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Part 6 : Method to Madness
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"
In his house at R'lyeh dead Cthulhu
waits dreaming,"
- H.P. Lovecraft, "The Call of Cthulhu"
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She wondered why time, unlike anything
else, could not be altered. Life and death were decided with a single bullet. Misery and happiness depended solely on the
whims of the people you meet.
Time was the only thing concrete.
-
He found himself inexplicably running the unfair comparison
between Allison Doren and Sydney Bristow.
Allison was ice, and sweat, and the human
equivalent of a colorless Rubik's cube. Intriguing, seductive, and
ultimately thankless.
Sydney was silk, and embers. Her breath
against his neck was something lighter than air, with the warning scent of
clear smoke. She was fire on dry wood.
He then wondered when two days of
madness and three oddly relaxing hours of sex had turned him into a
blathering dramatist.
Well, he knew, of course - it was
the presence of the woman curled beside him, sleeping timidly against his
chest. But that was no excuse. He was a bloody
assassin. And he hated the unaccountable grin that crept across his
face and simply wouldn't go away.
Neither of them were at their prime: he'd done quite a
job on her, bruising and scratching every inch of her body in his frantic, and now lamentable, attempt to awaken
her spirit. And he himself was a sight to see - her brutal snap kick had
bloodied his nose, her striking fist had left his chest throbbing, and her paltry sweep-trip
had left his tailbone aching, though that embarrassing little tidbit would
be carried with him to the grave. And that damnable grin of his refused to
disappear.
Sark ran his fingers softly along her skin, making silent amends
for the hours of sanctioned abuse he'd unleashed upon her. Along her neck, over
the scabbing bullet wound along her arm, down her brittle fingers. Along her
breasts, her stomach, pausing at the vile scar flawing her white body. He'd
noticed it earlier, the moment he ripped the jacket off her shoulders, but he'd
ignored it. They were both scarred; he wore his with
indifference.
"Nasty little thing, isn't
it?" She spoke into his neck, sending unaccustomed shivers through his
veins.
He almost snorted in annoyance.
The woman had to start warning him before she did anything else unpredictable.
"Yes," he answered
lightly. "Though I have one on my thigh that makes yours look like a
scrape in need of a band-aide."
She laughed mirthlessly, and he could
feel her breath slow against his skin. She was beginning to retreat once more;
he instantly resumed his candid examination of her physical perfections.
"You know," he continued,
"I shudder to think what your valiant Agent Vaughn would say to this
little tête-à-tête."
He felt a loathsome sort of satisfaction
when her eyes compliantly filled with tears. It was consoling, at least, to know that
she still cried. It was good for the soul, or so he'd heard.
"I doubt he would care," she
answered in a monotone, and moved to sit up.
Aggressively he wrapped
his arms around her waist and pulled her back down.
"Perhaps not, Agent Bristow,"
he hissed in her ear. "But what of your father? Your mother, even? All
your friends? Agent Weiss? What would they think of you, cavorting about with
the enemy, murdering in cold blood those who wronged you and destroying
the artifacts they've spent the last five years fighting for?"
Sydney went still again, and he could
feel the beast in her heart rearing to snap.
"Don't talk about Eric Weiss," she said quietly.
"Don't ever say a word about him. Understood, Sark?"
Perplexed, Sark released her. She
rose silently, and walked into the bathroom. The door locked behind her.
He let out a breath, and fell
back against the satin pillow. The room was suffocating and cold, the only
furnished area in the house besides the living room and
bathroom. Hours earlier he'd carried Sydney through the creaking halls of the still French townhouse,
stumbling into the bedroom and collapsing atop her and the black-sheeted bed.
It'd been unmade when they'd arrived, untouched in the months since she and Simon Walker had sought
asylum, here, in the obscurity of disappearance. Sark laughed at the
thought. Would he end up just as Walker had, alone and betrayed, doubting
himself and the world merely because Sydney Bristow had loved him and left
him?
He dressed quickly, smiling to himself.
Of course he would. What better way was there for a man to die?
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He searched his pocket and
found the keys to his Mercedes gone.
Again.
Bloody woman.
One more thing to add to the list of
'Infuriating Bristow Quirks', right up there along with their seeming inability
to let Sark rest.
Bloody woman.
It was a race against time, really,
something Sark had notoriously bad experience with. He called ahead
for the plane to be prepped and ready before he got there.
Sydney couldn't have all the fun.
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Firenze, Italy.
A hazy, raucous town, so different from
the dead stillness of the safehouse in Estrelles. Neon lights and voices
shouted at her from all angles.
She shouted right back.
Sydney Bristow would have been
uncomfortable, blushing in the snug miniskirt and shoes amusingly
reminiscent of go-go boots. Sydney Bristow would have stoutly refused to go
outside in such an, eh hem, interesting outfit.
Sydney Bristow died in a fire blazing
in her apartment two years ago.
Almost,
she told herself as she walked the streets. Almost died, but not quite.
And the person to prove it to her had been a man who killed, tortured and
generally pissed the hell off everyone he met. Well, ain't that somethin'.
"Vino bianco, per favore." She smiled to the bartender.
Her Italian was shaky; it had been a while.
He nodded, and turned to usher to her request.
Beside her, Arvin Sloane smiled.
"Permettalo, il mio dolce," he offered, in an
accent even worse than hers.
Honestly, thought Sark, leaning
against the bar separated by a half-dozen other patrons and listening
through the bug he'd placed on Sloane's collar, can't either of them
speak simple Italian?
"I must say, this is a
pleasant surprise. You had us all extremely worried, Sydney," Sloane explained,
turning to grin ruefully at her.
"I know about the Covenant," Sydney announced
bluntly. "I saw the tape. Your little meeting,"
"Bloody woman," Sark muttered aloud, and ignored the curious glance of the
ivy-leaguer sipping a Fresca beside him.
"Qui siete, ma'am," grunted the
bartender, placing Sydney's white wine before her.
Sark's opinion of her tastes,
in beverages if not in career choices, sky-rocketed.
Sloane appeared ready to retreat to his
rat hole. He glanced at the conspicuous bodyguards he now fitted himself
with.
"I've seen the list. You were in
charge of finances, right? Of course, you just rack in the money from your
little peace organization." She wanted to hurt something now.
Sark was now chanting, "Bloody woman" as if it were
his mantra. His hand in his coat pocket, he attached the silencer to his Ruger.
She leaned forward, a strange, seductive woman clad in white
leather and oddly alluring knee-high boots, with a shock of platinum hair
and more makeup than a squad of California cheerleaders smearing her
lovely doe eyes. She leaned forward, and touched her press-on nail to the
pulsing vein beneath Sloane's unshaven jawline. She smiled.
Unfathomably at a time
like this, Sark wished she wouldn't. Smirking was
his thing, really.
"Bloody woman," Sark repeated one
last time, and shot Sloane discreetly behind the shoulder blades as he passed
them on his way out.
The old man fell forward into Sydney.
Bullets, everywhere, exploded in the air over
the loud melee of dance music. Sloane's bodyguards had decided to work for
their pay. Stifling a cry, Sydney toppled backwards, Sloane's (literal and
metaphorical) dead weight dragging her to the floor. A bullet sizzled into
Sloane's neck, spattering through into the carpet inches from Sydney's face.
"Bloody, bloody,
bloody woman." She was pinned,
seconds away from death. The patrons were screaming, oblivious, running and
staying put. Only a few had noticed the gunfire yet, and the panic was
beginning to kick in. Sark fired twice,
taking down one of Sloane's men, a shot in each kneecap. There were four others
- three closing in on Sydney, the other guarding the exit.
Sark had eliminated another when a set of rough hands closed
around his throat and spun him, hard, into the wall. His vision blurred, and he
tasted the sweet, metallic taste of blood sweep over his tongue.
There was nothing for it; Sydney grabbed hold of Sloane's body and tumbled to her feet,
dragging him in front of her. Bullet's punched through the dead man, clipping
her across the jaw. Feeling all the anesthetic heartlessness of the
move, Sydney hurled her lifeless enemy into the line of
bodyguards firing away at her. Hiking her 6-inch heel on a chair leg, she flipped
sideways into an aerial cartwheel, shots streaking past her to bite deep into
the wall lined with rows of shattering alcohol bottles. She
landed on her feet, turning on her toes to back flip behind an
overturned table. Ammunition riddled the polished wood.
"I knew the espionage field was going to waste. Is it too
much to ask for my assailants to at least remember to release the safety on
their firearm?"
That voice. That damned cocky, British
voice. She glanced over her shoulder to see an ever-cavalier
Sark insulting the Dollar Store goon who held a pistol to his head.
The bodyguard wasn't even watching behind him.
Without a moment's hesitation Sydney
snatched up the broken shard of wineglass littering the floor, and threw it
shuriken-style. Buried in his spinal chord, Sark's captor began screaming.
Sark silenced him by jacking the gun from his hands, placing it beneath the
man's chin, and squeezing the trigger.
Turning her attention back to her
current peril, Sydney caught the middle table leg between
her feet and kicked. It smashed into the advancing pair of attackers, and
she sprang to her feet to deliver a roundhouse kick to the third.
She sprinted towards the exit, not bothering to see if Sark
followed. By the door, another of Sloane's men fell with a perfect 3-bullet spread buried in his chest.
"Nice grouping," she commented over her shoulder, jogging up
the narrow steps leading from the trendy Italian dance club.
"I aim to please," Sark answered,
and winced at the admittedly terrible pun.
They ran together, to the sound of footsteps pounding after them.
Sark was inevitably reminded of the many times it had been Sydney chasing him,
instead of beside him.
She turned abruptly, darting down a
lightless alley.
Bloody woman.
He quickly retraced his steps, rounding
the corner to follow her.
Just like old times, her fist connected
with his face. He spun and fell, fittingly, onto the hood of the waiting
Mercedes.
"Why are you here?" she
snarled, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the hood.
"Mind the suit," he said vaguely.
"
Why, Sark? Why'd
you kill Sloane?"
He seized hold of her and rolled,
pivoting around to land with her weathered body between him and the pavement.
"I did it for you."
"Fuck off, Sark. I don't need you," she spat,
grasping his wrists and twisting. Grunting, he let up a bit, allowing her room
to breathe.
"May we possibly talk about this when we're not in mortal
danger?" he asked politely, panting for air.
Gritting her teeth, she threw him off,
climbing unsteadily to her feet. In a second the door was open, and she slid
into the driver's seat. He moved quickly to the passenger's side. It was
locked.
"Sydney -" he began, but she
shook her head.
She shifted the gear to Drive, and shot
out of the alleyway. Gunshots rang after the speeding Mercedes.
After the shock and initial anger of
being brazenly left in the lurch, Sark stood in the empty alley and smirked.
He thought for a moment, then dialed
Allison's number. For whatever reason, feeling the immense, imagined finality
of the gesture, he'd erased her from his speed
dial.
"I need to meet with Callaghan,"
he said succinctly. "Soon."
