-
Part 10 : The Cardcastle
-
From a 30-by-50 foot cell, to a series of warehouses and street side-
apartments, to sleepless nights spent pounding through dazzling,
cement cities, the affluence of the California beachside townhouse
returned him to his tarnished glory. Appearance could make or break a
man.
It'd been nearly two years and three months since Sark had felt so
completely in control - this was his turf, his specialty. He'd been in
this all of twice, and still servants went skittering under his
glance.
He walked up the red-carpeted staircase, through gilded hallways, into
the master study. Plush rugs, mahogany desk, paintings and drawings
and photographs lining the walls in bronze and platinum frames. Yes,
very nice, bling-bling, but Sark had business to attend to.
"How's the Mercedes? I had it kept up to date. It arrived safely, I
presume?" Swiveling distractedly, staring at the scarred young protég
she'd left behind.
Two years and she'd shipped him his bloody car.
"Yes. Thank you." Nodding perfunctorily, he frowned slighty.
"Doubtless you've been keeping tabs on my recent," Sydney's words,
"escapades."
She smiled, like a rose under glass. "Oh yes. You've been making some
new friends, I hear."
"You have no objections, then?"
"To your latest employers, or my daughter? Even if I did, Julian,
would you take heed?"
Finally he shifted, released his stiff stance and sank into the
offered leather-bound armchair, facing Irina with delicacy. "Sydney
and I have reached a temporary truce, of sorts. We're working together
to reach a common goal, then we will go our separate ways."
"Except," she prompted.
"Except, Ms. Bristow has cut me loose with an extolled assassin
currently hunting for our blood."
"You want protection?" Astonishment, amusement, disbelief. Unwilling
to think her loyal bloodhound had gained sentiment and lost his spine.
Smirking wryly, he shook his head. "I want to know where Sydney is."
He used to look at Irina Derevko and see a carbon copy of Sydney
Bristow. Strong and resilient, ruthless beneath the layers of
captivating gloss. But there were subtle differences - look-alikes or
no, Sydney was her father's daughter, and not Irina's. Irina had ever
been the puppet-master, playing life like a chess match and winning
without remorse. She was different now - she was happier than she'd
been, content with watching instead of playing. She'd inadvertently
passed her legacy unto Sydney. Irina had always planned for her
daughter to inherit her blackened throne.
She sat back, contemplating this blond, blue-eyed boy parading as a
man. She found him cold and vicious, little more than an animal at
times. Lazarey, then Irina herself, had done quite a job on his
emotional mentality. They'd each broken and reshaped him to their
liking. Now he was a macabre derision of both their work spliced
together.
"You want to keep her," she pronounced.
"For a while, yes." It slipped from his mouth unbidden. This was the
woman's mother, for god's sake.
She continued swiveling in her chair, left to right, methodically
detached as she appraised him. "You can't control her, you know. Many
people have tried and failed. Myself included."
"I wouldn't dream of it," he agreed tersely, smiling.
"And what will you do when she comes after me?"
A hollow laugh escaped him, and he shook his head. "Really, Irina, I
think the question is, what will you do?"
She matched his smile, mirthless from both. "Mother knows best, Sark."
She turned completely then, the high chair back eclipsing her as she
faced the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the ocean. She said, "I
had trackers placed on your Mercedes. You found two, bravo, but there
was a third. It's been transmitting sporadically over the last few
weeks. It recently started up again just outside of Sipiwesk,
Manitoba, heading northeast. I have a facility in Gillam which houses
several Rambaldi artifacts. I don't want them anymore, of course, but
there are countless people who do." A genuine grin now. "Though one
less since the unfortunate death of Arvin Sloane."
Sark stood. Their interview was over. Their companionship, their
understanding of each other, was over. Irina was passing her power to
Sydney, and with it went Mr. Sark.
"I must warn you not to inform Jack Bristow of my dealings with your
daughter," he advised. "I doubt very much he would understand the
gravity of the suffering that led Sydney into this - well, her life of
crime, if you will.
"Jack understands revenge, Sark. Better than even you," Irina
observed.
"Perhaps," Sark said with a half-hearted shrug. "But he doesn't
understand Sydney."
"Neither do you. Neither do I. Not the valiant Agent Vaughn. Not even
Sydney. No one fully understands Bristow women, Sark."
A challenge. Finally, something to occupy his mind. A complex puzzle
to keep him guessing. Addictive.
"Goodbye, Irina."
She nodded, smiling faintly, and continued her ardent staring match
with the sea. Content. The chess match moved on.
-
From Sipiwesk to Stitt, Munk to Ilford, undeniably toward Gillam, into
the wintry land of Canada, cold and biting and alone.
Sydney knew he would find her. She'd made him work for it.
He entered the rented hotel suite, making a lack-luster sweep of the
room. No intruders, no irking little red lights hidden on the walls,
no C4 pushed carelessly under the bed. Just a neat stack of papers on
the coffee table, a series of photos paper-clipped together depicting
Sydney and a very-alive Simon, running and laughing and thieving side-
by-side. There was a zoom-lens picture of Simon holding her carelessly
in his arms in a sunny locale, chuckling madly together while he
clumsily slid a blue-diamond ring onto her finger. The last one, his
autopsy photo, with a note on the back in Ryden's erratic scrawl.
Courtesy of Jack Bristow.
Sark dropped the pictures back onto the table without concern. Scare
tactics. How prosaic.
He was turning towards the bedroom when a fist lashed out and struck
him generously across the jaw. Sark spun, teetered, and nearly fell
until a cruel, flexible wire snaked around his throat and tightened.
He stumbled back against a solid, immovable frame.
"Where is she?" A voice, rough, uncultured, masculine and American.
Familiar.
"Three seconds, Sarky. Seriously, no qualms here with killing you in
cold blood."
He couldn't breathe, could barely talk. Sark tugged momentarily at the
metal wire cutting into his skin then, irritated, he gave up. His
captor obligingly eased the garroting wire minimally for Sark to
speak.
"This is all very heroic, Agent Weiss, but what is it you want from
me?"
The slightest amount of pressure and the hair-thin metal sliced a
narrow cut along his neck. "Where the hell is Sydney Bristow? Don't
fuck with me, Sark. Despite your wholly unconvincing denial, I know
you're on her trail."
Was it something he said, or just the incriminating photos lying
casually on the coffee table?
"I assure you, Agent Weiss, she is not in my custody. I haven't seen
her since my breath-taking flight from the CIA."
With an effortless jerk, Weiss sent him slamming into the wall, the
wire pressing dangerously against Sark's windpipe. "I don't have time
for this, Sark. The first thing I learned about Sydney is that no
matter what, trouble somehow always finds her. So tell me, Blondie,
where is she?"
Fleetingly Sark considered Irina's parting words. Nobody understood
Sydney Bristow. Amazing. Irina had been wrong. This galling, awkward
bear holding Sark's life in his hands knew Sydney inside and out.
Weiss had tracked her half-way across the world and back, and he'd
instinctively gotten hold of the one man who could help him in his
search. Wouldn't, but could.
How cute.
Weary of the CIA and all their bumbling beefcakes, Sark jammed his
elbow under Weiss's ribcage and grabbed hold of his wrist, twisting. A
satisfying snap, a howl. Weiss released him. Sark seized hold of the
wire and cracked it like a whip, scoring a bloody groove across the
agent's temple. An artful kick and Weiss's feet went out from under
him. Sark calmly drew his Colt M19 and aimed it delightedly at Weiss's
chest.
He waited for him to squirm. To plead. To beg, if he were lucky. Weiss
smiled.
"Go ahead," he told Sark. "By all means, shoot me. I mean, then Syd
will have to kill your whole family, you know? Your mother, any
siblings, aunts and uncles. Grandparents. You may not give a damn, but
family's family, right?"
A light-hearted, weighty threat. Yes, killing Eric Weiss would spell
certain death for Sark. Lazarey will have gotten off lightly to what
Sydney would do to Sark. Undoing all Sark's grand plans for her,
destroying her flagging spark of humanity. Weiss didn't know that, of
course, but kudos to him, nevertheless. He displayed an admirable
"screw you" spirit with a 45. caliber bullet aimed at his lung.
Sighing in annoyance, Sark offered Weiss an assisting hand. "Come on,
then."
-
Smiling with glee she spliced the red wire with the blue. Humming a
Christmas carol, she set the explosives and closed the titanium vault.
Sauntering without a care, she passed the incapacitated guards on her
way out the front door.
Dad had always told her violence wasn't the answer.
Who asked?
There was an expected surprise waiting in the Mercedes as she made her
way down the street. Sark smirked bemusedly from behind the wheel.
"I'm keeping this car," he warned her as she slid in beside him.
"Just keep telling yourself that." Coming from experience, she snapped
on her seatbelt.
"Ryden's still coming," he told her. He held no expression, his eyes
guarded by masking black sunglasses.
"That's odd. Simon always said he had the attention span of a poodle,"
He smiled faintly, U-turning off the curbside, cutting off a
procession of motorist. "My contacts have tracked him to Dauphin. We
need to stay quiet for a while, Sydney. Lay low until he gives up and
looks elsewhere."
"Sure," Sydney agreed, pulling a dark metal remote from her jacket and
pressing the conspicuous red button.
The windshield rattled, orange flickered in the mirrors. Flaming
pillars of concrete beat down upon the street behind them. Irina's
warehouse crumbled beneath the sparking explosives Sydney had set.
Sark shot her a disbelieving, venemous look. Very inconspicuous,
blowing up warehouses and all that. He considered berating her,
yelling and swearing at her until she either burst into tears or
planted her heel in his face. He slammed on the gas pedal.
"I do so love your complete disregard for my well-founded
suggestions," he observed wryly.
She grinned openly at him.
By habit he drove in discreet circles, edging slowly toward their
eventual destination while carefully shaking off any prospective
tails. A cheap, 20-room motel. Sark gave her points for imaginative
hideouts.
"I've brought someone with me," he stated, without elaborating, and
slid a keycard into the room adjoining hers.
Shock, incredulity, then utter delight written in her eyes when she
saw. Weiss barely turned to face her before she launched herself into
his arms.
Her confusion, her relief, her desolation and comfort all sputtered
out in a strangled cry. "Eric?"
After a brief glance, Weiss ignored Sark, ignored everything but the
fragile creature clinging turbulently to him, whispering insensibly,
laughing and sobbing, unbreakable and shattered.
Sark stood in the doorway, transfixed. The woman enveloped in Weiss'
arms was nothing like the cruel coquette he'd gladly capered with over
the last few weeks. This woman was the old Sydney Bristow, frightened
and resilient, desperately in need of an anchor.
Damned if it would be Sark.
He turned, closed the door behind him and camped out in Sydney's
rented room. Ammunition and cut wires, maps and a wiped laptop
littered the room. Out of habit he searched the entire length of the
room; Giving into curiosity, he searched through her belongings.
Two metal cases and a garment bag - precious little of anything other
than firearms and tech gear. Two changes of clothes and, at the
bottom, a frayed black jewelry case. Inside was not one but two rings
- one a blue diamond, the other a white. Two rings from two lost
lovers. Agent Vaughn had given her only memories.
The woman had terrible luck.
He meticulously packed away her ransacked equipment, leaving no trace.
There was nothing on the laptop - she'd erased any information before
leaving that morning. He'd previously learned that precaution the hard
way.
After hours of brooding, staring at the colorless wallpaper and
planning his next actions, Sark cautiously entered the adjoining room.
He smirked humorlessly. They lay sleeping chastely atop the bed,
Sydney curled comfortably around Weiss. Sark remembered her in a
similar position, far less at ease, her breath sharp and sporadic
against his chest. He'd never seen Sydney so entirely relaxed, or even
remotely content. Irrational, of course, but it seemed to matter
somehow.
With a hollow laugh Sark realized his mission was complete. She was
now undeniably Sydney Bristow, vulnerable and naive and as
infuriatingly conflicted as ever. She didn't need him anymore.
He went back, alone, to the empty room across the hall. Waited, ready.
Part 10 : The Cardcastle
-
From a 30-by-50 foot cell, to a series of warehouses and street side-
apartments, to sleepless nights spent pounding through dazzling,
cement cities, the affluence of the California beachside townhouse
returned him to his tarnished glory. Appearance could make or break a
man.
It'd been nearly two years and three months since Sark had felt so
completely in control - this was his turf, his specialty. He'd been in
this all of twice, and still servants went skittering under his
glance.
He walked up the red-carpeted staircase, through gilded hallways, into
the master study. Plush rugs, mahogany desk, paintings and drawings
and photographs lining the walls in bronze and platinum frames. Yes,
very nice, bling-bling, but Sark had business to attend to.
"How's the Mercedes? I had it kept up to date. It arrived safely, I
presume?" Swiveling distractedly, staring at the scarred young protég
she'd left behind.
Two years and she'd shipped him his bloody car.
"Yes. Thank you." Nodding perfunctorily, he frowned slighty.
"Doubtless you've been keeping tabs on my recent," Sydney's words,
"escapades."
She smiled, like a rose under glass. "Oh yes. You've been making some
new friends, I hear."
"You have no objections, then?"
"To your latest employers, or my daughter? Even if I did, Julian,
would you take heed?"
Finally he shifted, released his stiff stance and sank into the
offered leather-bound armchair, facing Irina with delicacy. "Sydney
and I have reached a temporary truce, of sorts. We're working together
to reach a common goal, then we will go our separate ways."
"Except," she prompted.
"Except, Ms. Bristow has cut me loose with an extolled assassin
currently hunting for our blood."
"You want protection?" Astonishment, amusement, disbelief. Unwilling
to think her loyal bloodhound had gained sentiment and lost his spine.
Smirking wryly, he shook his head. "I want to know where Sydney is."
He used to look at Irina Derevko and see a carbon copy of Sydney
Bristow. Strong and resilient, ruthless beneath the layers of
captivating gloss. But there were subtle differences - look-alikes or
no, Sydney was her father's daughter, and not Irina's. Irina had ever
been the puppet-master, playing life like a chess match and winning
without remorse. She was different now - she was happier than she'd
been, content with watching instead of playing. She'd inadvertently
passed her legacy unto Sydney. Irina had always planned for her
daughter to inherit her blackened throne.
She sat back, contemplating this blond, blue-eyed boy parading as a
man. She found him cold and vicious, little more than an animal at
times. Lazarey, then Irina herself, had done quite a job on his
emotional mentality. They'd each broken and reshaped him to their
liking. Now he was a macabre derision of both their work spliced
together.
"You want to keep her," she pronounced.
"For a while, yes." It slipped from his mouth unbidden. This was the
woman's mother, for god's sake.
She continued swiveling in her chair, left to right, methodically
detached as she appraised him. "You can't control her, you know. Many
people have tried and failed. Myself included."
"I wouldn't dream of it," he agreed tersely, smiling.
"And what will you do when she comes after me?"
A hollow laugh escaped him, and he shook his head. "Really, Irina, I
think the question is, what will you do?"
She matched his smile, mirthless from both. "Mother knows best, Sark."
She turned completely then, the high chair back eclipsing her as she
faced the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the ocean. She said, "I
had trackers placed on your Mercedes. You found two, bravo, but there
was a third. It's been transmitting sporadically over the last few
weeks. It recently started up again just outside of Sipiwesk,
Manitoba, heading northeast. I have a facility in Gillam which houses
several Rambaldi artifacts. I don't want them anymore, of course, but
there are countless people who do." A genuine grin now. "Though one
less since the unfortunate death of Arvin Sloane."
Sark stood. Their interview was over. Their companionship, their
understanding of each other, was over. Irina was passing her power to
Sydney, and with it went Mr. Sark.
"I must warn you not to inform Jack Bristow of my dealings with your
daughter," he advised. "I doubt very much he would understand the
gravity of the suffering that led Sydney into this - well, her life of
crime, if you will.
"Jack understands revenge, Sark. Better than even you," Irina
observed.
"Perhaps," Sark said with a half-hearted shrug. "But he doesn't
understand Sydney."
"Neither do you. Neither do I. Not the valiant Agent Vaughn. Not even
Sydney. No one fully understands Bristow women, Sark."
A challenge. Finally, something to occupy his mind. A complex puzzle
to keep him guessing. Addictive.
"Goodbye, Irina."
She nodded, smiling faintly, and continued her ardent staring match
with the sea. Content. The chess match moved on.
-
From Sipiwesk to Stitt, Munk to Ilford, undeniably toward Gillam, into
the wintry land of Canada, cold and biting and alone.
Sydney knew he would find her. She'd made him work for it.
He entered the rented hotel suite, making a lack-luster sweep of the
room. No intruders, no irking little red lights hidden on the walls,
no C4 pushed carelessly under the bed. Just a neat stack of papers on
the coffee table, a series of photos paper-clipped together depicting
Sydney and a very-alive Simon, running and laughing and thieving side-
by-side. There was a zoom-lens picture of Simon holding her carelessly
in his arms in a sunny locale, chuckling madly together while he
clumsily slid a blue-diamond ring onto her finger. The last one, his
autopsy photo, with a note on the back in Ryden's erratic scrawl.
Courtesy of Jack Bristow.
Sark dropped the pictures back onto the table without concern. Scare
tactics. How prosaic.
He was turning towards the bedroom when a fist lashed out and struck
him generously across the jaw. Sark spun, teetered, and nearly fell
until a cruel, flexible wire snaked around his throat and tightened.
He stumbled back against a solid, immovable frame.
"Where is she?" A voice, rough, uncultured, masculine and American.
Familiar.
"Three seconds, Sarky. Seriously, no qualms here with killing you in
cold blood."
He couldn't breathe, could barely talk. Sark tugged momentarily at the
metal wire cutting into his skin then, irritated, he gave up. His
captor obligingly eased the garroting wire minimally for Sark to
speak.
"This is all very heroic, Agent Weiss, but what is it you want from
me?"
The slightest amount of pressure and the hair-thin metal sliced a
narrow cut along his neck. "Where the hell is Sydney Bristow? Don't
fuck with me, Sark. Despite your wholly unconvincing denial, I know
you're on her trail."
Was it something he said, or just the incriminating photos lying
casually on the coffee table?
"I assure you, Agent Weiss, she is not in my custody. I haven't seen
her since my breath-taking flight from the CIA."
With an effortless jerk, Weiss sent him slamming into the wall, the
wire pressing dangerously against Sark's windpipe. "I don't have time
for this, Sark. The first thing I learned about Sydney is that no
matter what, trouble somehow always finds her. So tell me, Blondie,
where is she?"
Fleetingly Sark considered Irina's parting words. Nobody understood
Sydney Bristow. Amazing. Irina had been wrong. This galling, awkward
bear holding Sark's life in his hands knew Sydney inside and out.
Weiss had tracked her half-way across the world and back, and he'd
instinctively gotten hold of the one man who could help him in his
search. Wouldn't, but could.
How cute.
Weary of the CIA and all their bumbling beefcakes, Sark jammed his
elbow under Weiss's ribcage and grabbed hold of his wrist, twisting. A
satisfying snap, a howl. Weiss released him. Sark seized hold of the
wire and cracked it like a whip, scoring a bloody groove across the
agent's temple. An artful kick and Weiss's feet went out from under
him. Sark calmly drew his Colt M19 and aimed it delightedly at Weiss's
chest.
He waited for him to squirm. To plead. To beg, if he were lucky. Weiss
smiled.
"Go ahead," he told Sark. "By all means, shoot me. I mean, then Syd
will have to kill your whole family, you know? Your mother, any
siblings, aunts and uncles. Grandparents. You may not give a damn, but
family's family, right?"
A light-hearted, weighty threat. Yes, killing Eric Weiss would spell
certain death for Sark. Lazarey will have gotten off lightly to what
Sydney would do to Sark. Undoing all Sark's grand plans for her,
destroying her flagging spark of humanity. Weiss didn't know that, of
course, but kudos to him, nevertheless. He displayed an admirable
"screw you" spirit with a 45. caliber bullet aimed at his lung.
Sighing in annoyance, Sark offered Weiss an assisting hand. "Come on,
then."
-
Smiling with glee she spliced the red wire with the blue. Humming a
Christmas carol, she set the explosives and closed the titanium vault.
Sauntering without a care, she passed the incapacitated guards on her
way out the front door.
Dad had always told her violence wasn't the answer.
Who asked?
There was an expected surprise waiting in the Mercedes as she made her
way down the street. Sark smirked bemusedly from behind the wheel.
"I'm keeping this car," he warned her as she slid in beside him.
"Just keep telling yourself that." Coming from experience, she snapped
on her seatbelt.
"Ryden's still coming," he told her. He held no expression, his eyes
guarded by masking black sunglasses.
"That's odd. Simon always said he had the attention span of a poodle,"
He smiled faintly, U-turning off the curbside, cutting off a
procession of motorist. "My contacts have tracked him to Dauphin. We
need to stay quiet for a while, Sydney. Lay low until he gives up and
looks elsewhere."
"Sure," Sydney agreed, pulling a dark metal remote from her jacket and
pressing the conspicuous red button.
The windshield rattled, orange flickered in the mirrors. Flaming
pillars of concrete beat down upon the street behind them. Irina's
warehouse crumbled beneath the sparking explosives Sydney had set.
Sark shot her a disbelieving, venemous look. Very inconspicuous,
blowing up warehouses and all that. He considered berating her,
yelling and swearing at her until she either burst into tears or
planted her heel in his face. He slammed on the gas pedal.
"I do so love your complete disregard for my well-founded
suggestions," he observed wryly.
She grinned openly at him.
By habit he drove in discreet circles, edging slowly toward their
eventual destination while carefully shaking off any prospective
tails. A cheap, 20-room motel. Sark gave her points for imaginative
hideouts.
"I've brought someone with me," he stated, without elaborating, and
slid a keycard into the room adjoining hers.
Shock, incredulity, then utter delight written in her eyes when she
saw. Weiss barely turned to face her before she launched herself into
his arms.
Her confusion, her relief, her desolation and comfort all sputtered
out in a strangled cry. "Eric?"
After a brief glance, Weiss ignored Sark, ignored everything but the
fragile creature clinging turbulently to him, whispering insensibly,
laughing and sobbing, unbreakable and shattered.
Sark stood in the doorway, transfixed. The woman enveloped in Weiss'
arms was nothing like the cruel coquette he'd gladly capered with over
the last few weeks. This woman was the old Sydney Bristow, frightened
and resilient, desperately in need of an anchor.
Damned if it would be Sark.
He turned, closed the door behind him and camped out in Sydney's
rented room. Ammunition and cut wires, maps and a wiped laptop
littered the room. Out of habit he searched the entire length of the
room; Giving into curiosity, he searched through her belongings.
Two metal cases and a garment bag - precious little of anything other
than firearms and tech gear. Two changes of clothes and, at the
bottom, a frayed black jewelry case. Inside was not one but two rings
- one a blue diamond, the other a white. Two rings from two lost
lovers. Agent Vaughn had given her only memories.
The woman had terrible luck.
He meticulously packed away her ransacked equipment, leaving no trace.
There was nothing on the laptop - she'd erased any information before
leaving that morning. He'd previously learned that precaution the hard
way.
After hours of brooding, staring at the colorless wallpaper and
planning his next actions, Sark cautiously entered the adjoining room.
He smirked humorlessly. They lay sleeping chastely atop the bed,
Sydney curled comfortably around Weiss. Sark remembered her in a
similar position, far less at ease, her breath sharp and sporadic
against his chest. He'd never seen Sydney so entirely relaxed, or even
remotely content. Irrational, of course, but it seemed to matter
somehow.
With a hollow laugh Sark realized his mission was complete. She was
now undeniably Sydney Bristow, vulnerable and naive and as
infuriatingly conflicted as ever. She didn't need him anymore.
He went back, alone, to the empty room across the hall. Waited, ready.