A/N: I've completely rewritten the first chapter of this fic, as well as changed the title (formerly called "Maybe We Could"). Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated.
ooooo
He shouldn't have felt sorry for her. He should have walked on and ignored her for what she was: Merely another nameless, faceless unfortunate confined because she was not good enough at what she did—whatever that may be.
But he didn't. Because she wasn't.
She huddled in the furthest corner of the grimy prison cell, hugging her knees to her chest and leaving most of her meager ration of living space void. It was pitiful, covered in filth Sark would rather not name. The whole jailhouse was, in truth, little more than a gray-walled building haplessly constructed on Mexican soil.
The only sound from the cage was her ragged, uneven breathing. This hushed noise served as a stark contrast to the other prisoners' endless amounts of racket—prisoners just as starved and filth-stained, who clamored and stretched their arms outward toward freedom.
Long, snarled hair sprawled around her and shielded most of her frail body from view—he wanted her to move. Wondered if she could.
As if in answer to his unspoken query, she stirred, raising her head slowly.
If asked to describe her face at a later date, he wouldn't have been able to. All he could recall were those eyes. The sudden connection of her shockingly blue eyes with his was almost a tangible thing, capable of knocking him off his feet. They were stunning, intelligent—bitter.
That unexplainable moment vanished as quickly as it had appeared, as the Blue Eyed Woman lowered her head once more.
"That girl there, who is she?" Sark asked casually, directing his question to the dark, Mexican man leading the way through the prison.
The guard walked to her cell and stopped to peer through the bars. He glanced at her only momentarily with a bored sort of apathy. It was clear as he viewed her that she interested him only marginally less than the hard-packed dirt she laid on.
"Oh, her?" He nodded his head in the Blue Eyed Woman's direction, "jus' some crazy broad th' redheaded fellow brought in. Said 'e caught her sneakin' around 'is estates one too many times."
He chuckled and cracked a lewd joke about the only reason a woman would sneak into a man's house. Sark felt unexpected disgust for the man rush through his blood as he fixed him with an unwavering gaze, making the guard wriggle uncomfortably.
"Oy, I just do what 'm told. I dun ask questions of m' betters, man," The guard blurted in a sort of nervous apology.
Sark continued to stare unblinking, faintly amused by the middle-aged man's squirming. After several long seconds, the jail keeper turned away.
"So what can I do for y'? The redhead sent y', did 'e?"
"The redhead" he kept referring to was in fact a man by the name of Khalon Cannock, a Covenant officer who paid off the guards in this particular prison. In exchange for the Covenant's gold, they kept quiet about things—there were certain things that wouldn't suit the organization were word to ever get out, after all— and fulfilled the favors requested of them every now and then. Useful though it was, Sark was willing to bet that whatever they paid this incompetent fool, it was doubtless too much.
He would have to mention that, if he was able to pull off what he had in mind.