Disclaimer: All characters associated with Alias© do not belong to me. They belong to J.J. Abrams and the writers and producers of Alias©.
P o t e n t
The Beginning
xXx
I will be the answer at the end of the line.
He has learned to accept the state of filth of which his accommodations are in. It's a gesture of sympathy from the CIA that permits him to keep a pillow and blanket. Although neither could compare to his flat's thousand-dollar bed set, he's regrettably thankful. After the four hundredth night of isolation, the cell becomes frighteningly cold.
The weeks pass by on their own accord.
The times when he's given the barest of moments to contemplate his own sanity are the most painful. He can picture the agents placing bets on how quickly he'll 'lose it', but unknown to them, he has his own twenty-four hour companion… his own reflection. But nonetheless, it keeps him sane during the bitter evenings.
His internal clock has completely shut down. Now, he only knows of meal times and lights out. He can't wait to feel the sun again, knowing that his release from the detention center is soon. The first thing he plans to do is sun bathe.
The unanticipated sound of footsteps leaves his insides mangled and void of emotion.
Another excursion down Memory Lane with the highly sophisticated crew of doctors and their good companion, shock therapy, no doubt. Just a quickie before he's sent off. He pulls his legs up towards his chest and rests his arms across his knees.
Lord, if you are listening…The prayer is instantaneous and his messiah glides through the prison door, stopping before his cell.
Mr. Sark, I wanted a word with you before you get traded.
He convinces himself that the woman before him is an illusion brought on by his medication. Her sympathizing expression, her graceful step and her eyes—the only eyes other then his own that make him flinch. She is authentic, existent—factual, even—and such an observation might have brought any other man to tears, but not Sark. Her being is the faint glimmer of hope that he seeks. Where ever Sydney Bristow treads, trouble is not far behind.
Dear God, it can't possibly be you.
He climbs off of his bed and out of his fetal position, walking towards the glass walls. He tries to remember the details of her face, the angle which she tilts her head and the tightness of her expression. This, he tells himself, is the closest you'll get. She narrows her eyes and pierces through his frail framework with a glare hardened by years of chaos.
Don't start this conversation by acting surprised.
She isn't amused by his sudden interest, but she never was to begin with. As much as she resembles herself before her disappearance, he senses the difference. She's been knocked out of the loop for two years and as soon as he's released from his shackles, he'll realize that he has been, too.
She puts her hair in pigtails and tries to cheat herself into believing that her innocence still exists. Instead of uncovering her naivety, they humor her captive. She can tell he finds amusement in her preadolescent rituals by the way he briefly smirks when they make eye contact. Sydney ignores his criticism. After all, one can't understand something one has never experienced.
I assure you, this organization, The Covenant, is as much a mystery to me as it is to the CIA. I can't imagine why they'd want to make this trade.
She kneels down to unlock the manacles around his ankles, which are cold to the touch. The steel cuffs are warmer than his skin and it disgusts her. She glances up towards him, utters a brief comment of nonchalance and continues to distract herself with his shackles.
My life's in danger, isn't it?
She turns up to look at him again, hears the satisfying click of the lock and stands up. There are no answers that she can say that would satisfy her craving for both punishment and fulfillment. He understands her dilemma and averts his gaze.
They climb out of the van together and await the arrival of their associates. He stares at the yellow horizon and the trail of dust that the pair of Volvos make as they weave back and forth along the dead panorama while she speaks into her hand-held radio. She receives approval from Dixon and turns towards her captive.
You're up.
She can only compose a witty rebuttal worth two words—possibly the last two words he'll ever hear—but the meaning is clear and he swaggers forwards. Even in the face of danger, he has a knack for appearing casual, if not suave. For a moment she appreciates his urbane style and cocky attitude but the emotion blows away with the arrival of the Delta Force's helicopter.
I will be there for you while you take your time.
Put the collar on me.
Her interventions are predictable and if Sark had the opportunity to glance at his watch, it would prove his previous wager with his conscience correct.
Sydney Bristow, offers to be the sacrificial lamb at approximately two o' clock in the afternoon, check.
He clutches onto the cardio-toxin filled collar for what seems like an era before Sydney pleads again. She's only thirteen.
Sark doesn't need to be reminded twice about her age. His plot had never involved Dixon's daughter—only Sydney's consistency of volunteering to be the hero—but his reputation for being Machiavellian is on the line.
He eagerly plays the role of the villain and finally consents to Sydney's request. If only his eyes weren't hidden behind sunglasses—Jack could see the extent of his amusement.
In the burning of uncertainty, I will be your solid ground.
She can feel her father's glare gouging out holes in the back of her skull—but Sydney Bristow always has to do what's right, it's in her nature.
His strut is obnoxiously slow, but so long as Robin remains in the arms of the assailant without the toxin-filled collar, all is well. She holds her breath when he reveals the collar and places it to her neck. He secures it slowly, as though fascinated by how his hands can so deftly fasten the band, then takes a step back to examine his handiwork. Pleased, he premises the release of Robin.
As always, it has been a pleasure doing business with you.
Sydney scrutinizes his crooked grin and debonair manner while he scrutinizes her unperturbed attitude and blank expression. Regardless of what either does, the other remains unaffected. The realization that their relationship is an undying paradox begins to surface—but the arrival of a third party breaks the tension.
The moment is broken by her father's overpowering urge to throttle Sark to death. The sig is blinding when placed at such an angle beneath the sunrays and for a moment, she swears that Sark's stunned. Not for long, of course.
Before you consider taking any drastic measures, you should know that if I release my grip on this remote, the toxin will automatically go into your daughter's bloodstream. A failsafe, if you will. As I said, you have two minutes.
Leave it to Sark to plan for her father's bursts of rage. The tension mounts as he climbs into his car and departs from the exchange point. Only seconds separate Sydney from another close encounter with death.
I will hold the balance if you cant look down.
He pulls off his sunglasses and tosses them to the side, ignorant of whether the three hundred dollar accessory breaks. The remote in his hand holds more interest, for the time being.
He glances into the rearview mirror and watches Jack rush to save his daughter from peril. He sneers at the display of fatherly love and releases his grip on the remote. Then clenches it in his fist again. With a sigh, he tosses the device to the ground and stares towards the road ahead. Once again, his reputation for being the villain holds more importance then his reputation for being sympathetic.
xXx
If it takes my whole life, I won't break, I won't bend.
Reykjavik, Iceland
The comm's line crackles with static as Sydney rubs her lips with chap stick for the tenth time. She glances down at her quaking hands and tucks them into her anorak's pockets.
"I can't believe we're doing this based on Lauren's intel," she murmurs to Weiss.
"Well, if Mike trusts her, then maybe we should too. Her intentions are good, Syd," he replies. "Now if you'll excuse me a sec—nature calls."
A gust of wind blows into the van as Weiss opens the back doors. He turns to grin at Sydney before jumping down into the forming layer of snow. She shakes her head and turns to stare at the monitors.
"Marshall, we're freezing our asses off—could you fill us in on what's going on?"
"Syd—hey, whoa, Syd. Syd—Syd, Syd, Syd, Syd—"
"Marshall! I'm right here."
The other occupants of the van cautiously glance towards her, dark bags pulling down tired expressions and sleepless masses of flesh. She stares back at the cluster of the living dead, defiantly pillaging through another wakeful evening of perpetual surveillance.
"Syd—looks like we have incoming. Three vans—I think the one in the middle's carrying Hehorya—they're led-covered vehicles and so I can't—can't really, y'know, see through them. If I had to guess, I'd say that they're carrying some heavy artillery. After all, three vans, that's a lot—you can carry all sorts of things in three vans—firepower, computers, bodies—"
"Marshall, you remember what we talked about?"
"Oh—right, yeah, rambling, okay, gotcha', I'll just—get off your back now, well, not literally, you know what I mean—I'll tell you if anything weird is going on—"
Sydney closes the communication line before Marshall can finish. The crunch of footsteps in the snow outside suddenly seems of higher priority.
She gestures towards the van's back doors and as she pulls her ski mask over her face, a stark silence falls over the field agents. There's a soft mumbling outside, but through the metal framework of the van, Sydney can hear his distinct European accent. Her jaw's muscles clench with uncertainty. Already she senses a losing battle.
"Sydney Bristow," she hears. "Would you mind stepping into my office?"
"You son of a bitch," she mumbles when she steps out of the van.
"That's not exactly the most cordial way to greet your captor, now is it?" he replies, stepping towards her. "De-arm her."
He watches with hidden satisfaction as his aid strips her of her firearms and weapons, tossing them to the side among the large snow banks surrounding the vans. Her vulnerability is appealing during moments like these—when his confidence is dramatically bolstered to a level it rarely reaches. It's a nirvana that lasts all of five minutes, but fuels his self-esteem for weeks.
His companion steps away moments later, assured that Sydney is no longer armed, but Sark continues to keep a trained eye on her. So long as her limbs remain intact, she's a worse weapon than any firearm.
"What do you want?" she spits out. He clasps his hand behind his back and smirks.
"It's not what I want—it's what the Covenant wants that should be worrying you."
She stares at him as though her patience has worn thin—then delivers a blow to her escort's face. His head snaps to the side before he collapses onto the blanket beneath him. She turns back towards Sark and pulls out the revolver tucked beneath her panty line.
"Where the hell is Hehorya?" she demands, releasing her hold on the safety.
"I hope you didn't think it was going to be that easy," he says smugly. From behind the van, several more assailants appear, dragging an unconscious Weiss with them.
"Poor Weiss—with the way we caught him, I don't imagine he'll be taking a piss alone any time soon," Sark continues with a laugh. "Now, if you don't mind, give me your gun."
She lowers her arm and throws the revolver to the snow in front of him.
"The good news is that you'll remain unharmed until further notice. But the bad news…" he trails off and glances towards the van.
Sydney turns in time to watch as Sark's subordinates riddle the vehicle with bullets. The explosion that occurs soon after is lost to her—a cloud of smoke and snow shielding her from the carnage. She avoids eye contact with the stoical Sark, believing that she'll find herself pleading for sympathy if she isn't careful.
Integrity is not universal, she has to remind herself.
He walks towards her through the ashes, careful that his steps are loud enough for her to hear. She hears him reach into the snow for her revolver.
"If you have a weak stomach, I suggest you keep your head turned away," Sark says.
"What—"
A single shot among the sound of crackling flames and she screams out Weiss' name. She waits for his muffled cry, her eyes trained on the body curled up in the snow. Instead, another cadaver collapses atop his. Sark lowers his firing arm, then turns towards Sydney with a look of nonchalance. She's stunned into silence, her eyes wide with a mixture of despair and anticipation.
The assailants remaining quickly retaliate, hoisting their various forms of artillery with them as they run for cover. Sark throws his body behind the van's debris, giving Sydney the opportunity to escape. She lithely falls to the ground, wrapping her body in snow.
Before she can scramble across the white blanket towards the knolls that surround them, a stray bullet nicks her shoulder, quickly drawing blood. It's a numbing sensation that immediately spreads through her arm. She winces and forces herself to her feet.
The gunfire fades as she reaches the top of a dune of snow, but the biting wind and dropping temperature handicaps her long enough to lose control of her body's movements. She feels the snow slipping beneath her as her legs clumsily collide with one another. The shots cease and she hears her name break the silence. The cry knocks her backwards and she rolls down the other side of the hill.
Sydney pushes herself out of the snow, unwilling to accept defeat because of a minor tumble. She's behind the warehouse in the vacated lot where the other vans should have been. The realization that Marshall's intel was wrong strikes her as predictable. After watching the massacre of her team—again—nothing seems too surprising.
"Ms. Bristow, you've left a rather messy trail," she hears Sark calling from the top of the hill.
She glances at her shoulder and breathes heavily at the sight of her soaking sleeve. The blood is dark red against the thick threads of her black clothes. If it's managed to seep through so many layers already, she doesn't have much time left for chatting. She hears Sark approaching from behind and quickly turns to greet him.
"Glad to see that you're finally accepting defeat—" he manages to say before Sydney silences him with a swift blow to the gut. He stumbles backwards into the mound of snow and groans momentarily.
He quickly responds, though, and pushes himself out of the snow and directly into her. He hears her cough as he successfully knocks the wind from her lungs, a sense of victory flooding over him.
She collapses backwards into the snow, solid black mixing among the images of her father and mother that flash through her mind. Her conscience is fading quickly, but that never stopped her before.
Her last efforts are directed towards the kick she delivers at Sark's legs. Her breathing is hard as Sark falls to the ground onto his back. She struggles to roll into a kneeling position with her heartbeat pounding in her head.
He starts to mumble, his temporary headache quickly fading, but she lurches forward and grabs her revolver from his hand. With her chest pressed against his, she pulls back her hand and pistol-whips Sark into unconsciousness.
"I win," she whispers before rolling off of him.
She squints to keep the snowflakes out of her eyes, but soon, she's closed them and drifts into a slumber.
It'll all be worth it in the end.
xXx
Author's Notes: As of right now, I've got a shady sort of framework for this story. I think it'll be pretty short—maybe only three chapters, but I don't know, we'll see how it goes. I really liked writing the recap of Succession and Taken. It's nice to get into their heads—even though I wouldn't know whether that's what they were thinking or not—but I'll try my best—from a Sarkney perspective.
The song lyrics are from Sarah McLachlan's Answer.