhh, right. From now on, the gloves are off."

Weiss frowned and his whole face seemed to droop dejectedly. "Awww, damn. And I had such plans too."

***

Sark could not prevent the sigh from escaping his lips. He had tried, oh how he had tried, to maintain his composure in the face of such failure. But he was only human, no matter how he wished differently. And humans are fallible creatures, with faults and cracks beneath their foundations. Sark's faults shook him to the core, whenever they demanded to be noticed, as they were doing so now.

He paced up and down the worn and faded concrete of the warehouse floor, so tense as to emulate a poised cobra ready to strike. And strike he wanted to. Desperately, he wanted to. But his professionalism and his own iron self-control would not allow him to, even now as he paced in front of the four men who, much like the case attached to a man who had eluded his grasp twice now, had become the focus of his rage.

They were the four survivors of the retrieval team, and the four men responsible for allowing Agent Vaughn to escape the warehouse. They had once been five, but their fifth companion was lying in a pool of his own blood where Agent Vaughn had made good his escape.

"Would someone please explain to me how a man with a 40-pound metal case attached to his arm, on foot, and obviously wounded, managed to evade five heavily armed former commandoes, not once but twice?" Sark stopped pacing and faced the four men, pinning them to the ground with a piercing glacial glare. All but one refused to meet his glare.

The man mumbled something in Russian that Sark could not understand, and then he spat on the ground with obvious disgust. "What did you say?" Sark demanded quietly, deadly.

The man's face flushed in obvious anger, so brightly that Sark could see it even through the dim light of the warehouse. He spoke in extremely heavily accented English, "I said, 'Fuck you, you self righteous prick.'"

"I see," Sark took a few steps closer to the brazen Russian and looked him up and down. Sergei Sokolov was not a tall man, but Sark could see that he was obviously well built, especially for a man who was fast approaching middle age. Wiry muscle under taut skin, apparent even under the combat gear that he was still wearing. Sergei had a thin face, and intelligent brown eyes that were as steady and clear as any Sark had ever seen.

"You do not frighten me, boy. I was fighting Chechen rebels when you were still a parasite in your whore of a mother. Do not think that you can intimidate me." More unintelligible Russian. Sark had always thought that his Russian was fluent, but Sergei was speaking a dialect he obviously couldn't understand. "You can terminate my contract, you can even kill me if you wish, but do not question my competence again," This time, Sergei was quiet and deadly.

Sark stared hard into Sergei's eyes. It was a clash of titans. Two men who with their bare hands could cause death and destruction to rain down upon the heads of mere mortals. "If you had not given me a reason to do so, I would have no need to question your competence."

Again, Sergei spoke Russian first before speaking English. And again, Sark stepped closer until he was no more than four feet away from Sergei. "I will find this Michael Vaughn for you. I will find him, kill him, and bring you the case you seek. And I will do this for free."

Sark's eyes widened slightly, but that was the extent of his shock at the Russian's statement. "For free?"

"Da, for free. I do not care what you do with these...these..." Sergei said something in Russian as he made a hand gesture to indicate the other three remaining members of the retrieval team. Sark could see the three men bristle and grow angry out of the corner of his eye, but he never once left Sergei's face. "Pay them if you wish, kill them also, if you want, but I will do this for free."

Sark wasted little time in responding, "Agreed. I will, of course, be leading my own effort to capture Agent Vaughn, but if you should happen to do so on your own, then all will be forgotten. If not..." Sark shrugged his shoulders and said definitively, "then I suggest that you never come to my attention ever again."

Sark turned his back and made as if he was leaving, before stopping and standing rigidly. The cobra was ready to strike. Gracefully, he turned around to face Sergei one last time. "Oh, and do not speak to me like that ever again," Sark said so quietly and so unwaveringly, that it seemed as if everything in the world faded away but the words that he spoke. Fluidly, Sark reached into his jacket and pulled out his gun and fired one shot into Sergei's left arm. The entire action had taken less than three seconds; a strike as fast as any cobra in the world.

Sergei grunted loudly and clenched his teeth together as he sagged to the ground and rested on his left knee. No other sound escaped his lips and he glared up at Sark with hatred in his eyes. Sark bestowed the kneeling Sergei with an expressionless stare as he walked up to the man and cupped his chin, lifting it so they could see eye to eye. "My mother may have been a whore, but I am still your superior and you will pay me the respect I deserve. Disrespect me again, and I will kill you." It was the silent certainty that made Sark's threat more dangerous and frightening than any long winded list of threats.

Sark bestowed Sergei with one last icy glare and turned on his heel, his relaxed composure and slow, confident stride, a loud proclamation of contempt for the men behind him. Vesuvius had spoken, and that was all any man needed to know.

***