Part 9 : Jekyll
-

"Nice, Sydney, nice. If you turn left, I bet you could side-swipe that Mazda, too."

"Hey, here's a novel idea: shut your pie hole!"

"These life-or-death situations are almost worth it merely for you scintillating conversational skills."

"I wish I could say the same for yours."

A red light, bah. Sydney jacked the wheel, tires shrieking against the pavement as they fishtailed between oncoming cars. Three blocks ahead was Ryden's ridiculously expensive sports car; the distance between them closed rapidly due to Sydney's gleefully erratic driving.

And this, coming from the woman who stopped at yellow lights.

A police cruiser was giving lackluster chase, falling behind in the wake of a 4-car pileup caused by Sydney cutting off a big-rig at the intersection. Ryden cut down an alleyway.

"He went -" Sark began.

"I know."

Down a blackened, narrow street. Sydney switched off the headlights, switching gears to blast after the bleary red glow of the Aston Martin.

"He turned -"

"I know."

Cutting through, back onto the main road. Switching lanes like a madman, Ryden shot down the street.

"He's going -"

"I know."

Motorists honked, screeching to a halt to avoid the frenzied swerving. Sydney had no choice but to cut an abrupt left, scraping the passenger side door against a careening Mitsubishi.

"He's still going -"

"Damn it, Sark, I know!"

Pulling a 180, Sydney righted the Mustang, gunning down the wrong lane after the disappearing Aston Martin.

"He turned -"

Sydney shot him a withering glance.

Down another alley, this one lit in cream-colored light from a shattered streetlamp. Further down, it split into two ways.

"You pick," they said in unison.

Straight or left: they sat in silent indecision.

Hissing through her teeth, Sydney spun the wheel and turned left.

No streetlamps down here, it was pitch black and layered with grime. The road was a narrow strip of pavement boxed in by endless walls of gray cement, creaking warehouses and abandoned apartments where the rats and lice lived rent-free. Lastly, a dead end.

"He's gone," Sark told her.

She rapped her knuckles against the dashboard.

"Without putting my sexuality into question, he's rather eye-catching, Sydney," Sark said in a flat monotone. "He can't stay hidden long even if he wanted to. We'll find him."

No movement. Nothing. She stared at the flawed concrete wall ahead.

"I swear to you we will find him."

"'We'?"

She turned to stare him in the face, her eyes savagely dark. He didn't answer.

"What 'we'?" she barked. "Why are you here?"

"I'm here," he answered indifferently, "because you kidnapped me after stealing my 800 million inheritance."

"I didn't kidnap you," she yelled. "I offered you a ride!"

"Have it your way," he said, and he was smiling, and the silence crept back into their ears.

Idly Sydney switched back on the headlights, and turned off the engine. Blinding, out of place, white light caught all the cracks and crags running along the impenetrable grey wall. It was like a cage.

"I've noticed," Sydney observed, "you never answer direct questions."

"Was that a question?"

"Nope."

A pause.

"You're right, I suppose. I'm here because you're not the type of person that should be alone."

"And you are?"

"You tell me."

She winced. Sydney Bristow would have cried. Julia Thorne would have laughed. She was caught somewhere in between.

"It's not pleasant, is it?" he observed.

"Not especially."

"We'll kill him, Sydney." He sounded certain.

Nothing is certain but death.

"He was Simon's best friend." It mattered to her, somehow.

No reply. After a moment, he took her face in his hands and kissed her.

Rough and cruel and hiding any trace of tenderness. When she pulled away he tightened his grip on the back of her neck and dragged her close, merciless. Sark craved control of the one thing he could never conquer.

He heard the noise first and acted without thought or hesitation. Sark heard the safety catch released, the delicate air moving silently as Ryden fitted the rifle to his eye and opened fire.

Sark pulled her down atop him a breath of a second before a 30-bullet spray danced along the stolen Mustang, puncturing metal and shattering glass. Fleetingly, Sark stared at Sydney's shocking, temporary turquoise hair. It was sticky now, plastered with a sickening copper-red liquid - his blood, running freely from the arm held fiercely around her neck. A gaping scar was torn through his leather sleeve and into his flesh by a passing 10mm. bullet.

There was an abrupt, snapping noise as Ryden released the empty magazine and loaded in a new one.

Sydney struggled against him, fighting to rise, but Sark pulled her desperately back down against him. They were lying flat across the console, guarded by the riddled driver's door. His wounded forearm had gone numb. With his one good hand Sark grabbed the door handle and pulled, tumbling onto the muddy pavement with Sydney jarring atop him.

"Nice little trick I learned," Ryden announced, vaulting onto the crippled hood and casually leveling the MP5 at the dormant duo. "Y'see, first you escape." His voice a higher pitch, his accent a mirror of Simon's. "Then y' come back, see? Catch 'em by surprise." He grinned down at Sydney, leered and examined her with exaggeration. "I can see why my boy Simon turned lapdog, mate," he said to Sark. "Though I can't figure you out. I mean, you got Allison Doren an' you still want more? Bloody hell, mate, fuckin' her is fine, but you just don't go an' fall in love with the bitch. God, haven't you heard? She's a damn plague."

Sydney was staring up at Ryden with an unreadable expression. Hatred, maybe. Sorrow. Sark half-sat up, gritting his teeth while holding his bleeding arm to his chest. "I can assure you, Finn, in love is one of the few things I am not. I am, after all, currently working as an errand boy for your beloved Covenant."

"Oh, of course," he smiled wolfishly. Sydney slowly climbed to a crouch. "I never doubted your loyalty, Mr. Sark. Why, just a second ago you were trying to choke her to death with your tongue. Good show, mate. Take one for the team."

Sark opened his mouth to reply, to lie his way through this predicament, but he saw clearly that there was nothing doing. He was out of a job, and quite possibly out of a life, all because of the damned, infuriating woman crouching beside him.

No, not crouching, standing. No, not standing - flying through the air with bullets sizzling in her wake, diving beneath the car. Sark narrowly rolled away before Ryden's submachine gun could amputate his legs.

How humiliating. Mr. Sark, the legendary badass of the espionage community, was crawling on his back away from a jerk-off wearing a necktie over a T-shirt, whilst Sydney Bristow, daughter of The Man and general all-'round prodigal babe, hid under a stolen car.

He'd always known the black market was gone to seed.

Grunting in frustration, Ryden dropped down the ground, kicking Sark away without notice. He leaned down to look under the car.

"C'mon, now, Julia. You're too pretty a lass to be-"

A 4-inch heel smashed into the bridge of his nose. His glasses shattered, bone crunching. He let out a roar, drawing up the MP5 and shooting blindly.

A hail of bullets pelted into the pavement, into a tire, up along the hood, down along the door, nearing Sydney - Sark took his opportunity and swung his foot viciously into the back of Ryden's knee. The man went down heavily onto Sark, knuckles scraping against concrete as he fought to keep hold of the submachine gun.

"Too bad, I really wanted to hear the end of that sentence," Sydney mused, rolling to her feet and slamming her toe ruthlessly into Ryden's exposed ribcage.

He was down, but not out. Howling for breath, he rent his elbow into Sark's face and lashed out with both legs, catching Sydney in the stomach and throwing her ferally into the alley wall. Her head cracked against the concrete. She slid down hard and went still.

Laughing with menace, Ryden climbed to his feet, seized Sark by the collar and rammed the famed assassin headfirst into the hammered car door. Sark's already bleeding face gained a split lip and a marvelous bruise.

"Come on, pretty boy," Ryden hissed in his ear. "Where are the banter, the smirk and your precious little plans?" He dragged Sark to his feet and began hitting him, barbaric slaps and punches marring his paleskin. "Where's your precious Sydney Bristow, well? What's it about this girl, eh? Turns everyone into a sniveling little wretch. First Simon, now you: the Man's legendary wolfhound. She broke you nice an' quick, might I say."

Trash talk. Sark had always felt distaste for macho banter during a fight.

Nevertheless, he looked across into Ryden's glaring eyes, and he smirked even as a fist beat against his mouth.

"Oh, yes. Very quickly," Sark agreed. "But then again, we are talking about the woman who systematically murdered 4 other founders of the Covenant." His injured arm, previously held useless to his chest, snaked up and grabbed hold of Ryden's oncoming fist. "Pity, really, that I have to break her ongoing streak."

Pitiful. He was merely out of practice, he told himself - he was used to dealing with the elite. He hadn't found trash talk necessary in years.

Energy draining in waves, Sark went on the desperate offense, scoring a double blow with a right hook and a well-aimed side kick. Ryden fell back to the ground. Sark was crouching for the kill when Ryden grabbed him by the shoulders and rolled, dragging him down and beneath him.

Pinned, Sark thrashed, landing a glancing punch. A switchblade appeared in Ryden's hand and he pressed it against Sark's pulsing throat.

Game over.

Ryden grinned. Not the enigmatic smirk so preferred by Sark, not even the callous smile adopted by Simon Walker. His was a pure, pleased grin.

"30-round magazine, right? Man, that's gotta suck for you." The clear, easy voice was feminine and unabashedly American. Sydney stood three feet away holding the MP5 aimed directly at Ryden's unmistakable face.

Superfluous at such a time, Sark repressed the urge to scoff. What was the problem between Americans and suitable zingers?

The blade sunk unintentionally deeper. It slid through skin and was rewarded with a damp trickle of blood running down Sark's ear.

"Anytime soon, Sydney?" Sark berated.

Ryden stared at her through near-sighted eyes. He was Simon's best friend.

"Sydney," Sark urged her into action with quiet, insignificant tones. "Sydney, pull the trigger."

She was frozen. She'd become Sydney Bristow again, and at the worst time possible.

"Remember what he did to you." Louder now, trying desperately to reach her. Ryden's grip tightened in Sark's salient hair, tugging his head back, the switchblade pressing deeper.

"Shoot him, Sydney. Shoot him," he shouted hoarsely.

She prepared to fire, still hesitating. Ryden sprang.

He leapt up and to the right, Sydney's surprised shots ringing against empty air, and he threw the switchblade with a practiced jerk of his hand. Sydney's hand went up instantly, knocking the blade away and scoring a shallow, insignificant cut along her palm. Ryden charged her, struck her twice across the face and received a bruising jackknife-kick to the sternum in return. Sark, helpless and hating every minute of it, ineffectually attempted to stand and retrieve the fallen MP5 submachine gun laying on the ground between the two fighters.

Ryden hit her again, and she lost her balance, spinning sideways until he slammed her violently against the wall. He whispered a short sentence in her ear, continually grinning, and kissed her jaw, his teeth scraping bone. She fought, of course, but he absently shoved her into the concrete once more and watched in amusement as her vision blurred.

"Later, then," he told Sark, tipping a wink before jogging down the shadowed alley. A screech of tires could be heard, an unknown voice shouting for Ryden to hurry. Sydney attempted to follow, but her legs gave out and she stumbled in exhaustion.

Blackness crept around the edges of Sark's consciousness. His eyes flickered shut, and he forced his breathing even, his blood slowing in his veins and the pain in his wounded arm returning with vengeance. Gathering his strength, he stood, and went shakily to Sydney's side.

She sat against the rough, bloodstained wall. She held her face in her arms, around her knees, and her breath came in short, erratic gasps.

"Sydney?" He knelt beside her, confused and unsure of himself. He tugged away unwilling hands, taking in her tired face, a jagged stream of mascara running down her battered cheeks. "Sydney."

"You should have left me dead." No further explanation was forthcoming. Her voice was low, creaking. She looked away.

"Sydney."

His grip tightened around her wrists.

She licked her lips, refusing to meet his eyes. She was frightened of her own skin.

"You should have let me stay Julia," she clarified, watching, unblinking, the immobile damaged Mustang.

"Sydney."

"Julia wouldn't - Julia could have killed him. He would have been dead weeks ago." She couldn't breathe, her throat blocked with hate, but she didn't notice.

"Sydney."

"What?" Finally she met his gaze, daring him to hurt her, to take out his anger on the one person who had caused so much of it.

He smirked. "Julia Thorne and Sydney Bristow are the same person, darling."

Her strength returned. She shoved him away, rearing to her feet and bearing down upon him. "You don't get it, Sark, so save your little pep talk. I was fine before you came. I was fine before I had to go save your ass from the Covenant."

"And why do you think that is?" He stood angrily, a hand to the wall for stability. "It's so easy to hate me, Sydney, because I'm everything you despise about yourself. You hate me because I remind you that no matter how hard you try, you're never simply Jack Bristow's daughter or Julia Thorne. You can wear a disguise and pretend to be whoever the hell you want, but you're still just Sydney."

She hit him, with both fists, in the chest and shoulders.

"Sydney Bristow was never dead, you just made yourself forget her! You were never Julia Thorne; Julia Thorne doesn't even exist. She's an alias, Sydney. It's just another lie we tell to the world."

"I don't want to be Sydney Bristow!" She aimed for his face then, her knuckles tearing against his teeth, smearing them with his blood and her own.

"Do you think I want to be Julian Lazarey?" Unexpected and unintentional, He screamed it at her, grabbing her by the arms and shaking her cruelly. No, he told himself. Speak it aloud and everything will break, come tumbling down and leave you with nothing. It tore from his throat without his consent. "Don't you think I'd rather be nothing more than Mr. Sark, the cold, heartless bastard you see me as? Don't you think I wish I could look at you without thinking you're the woman who slit my father's throat and left him to bleed?"

She gave one last futile thrash, jostling painfully against him, trying to tear away from his grasp.

"Mr. Sark wouldn't care, Sydney. Mr. Sark would be so remarkably pleased with his 800 million dollar inheritance that it'd be no consequence that his father's death was what granted it. Mr. Sark," his voice was like gravel, "is merely a facade."

Shock - broad, unguarded disbelief sketched across her weary features.

He let her go, and turned away, ignored her when she called to him. "There's a safe house not far from here," he announced. "Just outside the city. We'd best start walking."

With one last attempt to draw himself out of the rising ice, he pulled Sydney to her feet. "I hid the Mercedes a couple blocks away. C'mon," she said quietly, leading him through the winding alleyway. They kept to the shadows, away from inquiry. They were creatures of darkness, and tonight, beaten and bloody, they looked it.

-

They arrived at the small apartment in the backlash of the city, dusty and untouched for months. Her body was riddled with dull aches and razor stings; Sydney found the medicine cabinet fully stocked with disinfectant, gauze, and morphine. She took the supplies into the bedroom, and silently attended to Sark.

He watched her as she worked, never once blinking, or wavering his gaze from the clouded lines of her face. His breath hissed through his teeth when she cleaned the jagged bullet tear across his arm.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

After a moment, he nodded.

A liquid icepack held softly against his tortured purple cheekbone, a damp cloth washing his split lip. Her hair, finally free of the tasteless green wig, was glossy and dark, shifting like sand between his fingers. Without a word she efficiently packed away the medical kit, and when he took her hand and dragged her down beside him she didn't bother to resist.

Hazy and half-awake they moved, oblivious to the chill December air as it snaked through the cracks in the walls. A cheated warmth, meaningless skin against skin, effortlessly lost in the confusion of who they were and who they were meant to be. Enemies with their masks on, weak and terrified without them. It was nothing like the night in Etrelles. Now, in the blackest hours of the morning, they were painful, quiet solace to each other.

There, Mr. Sark and Julia Thorne faded to shadows.

-

With the gray sun came rain. It splashed against the unwashed window, drawing him gradually from his dreams.

Whenever he awoke, he could never remember them.

He trailed his fingers along Sydney's stomach as she climbed up, spiritlessly attempted to pull her back against him. She mechanically shook him away, gathering up her clothes and dressing with her eyes staring out the obscured window.

Sydney had carried in a black metal case from the trunk of the Mercedes the night before; He hadn't cared then. Now she was unlocking it, and a wave of curiosity and uneasy prompted him to sit up straight and pierce her with an irritated glare.

She unloaded an assortment of throwing knives, twin pistols and a handheld computer, strapping and stowing and secreting them away in various places along her clothing. She carefully kept her head turned away from Sark.

"I know we're not exactly suburban soccer parents," he observed, "but the morning after doesn't usually include a thousand-plus dollar arsenal."

"Ryden's coming."

What, now? Luckily, he caught himself before uttering that imbecilic question. Not now, this minute. But soon. He would be searching for them as they spoke.

She closed the case, locked it, hefted it casually over her shoulder and moved to the door. "See ya around, Sark."

After a millisecond of staring at her in incredulity, Sark launched to his feet and grabbed hold of her wrist, slamming the bedroom door shut beside her. "Where are you going?" he rasped.

First, confusion. Her adorable, petulant frown. Liquid brown eyes involuntarily sweeping over his rough, unclothed body, and then forcefully brought back to his bruised face. Lastly, a snarl.

Angelic.

"I'm saving my ass, Sark." Harsh, ruthless. "I'm going far, far away." She tried so hard to be Julia Thorne.

"And when he finds you?" He was stuck somewhere in between - Sark's own instinctual self-preservation weighing against the unexplainable impulse to hide her away where no one could find her but him. He'd never once claimed he was not a selfish man.

"When he finds me? Pray to God I'm holding a Howitzer." He had her in a corner, and she didn't like it.

"You can't live like that, Sydney." It was a mistake, trying to drawing on her humanity. He lost. She broke free of the cage he'd been building around her.

"I can't live like this, either." She pushed him out of the way and headed into the living room. With irritation, he dressed to the waist and followed her just as the deadbolt came loose and she opened the front door.

He snaked one arm around her waist and tugged her back, pushing it shut. Pinned her when she jerked to punch him.

"Has it ever occurred to you that I've enjoyed a long and successful career as a hired assassin?" he gritted.

"All more incentive for me to get moving." She bucked furiously, breaking free.

Bloody woman.

"Would you sit down for a moment?" he snapped, re-locking the door.

Snorting in disgust, she straightened and stood impatiently, staring blankly at his disheveled, half-dressed state.

Not for the first time, Sark noted Sydney Bristow's knack for catching him during his worst moments. Actually, she was the cause of most of them.

"Quit smirking at me and get to the point," she ordered.

Bloody woman.

"If Finn Ryden wants you dead, and believe me, Sydney, he does, then you stand little to no chance of evading him on your own." He held his stance calmly, unaffected by the mad kabuki dance his mind was currently occupying itself with. He simply blamed the morphine and remained his usual assured self. "I have a wide variety of contacts, and I have no qualms with murder. You, on the other hand, are extensively defenseless in your current state of affairs."

She shot him an eerie, uniquely personalized version of Sark's trademark smirk. "Really,"she drawled. "And your supposed to be the CIA's top threat. No, of course I wasn't out making a name for myself while you were rotting in prison. You're right, Sark, I'm completely defenseless and without contacts."

"You can't run forever."

Her eyes blackened. She laughed. "Who would want to live forever?"

"Stay," he said. What the hell, he thought, and added, "With me."

She shook her head, still smiling.

"Just listen a moment," He'd try anything to draw her in. "Together, maybe. Control the world and all that."

He saw a flicker of red through the crack in her armor. Ah. She'd been bluffing all along. "You're too much like Simon, Sark."

It was no use. He couldn't reach her by tapping into her inner goodness or any of that useless shit. She already felt it, the shattering heartache. She was broken inside and nothing Sark could say would injured her now.

"He thought he could take anything." She continued wistfully, full of regret, dismissive of the man watching her. "He thought he could take on the world and win."

She began pacing, unseeing, fighting an epic battle against the tears clouding her eyes. "He loved watching the sun rise. Go ahead, I laughed too, at first. He used to tell me that with his guts and my brains, we could do anything. We'd blow the Covenant to hell and then move onto Derevko, the CIA, anybody who'd ever burned me." A wry smile. "He had some pretty interesting ideas for you, by the way."

She met Sark's gaze - both were ridden with questions, confusion, both held their game faces immovably in place, smooth expressions of careless disdain.

"He had so much to give, Sark, yet such a capacity for hate. He wanted the world to know how pain he had felt, and how much he could cause."

He understood perfectly.

She could have been describing Sark.

"He kept me alive."

So had Sark.

"And now he's dead."

It was something between a statement and a question. He nodded, once, and stepped to the side. She walked out of the safe house without looking back.