Red Hair

            Sensory deprivation again. The cage of water, with only two inches of air.

            Strachen renewed his interrogation, tirelessly demanding answers to questions. Sark was weak, he knew. His body couldn't heal. His leg still bled, not as much as a fresh wound, but Sark could taste his own blood in the water around him.

            He was starting to talk. Maybe babble was a more accurate description.

            "Where is Derevko?"

            "If I knew, I'd kill her myself," Sark said once. "She left me in that vault . . ."

            Sark knew he was breaking down. It was slowly happening, but he wasn't on his guard.

            He didn't care.

            And Strachen knew it. The questioning lasted longer each time, pushing on Sark's resistance. He ended one session with another near-drowning, during which Sark only relived that near-death he and Ilene faced in the pool.

            He couldn't help but focus on her hair. That red hair . . . it stood out, like the only colored image in a black and white photo. She was the only red-head of the family. Calvin had highlights of red, but was more like his brother—a blonde.

            Ilene . . . he'd always been close to her. When Sark returned to his family, she was the one who stepped towards him. His parents, even Calvin—they were cautious in reaccepting him. But Ilene—was it the drowning?

            During that time, had some unbreakable bond been formed?

            It didn't matter. Sark remembered that the last time he'd seen her, he'd lied to her. And to Sydney—and it'd been so long, that he couldn't remember . . .

            She would hate him again, now. Both Sydney and Ilene would have enough reason to . . .

            Like it matters. You'll not survive this one.

            Ilene's red hair stayed in his mind. It was comforting, for some reason. It was his link to what was now past.

            Every time Strachen came, Sark saw red hair. It made him laugh once, until he sobered up with the thought that he was losing it.

            Tenya had red hair, which just looked really odd on her. The guards even . . .

            And then someone new. But this person had no guards with her.

            Her. Odd. Her hair was a fiery red, different from Ilene's. It was cut short, and the red was starting to border on magenta.

            She went to the control panel and raised the cage from the water. That wasn't too odd, because Sark fully expected to be dropped back into the water. She was talking to him, but Sark couldn't hear her. It was warped, like hearing someone talk underwater.

            But she startled him when she jumped on top of the cage. She opened the top, and reached for him. It was when she touched him that he knew this was different.

            "Sydney," he mumbled. He saw a gun, dangling from her hand, like he was dangling from her hold as he stumbled along with her.

            She fired shots, and Sark sensed some urgency in moving along. He tried to be cooperative, but didn't know if it was working.

            They were outside, and Sark saw several dark figures moving about.

            "Did we get him?"

            "Yes. Weiss has him in custody."

            "Good. We'll take Strachen back."

            "And Sark?"

            "No. Please, Vaughn. Let him go."

            A comforting cloud settled over him again, and Sark passed out.



            He briefly woke up on a plane, and couldn't help but think Sydney and Agent Vaughn would be by his side. He fully expected to be handcuffed and strapped down so he couldn't move.

            But he wasn't.

            "Julian?" By his side was Ilene. He saw her, but his eyes started shutting. Sark couldn't keep them open.

            "Ilene . . ." he muttered. He let his eyes stay shut.

            "You're all right. We'll be home soon."

            "Home . . ." he vaguely remembered saying.

            That's where he woke up. He noticed the ceiling first, then moved his gaze around the room. His desk, the closet . . . he was home.

            He sat upright, alarmed, but the sudden movement hurt.

            It's not safe here! Strachen and others might know where his family lived. He forced himself on his feet, clutching his chest as he did. His leg throbbed, but he made himself move forward. He was dressed in a button-down shirt and an old pair of flannel pajama pants, neither of which he ever remembered owning.

            He made it to his door and out into the hallway. In his haste, he failed to realize how weak he was. His eyes widened as Sark saw the ground quickly approach him. His knees buckled, and Sark fell on them and his hands.

            His lungs expanded and contracted quickly, and his stomach lurched its own protest.

            What the hell is happening? Sark fought to control the sudden urge to vomit. He never fell ill. Then what is this?!

            "Julian!" The unusually high pitch of the voice told him it was his mother. Sark couldn't raise his head to look at her. Her hands grasped him, gently, as if she knew he was in some pain.

            "Mom," he said faintly.

            "Come on," she said, helping him back to his feet. "You don't have your strength. I'll go get you something to eat."

            Sark shook his head. "No, there's no time," he said, gulping down a wave of nausea. "We're not safe here."

            She laughed at that. "Yes, we are. No objections, Julian. Trust me, we're safe." He continued to argue, but found himself lying back down in his bed, wincing as his back rubbed against the mattress.

            "I'll let Ilene explain. She seems to understand this all better than we do anyway," his mom said before leaving his room.

            Explain what? Sark's mind was swirling. He'd been in that water cage, in Strachen's estate.

            Sydney.  She came for him. What about Strachen? And Ilene? He remembered seeing Ilene, on a plane.

            And now he was suddenly back in Ireland. Sark tried to sit up again. His body still ached.

            The coral. Sark looked down at his chest and arms. His arms had several scabs, long, rough patches of old skin and blood. He unbuttoned his shirt, and saw the same on his chest. At least it's been healing.

            His eyes moved to his leg. Sark pulled up the pant leg and saw his calf was bound tightly in gauze.

            "Does it still hurt?"

            Sark looked up from his leg to the doorway. "Ilene," he said with a relieved smile. She grinned at him and came in the room, claiming a seat by his bed.

            "We were worried about you, but the doctor said you'd survive."

            "Have I been unconscious this whole time?" he asked.

            Ilene smiled at that. "No, you woke up every now and then. You don't recall?" Sark shook his head. "Figures—you were pretty out of it," she said.

            "What happened?"

            Just then, their mom reentered, an elaborate tray of food in her hands.

            "Ilene, you make him eat this, all right?" The aroma of the food suddenly had Sark famished. The tray sat on his lap, and he didn't know where to start. He picked up a sandwich, then nodded for Ilene to continue.

            "You went to get what Strachen wanted, didn't you?" Her accusatory tone wasn't lost on Sark. He gulped down a bite of the sandwich.

            "Yes, but not for him. Not for me, either," he said, somewhat defensively.

            Ilene held up a hand for him to stop. "I know. Sydney told me Strachen caught you, in that vault." Sark nodded. "We didn't know where you were. Sydney didn't tell me everything that was going on, but I think the CIA wasn't thrilled about you being alive, or about rescuing you."

            "The CIA knowingly rescued me?" That was odd. He couldn't imagine Agent Vaughn or Jack Bristow purposely helping him in anyway.

            Ilene shrugged. "I don't know the details, but Sydney told me she'd found where you were. She had me waiting at a nearby airfield, and as soon as she found you, she brought you to the plane."

            Sark chewed on that and the sandwich for a moment. "Did she kill Strachen?" He could hardly hide the hopefulness in his tone.

            Ilene shook her head. "I don't think so. She just put you and a doctor on the plane, and sent us here."

            The sandwich was gone, and while he knew he hadn't eaten anything in awhile, nothing else tempted him. He placed a hand on his stomach, trying to calm the nausea that still plagued him.

            "How did Mom get here? Are Dad and Calvin all right too?"

            Ilene nodded; her hair swished around her head, catching Sark's eye. "They're getting you some medicine the doctor ordered. They all were here when we arrived; they were expecting us."

            Sark heard her, but his eyes hadn't left her hair. It sent a humorous shudder through his body as he recalled moments of his delirium at Strachen's estate.

            "What?" she asked. Sark shook his head.

            "Nothing." He picked up the tray on his lap, and set it at the foot of his bed. He noticed how heavy the tray seemed, and that alarmed him somewhat. "I should take a shower."

            Ilene nodded. "Please. You don't smell like you've bathed for awhile." She gave him a teasing smile.

            "Well, I was immersed several times in water, if that counts." He let that go, and stood up tentatively.

            The water still stung at some of his cuts, especially his leg, but it wasn't nearly as bad as his previous treatment.

            Trying to clean himself proved tediously dangerous. He tried to balance on his good leg, while he favored the stab wound. The soap left chunks of suds over his cuts and scabs. He found himself ready to give up for awhile.

            Sark almost jumped when he saw his reflection in the mirror. He froze, not even bothering to reach for a towel.

            His body was . . . pathetic. The cuts were healing, but they left new marks over old scars. Between Burma and his last captivity with Strachen, his body would be permanently scarred.

            His eyes followed his reflection down his arms, and down to his legs. The stab wound was ugly, but when were such things ever pleasant? He broke his gaze from the mirror and inspected the wound. Something below it caught his eye. He touched it, and realized it was the gun shot wound from the night he rescued Ilene. Now it was a puckered scar, a blob of pink scar tissue.

            Sark stood up straight, and something else made him freeze.

            He was visibly thinner. His waist sunk in from his hips and rib cage. He could actually see his rib cage. Sark looked at the corner of the bathroom, where a scale waited.

            The scale rolled around, but stopped short of what he normally weighed. He was at 58 kilos.

            I'm normally at 66.

            A knock on the bathroom door startled his discovery.

            "Yes," he called out.

            "Julian, the doctor's here." It was Calvin's voice. Sark couldn't help but feel excited at seeing his brother again.

            "Thanks, Cal." He got dressed quickly. Sark buttoned up his shirt as he went back to his room.

            "Mr. Sark," came a deep male voice, "you can leave the shirt open." Sark looked up to see a gray-haired man. He was abnormally tall, and had a very obvious comb-over. But his smile was one of a pediatrician.

            Sark nodded, and glanced around for his family. Calvin waited in the room. Sark smiled when he saw him, and hobbled to him for a hug.

            "I thought I told you not to come back with any more scars," Calvin chided his older brother. Sark couldn't help but smirk at that.

            "One of many failures while I was gone," he said.

            "Mr. Sark, why don't you sit, and we'll take a look at your leg," the doctor said. Calvin raised an eyebrow at the doctor. Calling him 'Sark' still seemed odd, but it made Sark realize the doctor came from Sydney, or the CIA.

            "May I ask who you work for, Doctor—" Sark asked, waiting for the name blank to be filled.

            "Doctor Ridgewald," he answered. "Ms. Bristow asked me to make sure you were healthy." He began prodding at Sark's leg, and Sark bit his lip to keep from wincing.

            "How do you know Sydney?" Sark asked. He noticed a cryptic smile spread over Ridgewald's face.

            "Let's just say she got me out of a very unsavory environment. This is the least I could do to make it up to her."

            Sark nodded. "So she called in a favor," he said. That means the CIA may not know I'm here. He still wasn't sure of that situation and Sydney, but all in good time.

            "Two, actually," the doctor said. "She has a full-time guard downstairs."

            Sark's forehead crinkled in confusion. Guard?

            That's what Mom meant when she said we're safe.

            "Yeah, the guard's cool," Calvin said, popping in his two cents. He still was in the room, sitting in the corner. Sark acknowledged the comment, but watched what the doctor was doing.

            "Keep your leg wrapped, but change the bandages every day," Ridgewald said. "Now your cuts . . ."

            Sark took off his shirt. He noticed Calvin stared at the array of wounds and scars.

            "What are these cuts from?" Ridgewald asked. His brow was furrowed, as if he'd tried for some time to figure out the origin.

            "Coral," Sark replied. The doctor gave Sark a look. "I wasn't snorkeling, if that's your question."

            "I'll take that to mean you'd rather not go into the subject," Ridgewald deduced aloud. Sark nodded, flickering his glance at Calvin.

            "Well, the pills I had your father get should fight any infection. Which is good, because a few of the cuts are still raw and swollen." Ridgewald dug into a bag of his supplies. "Put this ointment on your cuts, every day after you shower. Leave them uncovered. No bandages." He zipped up his bag and stood up.

            "Thank you, Dr. Ridgewald," Sark said, reaching for his shirt.

            "One more thing," the doctor said. "You need to start eating well. You look malnourished, and if you don't get what you need, you can fall ill to infections much easier."

            Sark nodded. "Am I fine to walk around, exercise and all?"

            The doctor gave him a hard look. "As long as you don't push it. Don't stress your leg anymore than it already is. Minimal walking for at least four days."

            But of course, after two days, he was walking around as normally as he could disguise. The good doctor had returned to the United States, while the guard stayed as Sark recovered.

            Sark learned from the guard, whose name was Lyndon, that Sydney had helped him avoid a hit squad. Now Lyndon stood watching and protecting the house until Sark was, as Lyndon put it, "back in your prime."

            But Lyndon didn't know what was going on back in the United States. No one did, and Sark wondered if Sydney had been made in helping him escape and recover. Had she killed Strachen? That knowledge would help him greatly in easing his mind.

            His family occupied him with questions and, oddly enough, love. Sark expected more hesitant attention and cautiousness, but they seemed to have moved beyond the shock of Sark's occupation.

            "How did you come up with 'Sark'?"

            "What does it take to become a spy?"

            "So, do you always carry a gun?"

            "Could you please not carry a gun?"

            It made him laugh, some of the questions. And one day, he played back what he thought happen at Strachen's estate, and came up with a question of his own.

            "When Sydney brought me to you, was she wearing a wig?" His parents just looked at him as if he was crazy, and Ilene started laughing.

            "That was random," she teased. Sark shrugged.

            "I remember seeing red hair, but am not sure if I just imagined it," he explained. Ilene nodded.

            "Yes, she was. It was this bright red monstrosity, but she was wearing a wig," Ilene said. "Do you often wear disguises?"

            Sark smirked at that.