Author's Notes : All
right, cherie. We're going into the last chapters now, so I've decided to cut
out my annoying yet (usually) cheerful notes for continuity's sake. Don't want
to break up the suspense and all that.
Sooo, I want to thank, once and for
all, my lovely readers. I love y'all so much! Yes, that's right, announcements
make me talk Southern! Amusing, no? I cannot say (no matter how often I've
tried) how much your comments mean to me – this story would have stayed a
vignette without all the encouraging feedback. You guy … ah, I promised myself
I wouldn't cry… You guys have been invaluable to me while writing this fic. Thank
you all.
And of course Becca. She beta-read
this. Heck, by now it's almost as much her story as it is mine! She certainly
gets enough of me through email, so I won't go on too long here, but everybody
really has to thank her. And read her own fiction. Then review said fiction.
This is not negotiable. Go. Now.
Now.
Thanks for listening!
Cheers,
Renny
-
Part 24 : High Noon
-
It was early dusk when he approached the ageless marble steps,
walking cautiously up to the heavy, gilded wooden doors, a torrent of
memories invading his concentration. Weiss followed at an uneasy
distance, watching carefully for adversaries.
Sark paused as he
reached the doors, running his fingers across the thick bronze handle. It'd
been nearly eight months ago that he'd first come to this ancient
temple, forgotten on the outskirts of a quiet French village.
Eric grinned slightly. "Are you even allowed to enter a
church?" he taunted.
Shooting Eric a glare, Sark swung the rifle off his shoulder,
holding it to his chest. He took a step back and slammed his foot against the
doors, kicking them open with a shuddering creak.
-
With a contained burst of energy, Sydney jerked her knee upward, keeping
the other leg firmly on the ground. Finally, after endless seconds spent
holding the stolen lighter to the chainlinks, the cuffs gave way, wrenching
apart with a screech of metal.
Instantly she stilled, seated with her back against the wall
and listening. Pike's gutteral breathing filtered under the door, signifying
his unawareness.
Forcing her lacerated limbs to comply, Sydney scrambled to her feet. The
air wavered slightly from the disturbance, stifling in the torch-lit chamber.
Eyes watering from strain, she inspected the room, from floor to ceiling,
measured it, memorized it, observed every shelf and crevice, moving on borrowed
adrenaline. She needed a lock pick.
Swaying lightly, Sydney paced along the narrow room, observing the
passing artifacts with a sense of sickened fascination. Sketches and paintings,
diagrams and blueprints, half-built contraptions, objects rusted by time. At
the very end, high on the shelf, was the frayed pages of his Notebook.
She ignored it.
Reaching out, she snatched the piece Irina had placed meticulously
beside the manuscript - Rambaldi's quillpen. With purposefully irreverent
movements, Sydney snapped open the glass box and removed the useless artifact
she and Sark had sacrificed so much to capture. Crushing the feather in her
fist, Sydney spun on her heel and marched toward the door.
She was about to jam the Quill into the keyhole when the handle turned
and the door swung open, narrowly missing her body.
"Clever little thing," Pike admonished, aiming a handgun
at her forehead. "I knew I'd heard something."
-
It felt like stepping into a dream, half-conscious and distracted. The
altar, the pews, the luke-warm holy water filling the basin under the
entry archway. All untouched from memory.
The building had haunted him those four months spent in Scarborough
under the grinning watch of Ockley. Sark's gaze was drawn instantly to
the last bench in the north corner, farthest from the altar as
possible, where Sydney had waited for him that silent night when it all
began. Sark remembered with crystal clarity her expression, the shadowed
smile she'd graced him with when he'd touched her arm.
"Didn't think you'd come,"
she'd whispered, and he'd known then he'd never leave.
"So what are you going to do?"
It took Sark a moment to realize Eric had spoken. He glared at him
with a forbidding scowl, as if he'd trespassed on the memories.
"Pardon?" Sark grunted, scanning the chapel for intruders.
"When we find her. What are you going to do?" Eric insisted,
trailing Sark with his own weapon held ready.
"Kill quite a lot of people, I imagine," Sark answered
indifferently, scaling the shallow steps onto the altar.
"Take her away from this, Sark. Take her away," Eric said
wearily.
"I may not actually have a choice," Sark contradicted.
"I'm sure you'll agree I'm ill-suited to the American Dream."
A sudden strike against Sark's shoulder made him turn, facing an scowling
Eric, who held his arms ready for another shove.
"You selfish bastard," Eric snarled. "I'd give everything
to be in your place. I have
given everything, come to think of it. Syd threw away her life for you."
"I'm well aware of the debt, Agent Weiss," Sark said coldly.
"It's not that simple," Sark said calmly. "We realized from the start that neither of us could change each other. Sydney knows that."
"Oh, stop being such a goddamn coward. It's over, Ice Queen. She did it. Syd changed something in you. If you can't accept that you don't come close to deserving her."
Eric brushed past him, censoring his reply, and circled around the cloth-draped table to where the priest's throne was situated. Sark was still standing expressionless and wordless as Eric inquisitively took hold of the tapestry draping the back wall and tugged it down, fabric riping mercilessly.
"You just defiled a church," Sark pointed out mindlessly, still processing Eric's reprimand.
"Stop reeling and take a gander at the wall," Eric mocked, staring up at the ornate symbol of Rambaldi carved into the marble.
Sark complied, then grimaced, unimpressed. "Tacky. The rest of the church is tasteful, almost muted. That throws off the entire ambiance."
"Say one word about Feng Shui, and I swear to God I will hit you," Eric warned.
Sark contemplated the two doors on opposite sides of the altar. Without discussion, he made toward the right door.
Eric halted him. "Why not the left door?"
"Because we're going right," Sark answered, frowning in confusion.
"I think we should go left," Eric said.
Sark raised an eyebrow at him, patience wearing thin. "I think we should go right," he argued tritely.
Neither man moved.
Eventually, Eric stuck out his hand. "Winner picks," he said.
Sark stared incredulously. "You're like a child, Weiss," he complained.
Eric remained unaffected. Feeling absurd, Sark was forced to partake in a quick round of Rock, Paper, Scissor.
Sark selected Scissor. Eric chose rock.
"Huzzah! I smoked you, fool!" Eric sang.
Sark declined to comment.
Eric led the way left. Sark trailed morosely, muttering unintelligibly under his breath.
Immediately they became immersed in flickering torchlight, an archaic reminder that they were in enemy territory. Sark walked silently, fingers gripped tensely around the rifle's trigger, and Eric went quiet. They crept slowly down the stone-carved corridor, an endless trek through unchanging scenery.
"If this is a dead end," Sark whispered, "I'm going to inflict pain like you wouldn't believe."
The torchlight hit upon an obstruction down the hall : a door of splintered wood. It stood adjar, the presence of a figure visible just within.
-
Sydney observed the gun pointed at her, observed Pike sneering at her contemptuously. Without comment, she snuck her uninjured hand up and slammed her knuckles into his nose.
Pike reeled backwards, bringing up his gun and firing a quickly succession of shots. Sydney narrowly dodged the bullets, catching his outstretched arm and spinning sideways into him, elbow-first.
He crumpled against her, strength temporarily sapped. She used the opportunity to drive her fist into the hand he held around the 9mm., causing him to loose his grip on the handle. With practiced ease she spun the pistol into her grasp, her jagged fingers screaming, and aimed the gun blindly. She pulled the trigger, once, Pike's breath sweeping across her cheek. She felt the warmth of the bullet as it passed by into his forehead.
Looking perplexed, Pike's eyes faded closed and he tumbled to the floor.
"Thanks for opening the door. You're such a gentleman," Sydney muttered, idly snapping the Quill in two. She stepped over Pike's stilled body and through the opened doorway.-
After exchanging a glance, Sark wordlessly waved Eric into position, aiming the T-16 rifle at the half-opened door. Taking a deep breath, Eric crossed the remaining distance and shoved against the wooden door, flinging it wide.
"Freeze! CIA!" Eric shouted.
Sark snorted in derision, shooting Eric a scathing look.
The room, like the hallway outside, was dark and granite-walled, sparsely furnished only by a padded operating table, two stools and a metal instrument tray positioned beside the table.
Ockley turned slowly, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. "I wondered when you would come," he said, smiling wistfully.
Sark didn't speak, staring through the rifle's sighter at the doctor.
"Where's Sydney Bristow?" Eric demanded, circling the room to flank Ockley.
"She's with her mother. She should return soon," Ockley replied calmly.
"Where?" Eric gritted.
Ockley sighed, theatrical and patronizing. "The artifact chamber. Last room in the right corridor, behind the rectories. Can't miss it."
Sark let out a hissing noise through his teeth.
"Don't say 'I told you so'," Eric warned.
"Consider it said," Sark snapped.
Ockley began carefully sidling sideways, trapped between Sark and Eric, making his way painstakingly toward the tray of torture instruments. "Sydney spoke of you," he told Sark. "When she blacked out as I cut into her, she would whisper 'Julian', over and over again. Much has changed, I believe," he whispered, "since last I saw her. Back then she would scream for her father, or Michael Vaughn. She never cried." He grinned. "Not once."
Smiling bizarrely, Sark nodded, slinging the rifle over his shoulder and pacing leisurely over to Ockley. Face to face, Sark clapped a hand over Ockley's shoulder. The doctor had enough sense to realize his life was all but over.
"No, I expect she didn't cry," he said, "But let's see about you."
Ockley immediately went scrabbling for a weapon, upsetting the perfectly-aligned tray of intruments nearby. In response Sark seized him by the collar and smashed his face into the tray, clamps bruising and scalpels slicing. Without pause Sark hauled him back again, shoving him brutally down onto the table. Ockley struggled desperately, howling and swiping at his wounded face as Sark took hold of the leather straps built into the table and latched his ankles down.
"Sark, we don't have time for this!" Eric yelled uneasily.
"No," Sark growled, as he forced Ockley's arms down and chained him in place. "For this, we do."
Sark ignored him and Eric watched, paralyzed with revulsion, as Ockley bellowed in terror, pulling at his bindings. Sark half-turned, glancing at the unsettled tray set within easy reach. He snatched the red-stained rag tossed carelessly to the side, brandishing it angrily. "Sydney's blood?" he asked savagely, wrenching open Ockley's jaw to gag him with the despicable strip of cloth.
Next, Sark selected a short-bladed craft knife, testing the sharpness on his fingertip with businesslike care. Ockley groaned fretfully through the rag that was choking him.
Eric attempted to interject reason. "Sark, wait, you can't -"
Sark didn't bother listening. He pressed the knife just below Ockley's ribs and sunk the blade deep. Eric turned away, sickened. He inspected the wall with queasy fervency, unable to drown out the grotesque noises filling the room.
"Shall we?" Sark said briskly, stepping away from the body strapped to the operating table. He wiped his dripping hands off on Ockley's labcoat, leaving rust-colored handprints on the white cotton.
"That was sick, Sark. That was... wrong," Eric said quietly as they trooped back down the corridor.
Sark glanced at Eric in irritation. "You weren't there, in that little white room in Scarborough. You don't know what he did to Sydney. What he did to us both," he snarled. "Save your indignation, Agent Weiss. Had I the time, I would have kept him alive for days."
He brushed past Eric, leading the way back toward the chapel.
-
He saw her instantly, eyes drawn instinctively to her as he stepped through the narrow doorway. She knelt on the steps, staring unblinking at the symbol carved on the wall that Sark had found so tawdry. She was aware of their presence immediately - after years spent under her tutelage, Sark still knew her movements, her tells, regardless of his attempts to forget.
"She is unharmed, for the most part," Irina called out, unmoving from her position of tainted worship. "I would not see my own child killed, despite what you think of me, Sark."
"One could forgive the impression, I dare say," Sark responded slowly. "If Jack's fate is anything to judge by."
At length Irina drew her gaze away from Rambaldi's symbol, observing the two men standing, menacing, from across the altar. Sark's expression remained dangerously impassive; Eric conveyed his raging contempt for her with a rather simplistic hand gesture.
"Sydney drew something to my attention a moment ago," Irina said lightly, rising regally to her feet. "It seems I confused some details of Rambaldi's text. The Choice," Her voice rang hollow through the rafters. "I considered the possibility years ago, when Sydney was still at SD-6. When I first realized you were to be Sydney's lover, it occured to me that you might be the one who could change her destiny. It wasn't ignorance on my part, Sark. It was worse. It was affection, for both you and Sydney. Had I accepted the truth then, it would be you beneath the ground, not Jack. I convinced myself it was Agent Weiss that Rambaldi spoke of. I convinced myself it was -"
"Good lord, you old crone. Don't you ever shut up?" Eric burst, exasperated.
Irina stopped short, examining Eric closely as if for the first time.
"I mean, really, woman!" Eric barked. "There are thousands of different ways Rambaldi's secret diary can be translated! What makes you so damn certain that you're right? You kill Jack, you kill Sark, it doesn't matter, because if you push Sydney too far, she won't submit. She won't become invincible. She'll break. Stop trying to remake your daughter in your own image and concentrate on writing sympathy cards!"
Irina didn't flinch, didn't bat an eye. Sark stood by guardedly, listening to the scene playing out before him.
"I thought it was you," Irina answered carefully. "When Sydney was ready to give up, when you persuaded her to run away with you. I was wrong, wasn't I? She never would have left. I killed my husband for nothing."
"Bingo! Tell the lucky lady what she's won!" Eric taunted.
Suddenly, Sark began moving. Disregarding them both, moving swiftly across the altar, passing within inches of Irina. He made his way straight for the opposite door. He'd grown weary of their bickering; He was going to find his girl.
Irina fixed her gaze on his retreating back, coldly calculating. Her hand flew to her hip.
"Sark! Get down!" Eric yelled, launching clumsily through the air. He caught Sark around the waist, an awkward flying tackle. Rapid gunshots bit into stone and wood as they hit the floor, hard, caught between the row of pews and the wall. Irina emptied the Beretta, shooting wildly, her normally deadly aim erratic as she ran to the door on the right. Sark was just disentangling himself from beneath Eric as Irina slammed the door behind her.
"She's going after Sydney!" he cried hoarsely, clambering to his feet.
Eric hastily lifted himself off the ground, following Sark as the assassin bolted for the door. Eric got three steps before his legs buckled and he fell to his knees.
Sark grunted impatiently, doubling back to grab his arm. Eric swatted him away, pressing a hand to his stomach. "My... back - aghhh," he hissed.
It took a moment for Sark to see it, glistening in the low light against Eric's all-black clothing. Blood, staining his jacket, sticky and sweet, seeping from Eric's chest. Cautiously Sark circled around, crouching behind him.
A bullet had passed straight through Eric, grazing his spine and exiting through his ribcage.
At a loss, Sark applied pressure with his hand to the entry wound. Eric shivered, a spasming shudder that repeated itself rapidly, and soon he began to shake incontrolably, against his will, going into shock.
Sark didn't say a word. All his knowledge, all his tricks, were useless against this type of wound. He was far better at inflicting than repairing.
Unable to contain it, a helpless wail escaped Eric's throat. Pain, vast and fierce, spread throughout his entire body. He sagged against Sark, kicking his legs weakly.
"Try to stay conscious," Sark offered, completely out of his depth in such a situation.
"Tell Syd..." Eric mumbled, blinking rapidly. Blood spilled from his mouth as he spoke. "Tell Syd..." He let out a voiceless moan. "...tell Syd..."
He didn't get the chance to finish. He gave a sudden jerk, and died drowning on the blood filling his lungs.
Sark reared back as his full weight fell against him, attempting to process the latest events. Irina had tried to kill him. Eric had tackled him. Eric was dead. Irina was running after Sydney.
Sark jumped to his feet, snatching Eric's M-16 off the floor. "I'll tell her," he said forcefully, looking down on Eric's pitiful body.
Death had never affected Sark before, never meant anything but a job well done. Eric had been murdered, taken the bullet for Sark. Sark had no illusions to the reason - Eric had acted on instinct, a senseless death. But not meaningless. He had only come to this place because of Sydney.
Sark turned away and dashed after Irina.