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.
Chapter Four\\ Ipse Dixit
Part A
"I do not believe in a fate that falls on men however they act; but
I do believe in a fate that falls on them unless they act."
G. K. Chesterton (1874-1936)
"The transmitter went active twenty minutes ago," Jack said, giving
Weiss and Vaughn only a small glare as they snuck in the back of the conference
room and took seats like guilty late college students. They looked around guiltily,
Vaughn smoothing out his tie subconsciously. His eyes locked with Sydney's and
stayed there as she tried to see what was going on with him. He broke contact
after a moment, the feeling of someone trying to read into him making him uncomfortable.
She crossed her arms and turned to her father, leaving Vaughn to look up at
the older agent himself.
"We can assume we only have a few hours before the device becomes unreliable,"
he continued. Marshall shifted in his seat and moved his hand as if he were
about to say something in his creation's defense, but a sharp look from Jack
silenced him before he even spoke. True, the device was good, but the tech didn't
have the infield experience to know the errors that occurred in the field. Things
happened out there that could alter the tracker's performance - movement, action,
a variety of things. A few reliable hours was a high estimate, but a realistically
optimistic one.
"Currently, Sark is here." The button for the computer was clicked
again, the whir of the computer behind the images filling the stark silent room.
"An airport in Paris. We think he's simple connecting to a trans-Atlantic
fight and are working on the passenger manifests for the airport now."
Kendall moved over, wanting to claim back his territory over the briefing but
not being able to stand up to Jack. He stood to the side, silent and unmoving.
It took a second for him to move in, to show he was still here for a reason.
"Agents Bristow and Vaughn, you'll be meeting up with Mr. Sark as soon
as he lands. We're hoping the passenger manifests will allow us to make that
happen. The objective is to bring him into custody as smoothly as possible.
We're vying for the element of surprise to be on our side," he explained.
Sydney sighed. It was never easy going on a mission, but with a window that
could be as small as a few minutes, it would be harder. She'd joked before about
keeping a packed suitcase in her trunk for those just in case moments. Now it
was going to become something more than a joke.
"What if we can't find out where Sark's heading?" Vaughn brought up,
a pen balanced between two of the fingers on his right hand. A slight smile
came to Sydney's face, but faded as her eyes caught on the slowly fading scar
on his palm, some of the skin still pink after these months. The pen moved in
between his fingers as his mind worked gracefully with the practice only years
of passing his father's coin through his fingers could bring. "Sark's smart
enough to disguise himself, use an alias."
"We can see where he is, Agent Vaughn. It is a simple matter of seeing
what flight leaves when he does."
Vaughn leaned back in his chair, the pen still between his fingers, satisfied
with the answer.
"So we get to the airport before him and apprehend him as soon as he gets
off the plane," Sydney stated more than asked. "Why does this sound
too easy?"
"Because it is?" Vaughn suggested, raising his brow, a hint of laughter
in his words. The smile was contagious only to Sydney, the younger agents still
remembering how to smile, to laugh, to bring humor to these lives of theirs.
"You leave as soon as we know the destination," Kendall said briskly.
The computer's whir died down as the hard disk did the same.
"He's not going to be taken without a fight," Sydney announced to
the room.
"Then fight him," Kendall said nonchalantly. She closed her eyes momentarily,
taking a breath. Easy for him to say - he didn't just get back from fighting
him.
. .
"Got 'em." If the tech was nervous because Weiss had been standing
looking over his shoulder for the last 20 minutes, he was doing an awesome job
of hiding it. Only once in that time period had he glanced over his shoulder,
and that was because Weiss' yo-yo had hit the back of his chair, breaking his
concentration on the screen before him.
But when he said 'got 'em', he keyed in a few commands and the flight plans
and passenger manifests the other agents had been compiling flew to his screen.
By comparing the location of the terminal with the data, the tech smiled and
relaxed in his chair, having found the plane and destination.
"Bogotá, Columbia. Should be there in 17 hours," he announced
after a few seconds of compiling the data. Weiss nodded more to himself than
to anyone else, and reached around the tech to the phone and punched in the
number for op prep.
"Op Prep."
"This is Agent Weiss," he said quickly. If they left now, the CIA
would have a 10 hour head start over Sark - more than enough time. "Are
Agents Vaughn or Bristow there?"
"Hold on," and he could hear the sounds of the phone being handed
around the room. He waited impatiently - there were more calls to be made, and
this one was certainly not on the top of his list. This was a prime example
of the kinds of things he did for his friends.
"Weiss?" Sydney's soft voice came through. He was caught off-guard
for a second, not used to having her answer when he called for the pair. Oh
God, were they now as attached by the hip in his mind as they were in real life?
Were they becoming one of *those* couples?! Weiss made a mental note to save
his friend later as the girlfriend continued to speak in his ear. "What
is it?"
"Bogotá. Bring a suit, I'm sure Mike'll like it," he grinned.
The phone was such a wonderful invention, and was, at the moment, the only thing
between him and a painful smack in the arm.
"I'm hoping I won't be there long enough to use it," Sydney sighed.
Her fatigue, her tiredness over this job was evident in her voice at that point,
having let her guard down for that one second. "What's our advantage?"
And like that, she was back to all business.
"If you leave now, 10 hours."
"Good, I've been needing a break - maybe I can get one after this."
"So I hear," he muttered and slid under the radar. "Where's Mike?"
"Up with Marshall, why?" she asked, her voice slightly distance as
she cradled the phone between her head and shoulder. She grabbed the clipboard
Nancy, the secretary in Op Tech, handed her and signed quickly for the mission's
supplies, giving Nancy the flash of a smile before turning her back to her.
"You left him alone with [i]Marshall[/i]?" Weiss asked, puzzled. He
turned to look around the large, open room for any signs of Vaughn, but found
his view obstructed by the small group gathered around the tech whose phone
he was borrowing. A little self-conscious, he moved as far from them as the
phone cord would allow.
"Yeah?"
"Sydney," he said into the phone with an uncharacteristically hushed
tone. "Marshall rambles, and often blurts things out *accidentally* when
he - "
The phone line went dead. Weiss held the phone out at arm's length and frowned.
"Why do they always do that?" he asked himself. Was it too hard for
them to shout a quick goodbye?
. .
She was out of breath by the time she arrived at Marshall's station. It only
took her a few seconds to regain herself, a time she used to take in the scene.
Marshall was sitting in his rolling chair, turned to face Vaughn who was perched
on the stool at the edge of the station. They were laughing, smiles stretched
across their features. This caused her to grin as well. Vaughn's smiles - real,
full smiles - were rarer these days as his mind was constantly occupied.
He was struggling, forcing himself to remember this data stored in his head,
pulling up memories and analyzing them. He never said anything, though, just
kept it all inside like always, but she heard him late at night, tossing and
turning only to awaken angry. Angry at his father for doing this - for using
him in such a way without clear explanation or reason. It would soon fade into
manufactured understanding, then to disappointment in himself. That was the
point he reached before getting up and leaving her side only to return some
time later.
So, with a smile on her own face, she approached.
"Hey, Syd!" Vaughn greeted, somewhat more jubilant than earlier that
morning. She crossed her arms and took an assertive step forwards, standing
just inside the edge of Marshall's station that was quickly becoming cluttered.
She could imagine the day when Kendall walked by only to trip over a blow up
chair or odd invention of the week. Marshall was certainly a man who was in
need of an office if there ever was one.
"Hi, umm, Sydney," Marshall started, but Vaughn motioned toward him
as he started to speak to Sydney.
"Since this is just a simple retrieval mission, Marshall doesn't have anything
for us," he said. "But, he does have a few good jokes. Tell her that
last one you told me, Marshall." He had turned his attention back to the
tech, oblivious to the almost envious look reflected in Marshall's eyes. He
smiled, albeit tentatively, before switching over to the joke he'd told moments
before.
But Sydney's attention wasn't on the joke. Her eyes were distant, reading the
windows flashing on Marshall's monitor. Her head moved to the side as she tried
to examine it closer from her vantage point, unwilling to take even one step
from Vaughn's side - she couldn't bring herself to leave when he was this happy,
this - normal? Was that what this was? He was a normal man at that moment, enjoying
jokes with his coworkers; not a man struggling on a daily basis with a past
he didn't choose, and a present he wanted nothing to do with. He was mentally
preparing for a battle he once again felt he must face alone. Did he not learn
from his past mistakes?
They were laughing around her. At first, it was soft, but gradually climaxed
into full volume. The blinking on the monitor was gone, leaving only a simple
wallpaper stretched across the enormous flat-screen. She shook her head and
returned her attention to the two men standing a few feet from her. Both were
looking at her oddly.
"Did you even hear a word he said?" Vaughn asked, pushing off the
stool.
"Sorry, Marshall. I saw something flashing on your screen."
"Oh, you did? Well, that could be any number of things. I have a game running,
and you know - or maybe you don't know, but sometimes someone sends a message
or something and it flashes and - "
"Can you just check it for me? It would make me feel better," Sydney
said, almost hugging herself. Marshall opened his mouth a bit to say something,
but a sharp look from Vaughn made him stop, pout a bit, and turn to lean over
his screen. Sydney sighed - she hated when Marshall was brushed aside in anger
or annoyance. He was such a sweet, gentle person caught up in this world of
lies and madness. What she wouldn't give to be back there in time when he was
recruited and make it so he never was.
"Looks like a glitch in the tracker, which is odd, because, well, there
shouldn't be one - I'm going to have to fix that for next time. But it looks
okay and everything. Did you, umm, find out where you're going?" At this
point, he hit his forehead in frustration with his own mistake. "Bogotá,
right, I knew that. Columbia. Is it safe to go there, because I heard on the
news - well, actually my, umm, mom did and told me, but it's dangerous, right?"
"We'll be fine," Sydney laughed. Everything was okay, nothing had
been said about what was -
"Oh, you know, I was wondering - and I'm sure you were too, but why would
Sark be going there? So I was cross-referencing files and such and well, came
upon the one I gave you and bingo! found it."
Sydney groaned. Vaughn raised an eyebrow and put a hand on the desktop to his
right.
"What file?" he inquired in a cool, even voice. Marshall was a deer
in headlights, or, in this case, in the high beams of two cold green eyes.
Sydney swooped in to save him. "What did you find out about the location?"
"Well, ummm," he started up nervously, "that was the last location
I tracked that, umm, computer to."
"I can't *believe* this!" Vaughn exclaimed, his hand rising only to
slam down on the desktop it had been resting on. Marshall backed away ever so
slightly.
"Vaughn," Sydney started, reaching a had out. He swatted it away with
a single precise movement of his left arm.
"You were researching this behind my back," Vaughn bit out. His eyes
were still straight ahead, focused on the clock over Marshall's right shoulder.
1:15 pm. They had to leave soon, if they were going to pull this off correctly.
"I just wanted to help! You've been torturing yourself for months,"
defended Sydney. He tore his eyes from the clock as if there were an actual
string connecting his gaze to the wall-mounted device. "Just, just try
to understand me, Vaughn. I just wanted to help you."
"I don't need your help!" he roared. Movement stopped, eyes turned.
Vaughn, however, didn't comply with the rest of them, and swept out of Marshall's
area with aged grace she hadn't seen on him before. It surprised her, as did
many things about him. She thought of the other file, the one she'd had copied
so many months ago but hadn't the heart to read. Maybe now was a good time to
start.
--
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. I mean, I didn't know he was
going to get so upset and such and he really kinda scared me there - "
"It's alright," Sydney sighed, watching Vaughn walk farther and farther
from her field of vision. The hum and background noise of the large open room
returned with every step farther he took, until finally he was gone. "We'd
better tell my father - he'll want to know this."
"Actually, umm, could you maybe tell him?" Marshall asked of her,
twisting his clasped hands in a way that couldn't be comfortable. They twisted
nervously as he scrunched up his face.
"Sure, Marshall, I'll tell him."
. .
[b]Bogotá, Columbia[/b]
One of the most insanely difficult activities in the life of a spy was jetting
off on a mission in which cooperation was required when your partner wanted
nothing more than to see you smashed down into small pieces.
Sydney thought for a moment, the wind playing with the strands of brown hair
that had escaped the hold of her ponytail holder as she stood at the edge of
the doors of the old airplane hanger. She was sure Vaughn didn't want to see
her in small pieces, nor did he want to see her dead at his own hands. But if
the last 10 hours had been a sign of anything, it was that he was mad with her,
for what she thought, were purely selfish reasons. Not a word had been spoken,
and when she brought up the mission objectives for a final review, he'd simple
slipped on the headphones provided and watched the end of the in-flight movie.
Seeing that he'd rather watch a chick-flick than speak to her had been enough,
and she went over everything on her own.
He stood now, stoic, at least 10 feet from her, leaning on a crate in the corner
near an airport attendant practicing his Spanish. Every so often he'd fumble
over his words, maybe mispronouncing one or two parts. It was obvious not only
to her, but the man he was speaking to that he hadn't spoken Spanish in a long
time, having always relied on those around him, those in the field while he
stood in that operations system. He was and always would be a desk man no matter
how many times he ran out into the field with her, anyone could tell that of
him after 10 minutes around him here. Or anywhere. But yet he continued, pushing
himself as if he needed to prove himself with each passing day, that nothing
he did was good enough. But for who?
She sighed, frustrated with the current situation, a situation she herself got
into without help from anyone else, and placed a hand on the old, rusted metal
of the large hanger door before leaning out ever so slightly to check once again
if the plane had arrived. A blast of hot air hit her square in the face, causing
her to squish it up ever so slightly, blinking a few times before he eyes were
used to the lighting change. In the distance, she could see the trees laid out
at the edge of the terminals swaying the in the breeze, their simple beauty
lost on the airport employees running back and forth on the ground near her.
The wind shifted a bit, her pony tail shifting in the wind. Sydney turned.
The man sat on a crate alone.
"Shouldn't be much longer now," came Vaughn's soft voice from behind
her. She smiled a bit, relived he was actually back to speaking with her, and
pivoted on one foot to face him. He stood before her, but didn't see her. She
could be sure of that. But for that fleeting moment, she realized his refusal
to speak to her before was not an action founded in anger.
Because in that moment she saw her father in him.
Not in the manor of genetics or familiar relations, but of something else. He
was cold, yet feeling, in a way she'd only seen her father pull off. Was he
on that path, quickly descending until he became her father? But there was only
one reason her father was that way.
Protection
Vaughn was *protecting* himself from the world. And she hated it.
"Hey, listen, I'm sorry about - "
"Don't worry about it," he cut her off, his eyes swinging down to
gaze at her for just a moment. The returned to the horizon beyond the doorway
just as fast as they were on her.
"I am. I'm worried about you. You were always so, so," and she faltered.
She actually faltered!
"I know."
"'Oh," she replied. He sighed and shifted slightly, his shoes scuffing
the concrete floor.
"I'm not questioning you or what you did," he said slowly, his eyes
now focused on his shoes. A hand rose to go through his hair, then to rub the
back of his neck. "I just feel that I don't need anyone else to help me
deal with things."
"We all need help sometimes, Vaughn."
He smiled, just a tad. "Something I've learned from you."
"Just because you feel you need to protect me, be there for me, it doesn't
mean I can't do the same for you."
"Then I guess we'll have to see how it goes, won't we," he said, slightly
distracted. With her puzzled look, he pointed outside. A plane was landing,
the very one they had been waiting for. She turned to look out at it, watching
it land. It was time to get moving. Bringing a hand up to her right ear, she
clicked on the com unit in her ear, connecting her to the rest of their team.
Her team. And finally, the full impact of failure on herself personally caught
up with her. If they let Sark escape now, she didn't know what would happened,
but she knew it would be bad.
The plane stopped in the runway, as they'd requested.
"Wait for my signal," Sydney hissed into her earpiece, swearing she
could hear the men on the other end shuffle and wake up from whatever naps they
were taking. Or not. Trained men wouldn't sleep while on a mission, but then
again, Vaughn wouldn't speak a sloppy language to some airport worker either.
She pushed such trivial matters out of her mind, focusing into the zone she
placed herself in when on a mission. All her mind worried about was her objective
- and that was Sark, who could now be seen disembarking the plane with all the
other confused passengers. She lowered the pair of binoculars she'd been looking
through from her dark eyes only to have them snatched from her as Vaughn took
his turn.
She wasn't going to wait for him to finish looking out.
"Move in. Target is wearing dark black suit with blue tie, sunglasses,
blond hair," she shouted into her earpiece, thrusting the large metal door
open and rushing out into the bright sunlight. Vaughn could be heard yelling
something behind her, but it didn't matter as she rushed, flanked by 10 men
in black with automatic weapons. Vaughn's footsteps could be heard rapidly approaching
from behind her, the binoculars bobbing up and down in his right hand as he
kept his left free.
The cries of the innocent passengers reached them before everyone was clear
to them, crying out in surprise and confusion, spinning to face their nameless
companions in search of some kind of validation. That what they were seeing
was really happening. The cries, in both English and Spanish, were nothing but
ambient noise to the trained agents, who swept up into the crowd, searching
for their mark. Wildly spinning around, guns threatening to hit those foolish
enough to get in their way, the team scanned the scene. Where was he?
"Sark!" Vaughn cried, the blond man catching his eye as he ran off
towards the terminals. He took off himself, followed closely by Sydney and those
members of the team who had heard his outburst. All the anger he felt from earlier,
the hurt, the sense of betrayal, everything came bursting to the surface, his
face twisting into an unrecognizable mask as he felt a burst of speed. Running,
to him, was always the best method of release, the best way to forget everything
that happened in the days or hours before. Yet now he had nothing on his mind,
and relied on instinct as he ran.
Sark spied him from over his right shoulder, his suit coat flying out behind
him as he ran. He knew he had to loose the agents following him if he were to
get out of here in once piece - get out of here free. They neared the maintenance
area, thick with orange suited personnel in oversized headsets, half to engrossed
in their tasks to notice the chaise occurring around them. Sark pushed one with
a large tool, sending him off balance and finally, over. Vaughn jumped over
him flawlessly while Sydney mumbled an apology to him as she passed him by.
By now, Vaughn had taken out his gun, pointing it with one hand as he still
gripped the binoculars in the other with a white-knuckled grip. They swayed
with his arm, the other straight in front of him as he ran, his mind focused
on catching Sark and nothing else. Though he wasn't the one with the personal
vendetta against the man as Sydney was, nor did he ever care to catch the international
hit man more than his patriotic sense of morality was concerned. So why was
he chasing Sark down a rapidly narrowing pathway that could only end in dimly
lit service corridors or overcrowded terminal walkways.
He hoped for the former and kept running.
A rapidly approaching luggage "train" snaked its way around the smaller
area, the driver intent on reaching a soon-departing train and not worried about
a horde of armed men rushing the stage. Sark took this opportunity to surprise
the driver and cause the train to stop, giving him the chance to unbuckle the
bags and allow them to tumble out in the direction of his chasers. The driver,
who now was responsible to clean up this mess, shouted at Sark in Spanish as
he continued off, hoping this small momentary action might buy him enough time
to escape. He had a large feeling that this whole chase had to do with the CIA's
ingenious idea of planting a bug on him and their uncanny knack of turning up
precisely where he didn't want nor need them. A kink in his plan, but a fixable
situation none the less.
The luggage lost them some of the following members of the team, as well as
the over-enthusiastic leader, Vaughn, who, despite his graceful vaulting over
several pieces of luggage caught a foot on a particularly large suitcase and
fell forward, thankful for the other assorted pieces lying around to cushion
his fall. Sydney paused, her mind on him instead of their prisoner-to-be. She
bent down to meet him, but he pushed her away, using the larger pieces to pull
himself up.
"Don't loose him!" he hissed through clenched teeth, wavering on his
feet for a second as a wave of pain pulsated through his right ankle. Sydney
wavered herself, but rushed off as his eyes, a piercing cold green, commanded
her to do so. The team followed, passing him as if he were the slow kid on a
long distance run in high school. He swore and tested it out carefully, finding
the pain in his ankle small when compared to the pain that had been weighing
down his heart for the last four months - and if he could get through day to
day life with that, he could continue running. Leaning forward for extra momentum,
he sprung from his position and followed along. He couldn't be that far behind
everyone else - could he be?
A gunshot echoed through the air, but didn't phase the natives, who continued
on with their work. Apprehension gripped Vaughn's already stressed heart, and
he moved quicker.
He came upon Sark, backed against a wall, and Sydney, standing across from him,
holding out her gun, a bullet hole in the wall next to Sark's head. Smoke continued
to rise from it as Sark stood stationary, Sydney and several armed men standing
around him. Vaughn came to a stop just behind Sydney, his eyes still as cold
as they'd been before. His weight was on his good ankle, the pain from the other
slowly seeping up his leg.
"Well, we meet again, Agent Bristow," Sark commented coolly. Almost
too coolly for Sydney's taste, considering his current situation. "Thought
you made sure we would meet again. Very clever."
"Why, thanks," she retorted sarcastically. Sark kept eye contact with
her, his fingers inching down the side of his other arm in an outwardly casual
manor. A distraction, no matter what size, was all he needed. "Put your
hands above your head, Sark, because I won't miss next time."
"And here I thought it was your shoddy marksmanship skills that made you
miss," he responded, bating her. Vaughn hung his head - she'd taken it,
he could tell by her changed posture, how the grip on her gun increased. She
moved to take a step forward, but Sark had reached the item inside his sleeve;
a dagger.
The blond-haired man moved with an unknown grace, twisting to his left and jumping
a bit, gaining the leverage he required to plunge the dagger into the man standing
there. A cried escaped the dying man's lips, prompting his teammates to open
fire - but the man was simply used as a shield as Sark ducked behind an incoming
trolley. The gunfire hit the metal like hale descending from the sky, and continued
as the trolley moved along.
Sark was no longer behind it.
Sydney whipped her head around - looking at the scene from every angle, but
failed to locate her target. She ran, ran in the direction she believed him
to have gone in, but found nothing as she continued down the corridor between
to large arms of the airport, terminals and planes moving on either side. It
was darker down here, colder. A pungent smell assaulted her senses, causing
her to shift, her movement segmented.
A dead end.
She stopped, her head going towards the blue sky, wishing for a bit of sun down
where she was. She'd failed. He had been right there, right there! And she had
let him go. Not only that, but one of the men with her would return home in
a casket, to be shown to his family as they struggled to remain emotionless
in the face of death.
"Where are you!" she screamed, her hands moving with her emotion.
The gun she held waved in her hand, threatening to kill the birds perched nearby.
"Where. Are. You!" She screamed again, frustrated with herself, with
her failure. What would happen now?
Vaughn came up behind her, his arms wrapping around her shoulders from behind,
protocol be dammed. The gun fell from her side, clanking on the cement ground
below her. She leaned back into him, only to be pushed away, forward. She turned,
confused, but saw him favoring his ankle, an odd grin on his face.
Is this what the life had become? Could you attach yourself to someone only
to have the attachment to revenge, to retribution, overtake that love? And if
she felt that only to a smaller degree with Sark and Slone, what was happening
in his mind?
