Title: Chronic Vertigo
Author: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]
Genre: Romance/Action/Adventure
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.
Author's Note: Well, I said December first and meant it. Updates every Monday and Thursday.

Chapter Three: Antebellum
Part A

Arvin Sloane sat at a gray, metal table in a molded plastic chair, mentally swearing at the poor lighting. The converted storage room was a poor substitute for his old SD-6 office even if it was a bit warmer and quieter. He'd never liked the glass walls to his old office, despite the fact that it allowed him to watch over his employees. They were so busy; so distracting as they ran from place to place, believing they were doing the work of a patriot. When in reality they were sheep, mere tools in his quest for Rambaldi's ultimate work; the ultimate prize. They were all tossed away like outgrown toys when he no longer needed them. Except for the Bristows.

Part of him was happy for that – they had no idea what a pivotal part of this whole quest they were! Having worthy adversaries made this quest so much sweeter; so much more worth the end prize.

His aged eyes scanned the document through scratched lenses, reading what they could of Rambaldi's hurried writing. Another piece of the puzzle he was striving so hard to complete; yet this page simply helped to paint the image on the cover of the puzzle's box and while to some it would have a somewhat lesser value, Sloane regarded it as a great treasure. Anything related to Rambaldi was, at least to him. And while some had called him crazy, he was no more insane than those who collected stamps, or spoons.

It was during the third time he was reading it over that he heard others enter the room. They came over to stand over his left shoulder but did not say a word, remaining silent until his fourth read-through was finished and he leaned back in his chair. The glasses he'd been wearing he tossed somewhat haphazardly to the side of the page, one of the earpieces sitting on its edge.

Is it what you expected? Irina Derevko spoke softly; her words, as always, carefully chosen.

It is what it is, he responded cryptically. Was our message received?

A voice spoke from the shadows of the doorway. It was.

Sark remained in the shadows, beyond their field of vision though he shifted to let them know he was still there. It had only been a few hours since he'd left Sydney, his knee still aching from where she kicked it. The shadows allowed him to lean against the wall a bit, just enough to elevate the pressure on it long enough for it to heal a little. He was afraid she might have dislodged something, but that would all have to be figured out later when he had time. At the moment, his priority was finding out exactly what he had retrieved.

Sloane sat before it and his answer before, to Irina's inquiry, gave no real indication of what the parchment had upon it. Other than words, of course. He'd washed off the ugly collection of brush strokes and handed it off right away, not able to examine it himself. Hopefully, Sloane would ask him to place it in storage soon so he would have the opportunity to look it over himself. Irina gave him a sharp look, as if asking why he wouldn't move from his now-comfortable perch. He didn't give her a response.

Do you really think Sydney will listen to you this time? That you can really dissuade her from chasing you? Irina asked of him, moving around him to stand so she could face him. He could lie to her from behind, but his eyes would always give him away no matter how much training he'd had or how hard he tried.

No. Sydney's too good for that. She will continue to come, he sighed. Sloane's hand moved out to push the glasses from the edge of his parchment, passing over the old paper in the process as he made sure nothing had happened to it. I wish there were something I could do.

Short of killing them all, I don't believe there is, Sark spoke up, shifting his weight again. He winced as weight was again placed on his knee, but relaxed as he found another position. Damn it. He was going to have to ice it when this impromptu meeting was concluded, barring being sent off on another mission. He was really getting sick of this dance he was locked into. But he continued reminding himself that everything was worth this wait, this placement. Alliances were being made, experience, knowledge. The game was all these things and more.

There might be, Irina spoke, shifting to sit halfway on the large table. Sloane gave a dark look as he moved the precious parchment out of her way, wishing she had thought about it before moving.

Might be? Sloane's eyes lit up. The extent of Irina's knowledge was still beyond him, even after all this time, and whenever she gave him another piece of it, good things were bound to happen. But the look in her eyes was far away as if she were angry with herself for saying something. Why would she be? Why *should* she be? Irina pushed herself off of the table and crossed her arms as she pulled the information forward.

There was a file compiled; a code that would give you info on the CIA and their operations, she started to explain. Sloane put a hand up to stop her.

I heard of this, but I also heard it was, he paused,

she asked. He nodded.

This computer has surfaced, Irina smiled. Sark chose this moment to come from his place in the shadows, limping ever so slightly as he made his way to Irina's side. She had plans, this he knew, deep, old, complicated plans that would boggle the mind with their complexity, their cunning. He had seen some in action, events played out exactly as she had told them they would with such accuracy, such precision he was amazed. Which is why he had agreed to work with her, under her direction. So what was she up to now?

We don't have time to chase this computer, Irina, Sloane countered.

I think it might be worth the time, Mr. Sloane, Sark tested, speaking somewhat slowly. Sloane acknowledged him finally as a member of the conversation and gave him a look, measuring him up. He never could know how much of Irina's plans the young man knew, something that frightened Sloane sometimes. Was Sark being honest with him, or playing him in order to advance himself with Irina? Doesn't matter, Sloane told himself. He had fail-safes in place, having learned from his last mistake in the realm of trust.

Why do you say that? Sloane asked of him. Irina moved in to answer for him.

Because the information on this computer may be powerful enough to put the CIA in your debt, she told him. His eyebrows raised.

In my debt, Sloane pondered, scratching the side of his face absentmindedly. Meaning I could, say –

Continue and conclude your quest for Rembaldi without the constant meddling of the CIA, Sark finished for him. The prospect was promising, an inanimate object that granted the possessor the ability to put the CIA in its place. Every criminal in the world would love and would kill to get their hands on it. But the problem with this computer was the anonymity surrounding it. Everyone had heard of it somehow through the network of crime, but most had dismissed it with the wave of a hand, knowing they would be killed before they got near it. Sloane frowned, doubts coming to his mind. There had to be a catch, he knew it, and he knew Irina knew as well. So why wasn't she telling him?

He sighed. Once again, he'd have to get all the information for himself.

Where has it surfaced? he asked of her. At least she could provide him that, a starting point from which he could follow its trail. With the latest Rembaldi artifact recovered as only more background, Sloane found himself with a bit of downtime before finding the next piece of for his quest. What better to do during this time than find something that would, in the future, help him to assemble this puzzle faster?

she responded, wrapping the word in her accent. I have a contact there who might be able to set up a meeting. Sloane appeared to consider this for a moment before picking up his glasses from the table.

Set it up, he directed, returning his attention to the page on the table. Sark looked up at Irina, who motioned for him to follow her out of the room. Once outside the office, with the door securely closed behind them, he turned to her, curious.

What are you up to? he asked of her.

You'll see. What's wrong with your knee? A master of misdirection, that, Irina bringing his attention back to where it had been most of the discussion. He smirked.

Nothing. Just a bit of a greeting from Sydney, he replied. At this, Irina's expression softened, an arm reaching out to be placed on Sark's shoulder.

How is she? the mother demanded of him, her eyes full of worry. She was always worried about her daughter, about her well being. When she was in custody it was easy to find all this out, but ever since she'd been extracted, Irina found it harder and harder to keep up with her.

Fine. But I don't believe she is going to wait for you much longer, he sighed, shifting. The hand fell.

If this all occurs as I believe it will; no amount of time will help me.

So her trust is unimportant to you now?

Never. But I will not force her.

Forcing her will not work, unless –

Irina held up a hand to stop him, knowing exactly where he was going. But she was already there, in a place she never thought she'd be. She was going after Sydney's weakness, the one and only one she possessed. She'd never intended for that to happen, never intended for it to happen this way. She had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Irina wasn't sure she was thinking about Sydney anymore.