Title: Momentary Lapses
Rating: PG
Summary: Sark has plans. Jack isn't entirely fooled.
Spoilers: 3.22 Resurrection
Disclaimer: "Alias" belongs to its creators and ABC
1.
A year later and Sark would be the first to admit that he hasn't gotten very far from point of departure.
A few seconds to calculate the probability of rescue, factoring in persuasion, accessibility, and likelihood of success; he doesn't much like the number. It seems that, once again, he is on his own.
Flexible, he is used to bending. It is his strength. Unlike his colleagues and his enemies, Sark doesn't buy the idea that there are causes worth his dying for. If they choose to belittle him for that, well, most of them are now dead and he is still alive.
He elects to stay that way.
Whoever they send to question him first, it will be to know Lauren's location; and he will give it to them. A tidbit to keep them at bay. For a while, at least.
These petty betrayals, all that is simple enough. One foot is placed in front of the other. Question and answer; My loyalties are negotiable. These people are good enough at their job. Until . . ?
They'll wrack their brains for what to ask next. When they come up with nothing, he knows he'll be expendable.
Sark plans for the long term, for final eventualities with him solidly in it.
The high horse attitude isn't going to cut it this time. After all, there is no conveniently MIA Sydney Bristow for them to hold onto him for, just in case. Sloane rules out the redemption crap; Sark doubts he could stomach that anyway. The general principle, though, has merit.
This time, he is decided, he will break for them. Dignity is no good to corpses. Ideals don't apply to him. He will be cruel and insolent; the change cannot be too abrupt. But in the end he'll throw himself at the mercy of their lily white flag of righteousness.
And Irina always said his pride would get him killed.
2.
Footsteps. The clang of iron doors. Wearily, he draws his neck upright.
It's Lauren, or what looks on the surface like her. He doesn't have to affect surprise. Preened and spotless; she's a sick travesty. Mouth breakable, the eyes dull. Platinum hair rather artfully lank about her face. He glances sideways over that face, seeking cuts and bruises, but locates not a single token sign of manhandling that might help to sell the act.
Indeed, a very feeble effort.
They lead her into the adjacent cell. The setup is all too obvious. He is insulted, but knows that this underestimation is another chip in his favour. If the contrite lover is what they are expecting, he'll dish it to them in spades. He'll flaunt his humanity so that they can't possibly miss it.
The physical pain is real enough but he exaggerates stiffness, rising slowly from the cot. From behind the bars, the doppelganger watches him, waiting. He goes to her.
3.
Before his eyes open to the whiteness, before consciousness even, he is alive to the numbers as they course and dance, run rings through his mind-
(50.
The percentage of subjects to suffer cardiac arrest on the first dose.
75.
Percentage if procedure is repeated.)
-like a prayer and a blessing; then as his body awakens, as it starts to sluggishly answer to his simple commands (Breathe.), it becomes a register of the lost and maimed, on which his name, so far-
(40 percent. Probability of permanent brain damage after second dose. 9 percent. Paralysis.
18.
Death.)
-as he can tell, does not appear. This is more than he dared hope for. He was prepared for the worst.
What powerlessness is this?-
("I am surprise that you've yet made no attempt at escape." Unlike the last time, Jack Bristow leaves unsaid.
Sark purses his lips into a crooked smile that feels like an open gash.
"I've grown tired of the project."
"If you think that it will earn you any favours-"
"I don't." He is firm; it is the truth. It's not their favours he is after.)
-What weakness? Whence did it come?
A feign. He remembers it, remembers how it failed, just not in the way he expected.
("You say you are willing to cooperate. Tell me why."
"Aside from the fact that they tried to buy me with my own inheritance? I should think it obvious." Careful, Sark reminds himself. "I've had my fill of betrayals, Agent Bristow. They are most...precarious when incomplete."
"Afraid that the Covenant will seek revenge?"
He grimaces. "Call it what you prefer."
Jack nods. "You've confirmed my suspicions.")
Something is choking him; there is a hard object in his throat. Primitive gut reaction overwhelms reason and his mind seizes panic before he can think. Scream. He wants to, but his gaping mouth will not make a sound. The tips of his fingers flicker but he cannot make the hands move.
(Sark is as rigid as the bed they have strapped him to, making an effort not to flinch from the cold clench of restraints around his bare neck and limbs. The room is stiflingly familiar; the perpendicular walls every inch as bland as they were three years ago. It's like slipping between the folds of an off-white envelope.
The sense of déja vu does little to reassure him though.
He gathers from the soft sounds that Jack Bristow is calmly donning surgical gloves.
"This is completely unnecessary." Sark's voice is steady, much good it will do him. "You know this."
He hears a short electronic tone – the audio feed being switched off – before Jack speaks.
"I know it, and you know it. However, after I informed Dixon of my summation that you were in fact only pretending to be deceived by Sydney's charade, he agreed that we must act on the assumption that any information you offer voluntarily is going to be unreliable."
Sark swallows. "You are making this personal-"
"Perhaps. But I doubt I'll lose any sleep over it." Jack closes the gap to the bed, in his gloved hands a long needle. The serum bag and IV stand are already in place.
"And if by some remote chance I survive this...interrogation, might I regard my debt to society paid?" Sark asks acridly as he feels the needle enter his arm. He has no view of Jack Bristow's face, but there is little point; the man is surely incapable of looking triumphant.
The agent's words, however, are unmistakable in his ears. "If you survive, and if your statement does not contradict what you have already told us, then we will consider your offer.")
Without warning, smooth plastic rasps his teeth and upper lip; the tube that has breathed in his stead is now being eased, serpent-like, out of his chest. The pressure in his throat is relieved. He wonders if the dreadful coughing can possibly be his.
"Mr. Sark, can you hear me? Open your eyes if you can hear me."
He does so, and a blaze of pain suddenly confronts him. There is no shape or colour, only a whiteness like sunlight reflecting off new snow. It is sunlight, he realises, astonished. Sunlight unfiltered by the eyelids. He feels its warmth settle on his cheek.
"Aaronsson, get those blinds! It's too bright for him."
"No." It is his voice, however weak. Good. That's one more thing that still works. "Leave-"
A loud intake of breath. "Gawd Almighty! He talked."
"Aaronsson! Go find Doctor Litten, and tell the Director that our patient is awake. Hurry."
Light begins to take form, first only as shadows, blue-grey and pink and brown, nameless and indistinct. Then finally the connection is made in a bounding dash of neurons. The room he is in. White, of course. Standing over his bed is a nurse. Her lips are moving but he is no longer listening.
The window. Tall, tinted. The blinds are halfway down. Outside: buildings, the sun, sky.
50. 75. 40. 18.
He razors the numbers, draws thick black lines through them. Whatever power they had over him is gone.
He's alive.