Disclaimer: J.J. is God…'nuff said.
Timeline: I wrote this after watching The Frame, and after watching the previews for "Unveiled", but before I actually saw Unveiled.
Rating: PG-13 for violence.
Author's Note: Short chapter—I know. I'm in the middle of a crazy hell week ridden with both moving and AP exams (I took English on Thursday—3 essays in two hours; not exactly my forte (I don't like writing that fast). Today, I've been moving into my new house (boxes, furniture—the whole shebang), and next week I've got two more AP's…Macro economics and Government, which I've got to study for in between moving.
Needless to say I've been going CRAZY, and I might be another week before I update—though I might be inspired and review on Friday or Saturday if I get enough reviews.
As always, reviews (including constructive criticism) are greatly appreciated. (So please review).
Sydney's status has just been confirmed as missing.
I exploded into a flurry of action after arriving at Weiss's—calling the CIA, calling Jack Bristow, driving back to my (her) house, letting in CIA agents to do a thorough search. I've been running around, always moving, always doing, ordering, telling, explaining, checking. I talked to more officers from The Agency than I can count—most about Lauren, some about Sydney. 'Round and 'round I've gone for countless hours, glad to have the release of action, knowing that I'm doing something—anything to help Sydney and not think about her.
Ring I answer my cell with a certain detachedness, and I can't help feeling like it's not really me whose doing all this—like I'm just watching from afar as someone else goes through the motions.
The cell emits Dixon's voice, which is telling me something about a lead…A lead on Sydney. My brain snaps to attention. You have to find Sydney! Suddenly I'm overwhelmed with feelings of guilt and I only half listen to the what Dixon is saying as my brain repeats things like "She wouldn't be in this situation if it weren't for you", and "You've ruined the only thing that mattered". Dixon mentions something about meeting at headquarters, and without knowing how I got there, I find myself in my car driving to the ops center.
I sit, listen carefully with half of my brain to the mission that's laid before me, while the other half of my mind focuses on Sydney. I obsess about whether I'll ever be ever to fix this, whether she'll ever be able to trust me again.
Before I know it, I'm on a plane to go rescue her—how cliché is that? As if I have any right to barge in and play the hero.
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The Russian guards drag me down countless hallways, gripping my feet tightly in sticky, warm, sweaty hands. I'm glad for that—the compound (or wherever the hell I'm being held) is about as warm as a meat locker, and hard floor that I'm being dragged down is ice on my back.
I try to concentrate on where they're taking me, but my perceptions are distorted—I lay flat on my back as they drag me by feet and my head is woozy from the blood loss. All I can do is stare at the halogen lights on the ceiling as they whoosh by, leaving stars in my eyes and bile in my throat.
34 halogen lights, 5 turns and six hallways later, they stop at a door, dropping my legs with a thud and keying in the code to unlock it. I raise an eyebrow at their complacency, and their underestimation of my abilities. In a second I'm on my feet and running down the corridor as fast as my Jello-legs can take me, in the direction away from the one we came from. A second later they're after me, heavy black boots thumping against the floor, shouting to others for help in Russian tongues that are lilted with Ukrainian accents.
Jolt! The stun-stick comes down hard on my back, reaching the exposed skin of where Lauren's knife butchered it hours ago. My body spasms at the flow of electricity sent through it, and I fall hard. You didn't really expect to get anywhere anyways my mind muses—but hey, you might as well go down fighting. Then Lauren's here, and I open my eyes to the sound of her heavily accented Russian, not wanting her to see me in such a pathetic position. She glares down at me, looking about fifty feet tall from where my broken body lays. Soon I'm being picked up (after being given an extra jolt from the stick for good measure) and I'm carried off and into the room, where I'm laid on a steel table, a brilliantly bright light glaring into my eyes.
"I thought you were smarter than that Sydney," her voice fills the room, and I note that it seems significantly more angry than at our previous encounter. "But then again you dim-wittedly bought into my lies for so long—as did Michael. He never even suspected, he didn't even begin to get anywhere near the truth."
I open my mouth to retort, but as I do she shoves a rough canvas gag in my mouth, tying it around my head and saying, "Oh Sydney. If you can't say something nice, you might as well not say it at all. Didn't your mother ever tell you that? Oh, I forgot, she lied to you too."
Rage rises in me like a boiling brew and I want to attack her want to kill her for every moment she spent with Michael and for implying that my mother was anything like her, but cold metal restraints stop me, halting my kicks and squirms.
"Where do you think you're going, my dear Sydney. You see, you've been a very bad girl, trying to steel other women's husbands, and bad girls must be punished." With that, she shoves a picture of me and Vaughn in my face, which must have been taken from a security camera in North Korea.
I stare at it, trying to smile from under the confines of my gag, anything to spite her. She smiles back and the next think I know my world's on fire.
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I have never believed Michael Vaughn worthy of my daughter. I respect him enough—he's a fine agent—and at times, most particularly when it comes to rescuing Sydney, I even threatened to like him. Then again, at other times, I've positively hated him, for hurting my little girl.
I've never related to him. Until now.
We've been on a flight to Kiev for four hours. He sits in the chair across from me, reviewing the blueprints of the building we believe Sydney to be held in. He's been staring at them for the two and a half hours, and before that was tirelessly re-reading the extraction mission.
I can see the wheels in his head turning, his mind focusing on anything except the brutal truth. I can see that he's doing anything and everything to avoid thinking about Lauren being the traitor. I can see his silence, the way he has icily and matter-of-factly answered everyone in simple, succinct phrases and nods. I see levelness of his face, the absence of his emotions.
I see myself.
And I know what and where this path leads to. The destruction it causes. And I fear for him, and for my daughter.
TBC
I've never written Jack's POV, so I might be a little OOC, but I really, really tried (E for Effort, right?;-)
AN: I know, this is ridiculously short. But I figure I better post it now before my computer's dismantled;-) If I get enough reviews, I'll move heaven and hell to post the next chapter up soon (within 3-4 days)…if I don't get too many I'll spend the time unpacking boxes and studying for APs.
Theoretically, how long it takes me to update is up to you…I leave it up to you to review.
Thanks for reading,
Terin:-)
Oh, and many thanks go out to all my lovely reviewers--thanks so much guys!