-Author's Note. Of course, thank you to everyone who reviewed. You keep me motivated!
Not much else to say, except WARNING. This next chapter contains from really graphic violence. I know nobody really pays attention to ratings (well, I don't anyway) but I actually mean it this time. It gets pretty gross. So, beware, my duckies. If you're squeamish (not a bad thing – I am, too) or if you just ate a filling meal, turn back now. Mm-'kay?
Thanks for listening, and for reviewing. Nothing but love for you, ai'te? (This is what happens when a geek tries to use slang. They spell it phonetically. Oh, the horror!)
Cheers,
Ren
Part 22 : The Rainbow Connection
-
Eric observed the pistol aimed at his neck without blinking. After a taking a moment to briefly consider his options, he took a step back and fully pushed open the front door. Sark watched him with unflinching steadiness.
"Come in," Eric said, unconcerned, inviting the devil into his home, and turned his back on Sark. He walked evenly down the hall, trusting Sark to follow.
He had just entered the living room when Sark caught him. With unrestrained violence the shorter man grabbed hold of Eric, spinning him around so that they were face to face. Eric moved to shrug him away. Sark seized him by the collar, lifting him off his feet and slamming him against the wall. Immediately Eric felt the hollow steel of the Glock against his temple.
"Where did they take her?" Sark hissed, letting Eric slide to his feet while holding his forearm across Eric's throat.
"Kill me," Eric grunted, "and I won't be able to ask what the hell you're talking about."
"They were waiting!" he barked, "Sydney followed your advice and they were there waiting! So don't fucking tell me," His hand shook, fingers curling dangerously against the trigger, "that you had nothing to bloody do with it!"
"Where's Sydney?" Eric demanded, jerking his face away from the gun barrel.
"Gone!" Sark howled. "We blasted through Ockley's office and they took her!"
The transformation Sark had undergone was almost frightening, perhaps heightened by the trivial fact that he brandished a 9mm. at Eric's head. Any vestige of the perpetual void of emotion Sark was renowned for was shattered. His jaw was clenched, breathing fiercely through his nose, dark sunglasses shielding narrowed, maddened eyes.
"It wasn't me," Eric croaked. "Whoever got her, Sark, it wasn't me."
"Her cell is untraceable. Tell me what alternate conclusions you can draw," Sark hissed, slowly regaining some semblance of restraint. He wanted to be calm when he killed Sydney's betrayer.
"We had escaped into the sewer system," Sark continued angrily, "We had to find an exit far away that was as secluded as possible. Sydney called you. Sydney trusted you. And you led her into a trap."
"I love her," Eric contradicted, seeing his own stunned expression reflected off Sark's sunglasses. "I love her, Sark. Maybe half as much as you do. It wasn't me."
Sark didn't answer, staring at him with contempt. "She's mine," he said. "Do you understand? They took her from me."
With a shove he released Eric.
"She saved me. Again," he spat. "She sacrificed herself so that I could get away."
"It wasn't me," Eric repeated adamantly.
"Then who?" Sark snapped, again leveling the gun at him, more out of desperation than conviction.
"If I knew," Eric responded brutally, "don't you think there'd be a corpse hidden in the trunk of my car?'
Letting out a growl through his teeth, Sark threw away the Glock. It clattered to the carpet and Eric immediately kicked it away. Sark turned in a circle, raking a hand through his short blonde hair. This, Eric realized, was Sark's every fear confirmed.
He didn't know how to handle being in love.
In blind agitation Sark dropped onto the couch, taking slow, ineffective breaths. Eric stood by, watching warily.
"I was losing her. Long before Ockley ever got to her," Sark observed aloud.
Feeling the heavy absurdity of the situation – a known enemy of the United States was having a meltdown in his living room – Eric crouched tensely opposite Sark. He didn't bother questioning, simply listening closely.
"She was… distant, sometimes. Like she was scared of me." Almost unaware of Agent Weiss' presence, Sark frowned. "Though really, I can see why. There was that whole episode with the acid way back. I suppose that may have given her the wrong impression of me."
"Sark," Eric called.
"And did I almost harpoon her with a latajang," Sark added to himself.
"Sark," Eric grated.
"Or the time I shot the ice out from under her in Siberia. I was kind of a bastard about that."
"Sark," Eric reiterated, finally catching his attention. "She is scared of you."
Sark's head jerked up, his gaze focusing on Eric with an expression of demanding confusion.
"Sydney is terrified of loving anybody else. I mean, really, Sark - genius IQ, my ass. Don't you get it?" he sighed. "Every man she's ever loved has either died or betrayed her. Usually both. The only difference with you is that you were always upfront about it."
"We were adversaries back then. Since our partnership I've never betrayed her trust," Sark interrupted. "Never."
"What do you expect, Sark?" Eric yelled. "She's been hurt. Badly. Why in the hell would you expect her to let you in when you yourself treat her like a fucking possession?"
Sark opened his mouth, instantly ready to rebuke him, but Eric cut him off. "'She's mine.' 'Keep your hands off my girl.' Jesus Christ, Sark, how can you blame her for being afraid when you're petrified of admitting you love her?"
"But I do," Sark stated. "And she knows that. We've always accepted that we can't change each other. I've been extremely upfront about the fact that I'm a heartless son of a bitch."
"She chose you, Sark. Not me, not Vaughn, you. Did you ever think that maybe it's your -" He halted abruptly, eyes widening as he stared at Sark in comprehension. "Maybe it's your choice," he murmured.
Eric reeled backwards, as if creating a greater distance between himself and the lovelorn assassin seated before him could somehow negate the realization he had come to.
"It's you. Oh, God, Syd knew all along," Eric groaned, raking his nails along his scalp. "Back in L.A., she told me she 'didn't have a choice', remember? She was talking about you!"
"Please, take your time explaining. It's not as if Sydney's in mortal danger as we speak," Sark said harshly.
"The prophesy. Rambaldi's fairytale. Irina killed Jack so that I wouldn't get Syd out of this, right, but it wasn't about that! It was never - damnit, don't you see? I have nothing to do with this! Rambaldi wasn't talking about me when he said somebody could make a choice, make a difference in Sydney's destiny. After Jack was murdered, when she went off with you, it wasn't about vengeance," Eric said desperately, "It wasn't that at all. Jack wouldn't have wanted her to throw away a normal life just to avenge his death. He loved Syd too much. He loved Irina too much. For Syd, it was never about revenge. It was about you."
"Clarify your point any slower and I will force-feed you three milligrams of C4," Sark noted in a low monotone.
"It's your choice, Sark. You're everybody's favorite criminal handyman, don't tell me you can't hide your tracks. The two best operatives on the board and you honestly expect me to believe you can't make it happen? You can't place a few phone calls and then settle down under assumed names on the coast of Australia? Bullshit, Sark," he snarled, "Sydney said it herself. Getting revenge against everyone who ever burned her would require nothing short of genocide. You really think she'd pass up her ticket out of this game just to put a bullet between her own mother's eyes? No. She stayed because of you."
Sark failed to reply, watching Eric without blinking, without breathing.
"You know, I wanted it to be me. I really did," Eric lamented, "I wanted to somehow figure into her life. To somehow be a part of all this." He grinned wryly. "That's a helluva part to be wrong about, though, isn't it? Irina killed Jack for no reason. Not really. Yeah, Syd might have gone to Maui with me, might have gotten a tan, might have bitched about the impracticality of drinking out of coconuts. She might just have been happy for a while. But she would've gone back. She was already in love with you, even then."
"Why didn't she tell me?" Sark whispered.
"Because it's your decision, Blondie. Do you really think you can do the whole Picket Fence scene? 'Cause I gotta say, redemption don't look too likely for you at this point."
"I could have stopped this. Before any of it started," Sark realized, leaning back stiffly.
"Well, not really. I mean, had you known all along, would you have done anything differently? Today, maybe, you'd consider dropping your career in favor of a Happily Ever After with your lady love, but a year ago? A year ago you were getting your head fried by a Brain Specialist Gone Wild."
Sark shrugged, processing the discussion carefully. Belatedly he became aware of his surroundings, observing the room from his perspective on the couch. Eric stood in front of him, arms crossed, his expression strained after the lengthy character analysis of Syd's lover-boy.
"This is rather odd," Sark announced, discomfited.
Releasing a constricted laugh, Eric fell wearily onto the other end of the couch. "I sympathize with Barnett, actually. I'm beginning to learn superspies have a lot of issues."
Sark smiled in chagrined agreement, absently removing his sunglasses from his face. "I have to find her. Tell her... things. I have to rescue her before I can save her." He dropped his head against the couch, and Eric noticed for the first time the majestic bruise sprawling across his pale cheekbone.
"We will," Eric assured. "I picked up quite a few contacts during my first search for Syd, back when everybody thought she was dead. We'll inevitably find some trace of them." He frowned, getting slightly off track - "Is it just me, or does this chick have a habit of disappearing?"
"I've already assigned Medici agents to tracking her," Sark argued. "There's nothing to find. The only lead I had was you. The only possible lead was you. Somebody must have heard you direct her to the exit. The Covenant must have someone inside the CIA."
"We'll find her, Sark. Have a little faith," Eric grunted, himself out of his mind with fright.
"Faith is what led Irina to murder Jack Bristow," Sark said coldly.
"I'll call in sick. I'll use any and all resources. I mean, hell, I have that 300 million dollars Syd dumped in my bank account just waiting to be spent." Sark shot him an annoyed glance. "And Mike will want to help out, too. He was there when she called, he heard it all. He still loves her, Sark. Besides, he'll want to prove himself again, you know, after that whole Allison incident." Eric rose and began pacing, unconscious to the stare Sark fixed upon him reminiscent of the bug-eyed expression Eric had worn moments before during his sudden epiphany.
"Michael Vaughn was there?" Sark inquired softly.
"He was listening in while we talked. I didn't really tell him anything, but he knows something's up." Eric continued walking in irregular circles along the carpet. The room, the entire house, was sparsely furnished - dark woods and thick fabrics, simple and elegant and unmistakably evocative of Sydney.
"Was he there the whole time? In front of you? Was he ever out of your sight?" demanded Sark urgently, leaning forward.
"Yeah, of course - no. I turned my back to him for a minute. Just a second to talk to Syd. When I turned back he was -" Eric frowned, incredulous. "He was doing something to the computer. Said he was deleting the cache."
"Callaghan. Oh, bloody hell. The bastard double-bluffed me," Sark exclaimed grimly.
"Remember your crack about the C4? Ditto," Eric sniped.
"That little angst-whore Michael Vaughn. When he was captured in Taipei, I was in charge of torturing him at first. I passed him off to Khasinau to start planning Irina's extraction from the CIA. I gave him to Khasinau. Irina's old lackey," Sark explained restlessly. Eric continued his impression of a disoriented guppy. "As in, pawn in Irina's grand scheme," Sark added.
Eric was experiencing trouble speaking.
"Pay attention now," Sark chided. "During Sydney's confinement within the Covenant, Ockley, in an attempt to break through her mental defenses, told her Michael Vaughn was a sleeper agent for the Covenant. After her escape, she had Simon Walker use his contacts to verify the information. He confirmed the fact. Sydney then returned to L.A. under the guise of amnesia. Understand?"
"Flash cards might help," Eric sneered.
"Yes, well. After my own therapeutic stay with the Covenant, Joshua Callaghan granted me access to the Covenant mainframe just before I killed him. I used that to check for myself if the information regarding Agent Doormat was correct. Suffice to say, it was less than conclusive, forcing me to draw the conclusion that it was a false document. Also, the timeframe Sydney provided as to when Vaughn's conditioning would have taken place was during the two-month span where I myself had Mr. Vaughn under custody, which I say with some confidence that no brainwashing took place," Sark clarified.
"Could you maybe say it in a more pretentious manner?" Eric disparaged sarcastically, seemingly attempting to pace a rut in the carpet.
"I failed to take into account the fact that on the second month of Agent Vaughn's incarceration I passed over watchdog duties to Khasinau, who in all likelihood was in on Irina's ultimate strategy. It is entirely possible that Khasinau in turn passed over Vaughn to Ockley without my knowledge."
"So what are you saying, Sark? My best friend since college has been brainwashed into being an agent for an evil shadow organization?"
"Yes, exactly. Sort of like Sydney, but without the heroic turning of the tables. Or the magnificent body."
Eric halted, his head pounding. "What about Lauren?" he asked.
"An innocent. Someone connected with NSC. Purely a mark to keep Vaughn's cover," Sark said shortly, reaching under the couch.
"But this is all just conjecture," Eric argued fiercely. "There's no proof that he's Covenant. No proof that he betrayed Sydney."
Sark straightened, having retrieved the fallen Glock from beneath the couch. He jacked the safety back and slid the chamber into place. "No. But I intend to find out," he answered.
-
Sydney willed her eyes to open, willed her mouth to scream, yet nothing. Every nerve ending was alive, sensitive to the gentle fingers combing her hair, and yet she was powerless to move, to see, to speak. Darkness engulfed her and she smelled the harsh scent of antiseptic steel.
"Give it a minute," cautioned a lifeless Russian voice. "The narcotics haven't worn off yet. She can probably hear you, though."
There was no answer. The gentle hands running through Sydney's hair continued, breath against her face telling her someone was hovering just above.
"Open your eyes, sweetheart," said a second voice, this one closer. Sydney instantly recognized it.
Against the instinct to hide, Sydney forced her body to comply, wrenching open her eyelids to stare Irina in the face.
Sydney met her gaze, glaring. "I wouldn't stick a knife in his chest just because some long-dead Nostradamus-wannabe told me to, if that's what you mean," she rasped.
Irina smiled, almost painfully, fingering a lock of her hair patiently. "I loved my husband, Sydney. As much as you love your Mr. Sark. Don't ever doubt that."
Sydney could hear the second person, out of sight, working silently, metal clinking against metal. Irina leaned in closer, breathing into her ear.
"The one constant thing in Jack's life was his love for you, Sydney. You must know that. Yes, I murdered him. But I did so to set you free."
Sydney was in danger, fierce and immediate. She laughed loud and long.
Disappointed, Irina moved back, taking hold of Sydney's hand. Carrying a tray, Ockley appeared beside the operating table. Without comment he selected a scalpel and smiled down at Sydney.
"Nothing that will scar," Irina warned.
Sickened, Sydney remained immobile as Ockley put the blade against her upper arm and made a shallow incision from wrist to elbow. She ground her teeth together and made her muscles relax. She'd learned the trick two years ago.
"You used to do that across, not lengthwise," Sydney said, watching Ockley without expression. "Isn't that what you used to tell me? Shorter cuts heal faster, but hurt just as much."
Ockley wiped the scalpel off with a white rag, delighted. "You remember! Good."
He turned her arm to cut along the inside of her elbow. She barely flinched.
"So brave," Irina remarked. "You like the pain?"
"I'm used to it," Sydney grunted.
For hours Ockley worked, until her skin was criss-crossed with dripping gashes and the handtowel Ockley held was stained completely red. Ockley had gathered some new instruments since they'd last met; long, scratching knifes and short, spiked clamps, scissors and tweezers and peroxide to agitate the wounds. Always, Irina sat by, her fingers sticky with blood as she petted Sydney's hands. Always, Ockley cleaned each cut to prohibit scarring.
"Where are we?" Sydney asked finally, late into the night, soon after Irina placed an IV in her veins when she'd lost too much blood.
"Ah. The patient speaks," Ockley laughed, bent over her leg as he drew dizzying patterns in her skin.
Without answering, Irina brushed damp hair from Sydney's forehead. "Does it hurt, Sydney?" she murmured.
"What do you want?" Sydney lashed, jerking as best she could away from her mother's touch.
"I want you to hate me," she responded simply. "I want you to succeed where I failed. You know this, my love. Does it hurt?"
The word escaped her lips unbidden. "Yes."
There were tears in her eyes as Irina nodded faintly, swiping by habit at Sydney's hair. "When you were little, I would sing to you. Remember?"
Sydney felt a wave of anguish, despair, disbelief deep in her gut.
"When you were little and you would fall down, scrape your knees or hit your head or bruise your palms on the tree bark. Remember?"
Ockley moved back to Sydney's arms, checking his damage, taping closed the deeper cuts, reopening the smaller ones. He glanced at Irina in question. "Fingernails?"
At Sydney's left, Irina squeezed her daughter's fingers. "You can have one hand. Leave her trigger finger."
Bile rose up Sydney's throat at their words, staring at Irina with wild panic. "No - Mom, please, don't -"
A small kindness, Ockley placed a strip of leather between her teeth to keep her from swallowing her tongue, pulling up a chair and taking up scalpel and pliers. He tightened the bindings at Sydney's wrist.
He started with her thumbnail, cutting away the tough skin embedding the nail. Irina steadily combed her hair, drew close, and quietly sang to her.
"Why are there so many songs about rainbows
and what's on the other side?"
Ockley slowly slid the blade beneath the nail, skin tearing and blood oozing. Futile, Sydney kicked against her bindings in blind agony.
"Rainbows are visions, but only illusions,
and rainbows have nothing to hide."
Taking the jagged nail between the pliers, Ockley pulled, gently, moving it side to side as it slowly tore free from her finger. Sydney bit down into the leather strip in a soundless shriek, writhing, helpless.
"So we've been told and some chose to believe it.
I know they're wrong, wait and see."
One gone, Sydney's fingertip bloody and serrated. Four to go. Irina sang to her.
"Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection.
The lovers, the dreamers and me."