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 Ending
xXx
The picture is black and white, blurry and speckled like a scrambled television transmission. A man with curls of light-colored hair and narrowed eyes is leaving a store, dark suit blending him like camouflage into the evening setting. The surrounding crowd barely notices him, their attention directed towards something out of the camera's focus. Some maintain expressions of curiosity, others, looks of horror.
The customer shakes the photo in front of her, causing light to reflect off the glossy paper and skew the picture. The waitress nods, her tresses of blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders. She remembers his cultivated accent and sophisticated demeanor and the way he swaggered when he left the restaurant. It is unmistakable, the man in the picture. She explains this to the aging customer who claims he's looking for his son.
They look nothing alike but she doesn't question his motives and tells him that he'd mentioned something about a hotel down the street. She gives him directions and he has to take out a pair of circular reading glasses to understand her scribbles. He nods his thanks and tucks the picture back into his coat pocket. The waitress smiles and leaves him to his meal.
xXx
The end of the Covenant is near, Irina tells him before the murders begin.
The first body is found, contorted into a position of horrific discomfort, in a garbage disposal outside of a nearby L.A. bakery. The face is mangled, the body torn and the legs riddled with bullet holes. But the killer is deft and delivers another body to the police by the end of the week, his spree relentless and unstoppable.
The murders move to Europe where Covenant leaders, distraught with fear, seemingly vanish from the face of the planet. Only to be found days later with slit throats and mauled bodies.
The speed at which the slayings are performed only leaves one name on Jack's mind.
He finds Sark in Berlin, Germany, crosshairs situated on his crippled target eleven stories below. The victim dances with disillusion, the pain from his shattered kneecaps sending him into a state of euphoria. The meager amount of moonlight casts his mangled shadow across the cobblestone road. Shuttered windows and locked doors provide them a few seconds of privacy before the tenants are alerted by the wounded screams of pain. Jack waits for the body to collapse upon itself to interrupt Sark.
"You took longer then I thought you would," he immediately says, taking apart the sniper rifle. He quickly sets the pieces in their assigned foam spots in his black suitcase as though he's done it thousands of times before.
"Yes, I imagined that you preferred working alone," Jack replies, his hands fumbling deep in his coat pockets, touching the crumpled piece of paper only after much deliberation.
"Why are you here, Agent Bristow?" Sark asks, pulling the suitcase off the ledge. His lips tighten as his patience wears thin. He had one goal for the evening and it was achieved. They both turn as a door abruptly opens below and a woman's frantic screeching awakens the street.
"I want you to prove me wrong," he says, taking the piece of paper out of his pocket. He holds it out in his hand, the address prominent against the beige colored paper. Sark takes a wary step forward and casts a glance down at the location. France.
He looks back up at Jack, furrowed brow and piercing stare. He doesn't want him to take it, Sark realizes, but the address isn't written in her handwriting.
"Whatever you did," Jack says, "I want you to fix it."
"And why do you attribute Sydney's unhappiness to me?" he queries, holding his hands in front of him.
"I never mentioned that it was Sydney who needed your help," Jack says. "Take it."
Sark turns away as the sound of police sirens reaches his ears. He refrains from taking the slip of paper.
"If I had known that you were going to personally deliver her address to me, I wouldn't have gone through the trouble of finding it," he says indifferently before leaving the rooftop.
xXx
He waits for the cleaning service to finish their rounds down the hall to stoop down in front of the hotel room door. Wrinkled fingers deftly pick the lock, eyes glazed over with age magnified behind large glasses. He hears the dulled clashing of metal before the faint click that grants him entrance and stands up quickly. He turns the knob and pushes the door open.
The hotel room is spotless, no luggage stored away or suits hung up in the closet. The bathroom appears untouched without a hint of human residence. He leaves the lights turned off as he wanders through the room, flipping over pillows and sheets and looking in drawers for any firearms. The curtains are wide open and he can see his reflection in the immaculate glass. As he stoops down to check beneath the nightstand, the door closes, then locks.
"Arvin."
Sloane reminds himself to look reserved and unaffected as he slowly stands up, hands balled together in front of him in uncanny prayer. He sees Sark's reflection in the window and notes his casual demeanor and lack of hostility. With confidence, Sloane reaches into his coat and pulls out his revolver.
"It's a pity after so many years, this is how we must meet," he says. Years of fruitless searching for his own apprentice and under such circumstances, they reconvene. Sloane shakes his head in feigned pity and clucks his tongue for added effect. Sark remains stoic, hands behind his back clasped tightly together.
His hands are old, too old to be holding such artillery again, but the feel of cool metal against his sweating palms reminds him of his objective. Sark's reflection blurs in the glass as he moves and Sloane quickly pivots, gun pointed forward and index finger on the trigger.
But he stalls.
And the bullet lodges itself deep into his stomach, shattering organs and spilling blood across the recently vacuumed carpet. He mumbles of peace and Rambaldi before lurching forward towards Sark's raised gun, hands scratching at his gaping wound. Sark takes a carefully planned step backwards, giving Sloane ample room to collapse onto the carpet. His shadow seems gigantic, laid across the quaking body of his former mentor.
"Why?" Sloane manages to ask as blood fills his mouth.
"Dead men do not talk," Sark sneers, ending the muffled screams.
xXx
She buys red Calla Lilies from the flower vendor every other morning after her run.
The florist sets aside a bouquet for her as soon as he unlocks the front door to his shop. She is a frequent customer and never denies him the pleasure of side conversation. She keeps him company for hours, smiling while he tells hers outlandish stories and accepting his exaggerated tales as truths. He notices that she avoids looking at newspapers or magazines and when talking of recent news, she changes the subject.
"There is a madman on the loose in Germany. They say he is the devil—" he says one day after reading an article in the local paper, his expression contorting comically with wrinkles pushing against one another.
"The new display you have is beautiful," she interrupts. His fear breaks and he smiles, nodding as he peers over his golden spectacles at the window. The roses had taken him hours to primp and trim and his world quickly returns to that of botany.
He tries to convince her to buy the roses, 35 roses for 25 euros. She objects and leaves the shop with her arms nursing a bouquet of lilies. He is satisfied, though, for she has never once left the store empty-handed.
The red Calla Lilies are not waiting for her when the florist greets her at the front door. He appears melancholy, his features seemingly aged several decades. As puts on his spectacles to read her the news on the front page, she turns away to prepare a statement worth interrupting him.
"Arvin Sloane, creator of Omnifam, died yesterday evening at approximately ten o' clock after returning to his hotel room after a light meal at a nearby restaurant," he reads, some of his words stumbling as he takes the spectacles off the bridge of his nose. "He paid for my grand children's medical insurance, did you know that?"
He is obviously distraught but his customer is all but uncaring. She glances at the window and turns back to look at the flourist.
"I'll buy the roses today," she says, successfully distracting him for the hundredth time. He smiles and takes her arm as they walk across the shop towards display.
For the first and only time, she leaves the shop with something other then red Calla Lilies in her arms.
The florist looks up as the bell above the door chimes. It is a new customer, dressed in dark colors that clash with his light hair. He tucks his sunglasses into his coat's pocket and slowly approaches the desk, hands clasped behind his back and stare on the bouquet of lilies beside the florist.
"How many bouquets of these," he gestures towards the lilies, "do you have?"
The florist says that he only keeps enough to satisfy the request of one customer who frequents his shop. The stranger seems pleased with this reply and asks for the price, but the florist insists that he will only sell them to her.
The stranger haggles, raising the price of each individual lily to thirty euros. The florist finally complies and sells the stranger his entire stock of red Calla lilies for over three thousand euros. He leaves as quietly as he entered, the florist overcome with elation.
She comes into the shop later, her expression immediately faltering when she realizes that there is not one red Calla Lily in the shop. The florist explains his situation, but she appears heart broken. She asks the florist when she can return for her usual purchase and he tells her to return in a week. She mentions that a week might be too long.
She leaves with a small wave and he watches as she walks down the cobblestone road in the direction of her cabin by the shore. He sighs and returns to clipping his flowers.
xXx
Sydney warily walks up the steps to her front door, paranoia forcing her to approach her own house with caution. She knows he's here, not by the unlocked door or the lilies scattered across the ground, but by the chill that runs down her spine.
She carefully traipses around the flowers littering the wooden floorboards and follows the trail to the open back door. From where she stands, she can see a lone figure standing on the deserted shore, hands in his pockets and shoes in the shade away from water's harm. She pulls on a light coat to brave the beach's breezes and leaves her sneakers in the house.
Sark turns when he hears the sound of sand crunching beneath her feet. She looks healthier since he last saw her. Her skin has a faint glow and her hair is thicker and longer, but her eyes are what he notices the most. He stares at her and sees no pain or regret, but apathy instead. He wonders if he's too late.
"I'm guessing that Sloane's recent death and your sudden appearance are related," she deduces as she hugs herself for warmth. He nods and runs his tongue over his dry lips.
"So you really did find a cottage by the shore," he says, glancing out towards the blue waves that lap along the sand.
"It cost a fortune," she replies, "but I got it."
A silence falls as another gust of wind blows, her hair brushing against his face.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, turning away to look at the water. He does the same and flexes his toes in the sand, grains wrapping around his feet and reminding him of childhood pleasures.
"I pursued a dream of mine," he says casually. He turns to look at her but her gaze remains focused on the ocean.
"And it took a year and a half?" she scoffs.
"Yes, well, surprisingly enough, taking apart organizations like the Covenant take some time," he sarcastically replies.
Sydney purses her lips and looks thoughtful in an effort to qualm the tears. She'd spent months preparing for this moment, if it were to ever happen, practicing what she'd say and how to tell him that he was useless to her. Her father and mother had tried intervening her, convincing her to enjoy the newfound freedom that she had. And only after a year's worth of waiting and ignorance had she finally accepted his absence.
"Sark, some things just aren't meant to be," she says, her voice peaking at the end of her statement. Forcing herself to remain composed, she averts her gaze from the waters and stares at his face.
It's different, lighter, thinner and new scars join the map that stretches across his profile. She refrains from touching him and tucks her hands deeper into her pockets. He turns to look at her with eyes that speak of silent horrors and a fear of rejection.
"Then I wasted quite a lot of time believing it was," he says, tangling his hands in her hair. He dips his head and kisses her lightly, the faintest brush of skin against skin, and she bites her tongue to keep from reacting.
"Why'd you do it? Why did you leave?" she asks, pressing her hands against his chest. She pushes him away and takes a step backwards, her resistance as strong as it'd been years ago.
"Your father would have killed me if he saw me touching you," he jokes, but Sydney remains grave.
"You son of a bitch—you show up at my home, demanding acceptance, and joke about it. I waited a year for you, a year for a sign, for anything that would let me know that that few hours together had ever existed, but I never got it. Don't stand there and try to make light of this because I find no aspect of this to be funny," she says as the tears suddenly leak from the corners of her eyes. She brushes them away and turns to leave.
"Sydney," he yells, his voice taught with a mixture of rage and self-control. "Do you want to know why I left?"
She stops walking because she's never heard him so angry before, shedding his cool and urbane exterior. She keeps her back faced to him as he explains.
"What the hell was I supposed to do, Sydney? Do you think it would have been simple avoiding the Covenant for the rest of our lives if I hadn't left? The plan was to pull you out of that system, not drag you back into it. I wasn't about to risk your life after saving it," he says. "If you want me to leave, Sydney, then just say it."
She turns to look at him with her softened expression, one hand pressed against her forehead and the other dangling lifelessly at her side. She waits until her throat loosens to speak again, pent up frustration bubbling over.
"You can't expect me to just accept you again after all this time!" she yells, wishing she had something to throw at him. "We can't just jump back to where we were before—but I don't want to start over."
He covers the distance between them slowly, walking past his shoes lodged deep in the sand and the sound of waves in the distance.
"Then let's start from the middle," he says. "I notice that you're missing a cook."
xXx
A week passes and she doesn't return for the red Calla Lilies. After the first bouquet dies, he optimistically replaces it, continuing this routine until a year passes, then two years, then three years. He eventually removes the lilies and relies on the newspaper for company, the frequent customer now a figment of the past.
The sound of the bell's chime drags his attention away from the paper and to the young girl at the door. She isn't any older then six, but she has with her a wad of money and a slip of paper with directions written on it. She has long brown hair and dark blue eyes and shyly enters the shop. The florist must lean over the desk to see her.
"Hello there," he says cheerfully, taking off his spectacles. She glances up at him and looks at the words scribbled on the piece of paper she carries.
"Lilies," she responds. "Can I buy some lilies?"
The florist raises a brow and glances out the window, but the street is empty.
"What kind of lilies would you like?" he asks.
"Red Calla Lilies," she says.
Fin.
Author's Notes: So finally we reach the end. Once again, I am not an expert at botany or the scenery in France. And having all the dialogue in French, I thought, would be good practice, but not everybody would understand. And I'd have to babelfish it and as we all know, babelfish cannot be trusted. This is how Potent ends and I didn't really put as much effort into the ending as I did to the beginning. This chapter, I thought, wasn't the best I could've written but I'm just absolutely burned out and since this was going to be the general gist of the ending any ways, I thought, hey, might as well update and get it over with instead of dragging it out and making it longer then it has to be. Thus, I bring you the end and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.