Part 25 : Ink Stains
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Irina sprinted down the corridor, jumping over Pike's body without a second glance. "Sydney?" she called out, scanning the chamber feverishly as she drew a fresh clip from her jacket and locked it into her Beretta.
Before her, glittering in the dim firelight, Rambaldi's artifacts sat untouched along the narrow shelves. Irina stood in the open doorway, looking into the empty room.
Hidden behind the door, Sydney slammed her knee against the wood. It swung out, banging ruthlessly into Irina, and sending her sprawling.
Reflexively Irina drew up her Beretta parallel to the Glock Sydney aimed calmly at her throat.
"Hey, Mom," Sydney said tonelessly.
A stand-off.
"You got free," Irina observed extraneously. "Good."
Sydney didn't waver, holding Irina's gaze with violent intensity. "You're trapped," she whispered.
"Don't underestimate me, Sydney."
"And don't patronize me, Mom. You won't kill me and I can't afford to kill you. We're both trapped," Sydney spat.
Irina smiled. "Consider you're position, Sydney. I always intended to lose my life by your hand. You, however, have always refused to accept the terms. It was a clever plan, I'll admit. Build your own organization to battle mine, then use the Medici as a shield from my allies once I'm dead. Correct me if I'm wrong, but it has Sark written all over it."
"So now what?" Sydney asked, aiming the Glock steady.
Irina didn't answer, watching her daughter almost proudly, nervous and sorrowful.
This was ultimately pointless. Irina had previously believed Eric was responsible for the conclusive Choice, the option of taking Sydney away or locking her in the game forever. Irina now knew, as Sydney had all along, that the Choice in fact belonged to Sark. Sark was also now in the know, but Sydney wasn't aware of the fact. Sydney was also clueless to the minor detail that Irina had just murdered Eric and that Sark was now charging toward them with one hell of a vendetta to be settled with Irina.
A knowledgeable family, those Bristows.
With a sudden movement, Sydney cast the Glock away, tossing it to the floor without a glance. Grinning wryly, Irina followed suit.
"Julian will find me. You know that, don't you?" Sydney said quietly.
Well aware that he was in reality just down the hall, Irina nodded. "But who's to say he'll even accept it? What makes you certain he'd choose you over everything he's ever known?"
"I'm not certain. I can't be. All I know is that I love him, more than you could ever understand. I won't ask him to make the choice, Mom. If I have to, I will kill you. I will spend my life running, hiding in the shadows until I become one myself." Tears clouded her eyes, unshed and defiant. "If he asks me to, I'll stay. But I won't ask him to go with me."
"He won't choose you, Sydney. Don't fool yourself. He's like a son to me. I made him into what he is, what you love. I know him better than even you," Irina cautioned.
"Maybe. But, seriously, Mom, quit saying he's like your son. 'Cause, y'know - I'm your daughter, here. Makes what we do at night sound really gross, if you know what I mean," Sydney cut in, cavalier.
"Don't you understand? Don't you see? Years of planning, the torture, the brainwashing, the murder, all of it was for you! Are you going to render Jack's death pointless for a life of monotony? Sark isn't your dream man, Sydney, he will betray you, as he betrays everyone else! He's a monster, Sydney, and you cannot change him!"
"That's good," Sydney replied vaguely. "Because, honestly, I kind of like him the way he is now."
Careless, Irina didn't see it coming until Sydney's wounded hand struck her viciously across the face. As Irina reeled backwards, Sydney continued with a round-house kick that sent her crashing into the wall.
"I know I can't kill you yet," Sydney said conversationally, grabbing her mother by the collar and pulling her up, "but I can sure as hell make you wish I would."
Irina retaliated with a backhand punch, snapping Sydney's head back as blood erupted from her nose. Sydney shoved her back into the wall, Irina's forehead cracking against the stone.
"How's it feel?" Sydney barked, falling into a boxer's stance and slamming her fist into Irina's ear. "How's it feel, Mom, to be so completely wrong about everything you believed?"
Irina swung around, kicking low to sweep Sydney's legs from beneath her. She fell onto the floor, wincing. Without missing a beat, Sydney shot her feet up and out, catching Irina in the stomach and sending her flying backwards.
Sydney scrambled up, sidestepping a swipe from Irina and striking with a fierce left hook. Irina went down, then up again, resilient as her daughter followed up with a blistering axe-kick to the face. Irina responded by latching onto Sydney's ankle and jerking sideways, throwing her into the wall. Sydney pushed herself upright and pounded her heel against Irina's shoulder.
"How's it feel to know you murdered your husband for nothing?" Sydney hissed, catching a glancing blow to the chin from Irina's fist. "How's it feel to know you've failed? To know you've ruined everything you've ever touched with your hate, your vengeance, your petty little plans?" She darted forward, hammering her elbow into Irina's collarbone. "How's it feel to know," she gritted breathlessly, "that Rambaldi got it wrong?"
"No," Irina snapped, twisting Sydney's arm up to drive triple kicks to her ribcage.
"Yeah, Irina. Rambaldi was wrong." Sydney spun sideways, clipping Irina across the face with her mutilated hand. "Of course Julian isn't my dream man. Of course he isn't everything I've ever wanted. But he's all I need. He's never betrayed me, never will. And Dad's death? It's always been pointless."
Smoothly, without thinking, Irina withdrew the switchblade hidden in her sleeve. Sydney dodged immediately, left, right, down, out – the blade sliced through her bare arm, blending seamlessly with the semi-scabbed lacerations Ockley had inflicted hours before. Irina swung without discipline, without rationalization beyond the fact that Sydney was poised to destroy all Irina's sadistic hopes for her daughter. Sydney recoiled from the knife, backing away cautiously.
"Sydney!"
A voice from the doorway, frantic. British, Sydney thought, but then absurdly corrected it to Welsh. Sark stood in the doorway, tripping over Pike's body, and Sydney would have called a warning had the shock of his appearance and the necessity of avoiding Irina's switchblade not gotten in her way.
At the noise, Irina spun. Some semblance of control seemed to wash over her at the sight of Sark, decisiveness and calculation returning to her eyes.
"Julian!" Sydney screeched, and he brought up his M-16. He began to pull the trigger as Irina's wrist flicked up and out.
With a hiss the switchblade shot through the air, Irina's aim low and frenzied. This was the solution, the end to the puzzle - the knife buried itself in Sark's chest. He jerked backwards, slamming harshly into the wall with the force of the throw. He blinked once and slid to the floor.
Both survivors watched him slump sideways, blood issuing freely onto the floor. Both heard the indistinct groan that escaped his throat before silence fell, feeling it like a direct, crippling blow to the heart.
Sydney took a step back, then two. Halting, blind steps, away from Irina and away from the beautiful ghost laying on the ground.
"How did he... when was... why..." she mumbled, eyes dry.
Irina crouched, gathering up Pike's Glock. She gripped it by the barrel, holding it out for Sydney. "I'm guessing he uncovered Michael Vaughn's true loyalty. Your faithful Agent Weiss is somewhere in the main chamber, I assume. I doubt he got far after I left them."
Sydney wanted to run to Sark's side, to slap him awake, to scream and cry and kiss him until he opened his eyes and told her he wasn't dead. She couldn't bring herself to even look at his body. She observed the gun Irina was offering, urging her to accept the inevitable and place a bullet in her mother's skull. Irina, too, she ignored. She took another step backwards.
Irina smiled tightly. "You forced my hand, Sydney. You forced me to eliminate everyone you love, you know you did. This is as much your fault as it is mine."
Another step, toe-heel as she slowly fled to the opposite wall. Sydney couldn't feel, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but display a vague front of defiance. Dad, Vaughn, Simon, Eric, Julian, she recited voicelessly. All gone because of me.
"There isn't a way out, Sydney. There is only survival. And a parent," Irina said, "will always put the life of their child before their own. Do it, Sydney. Rambaldi chose you - accept it!"
Jack, Vaughn, Simon, Eric, Julian. All of them gone because of Irina. Another step back.
"He chose you. You can't escape. You know this, Sydney," Irina insisted.
Sydney's eyes flickered over to the shelves, lined with the antique artifacts Rambaldi had created with such ardent care. Irina advanced resolutely, still waving the Glock of Sydney to take.
Jack, Vaughn, Simon, Eric, Julian. All of them gone because of Rambaldi.
Mechanically, Sydney reached out, her hand brushing against the music box placed on the shelf. With casual indifference she threw it to the ground, aged metal splintering as it met concrete.
Irina stopped short, transfixed, horrified. "No, Sydney, don't -"
His contraptions, his machines, his trinkets, all swept onto the ground, glass smashed by Sydney's uncaring fist, sketches torn in half by shaking fingers. Sydney held out her arm and walked in reverse, scattering the artifacts, sending them crashing onto the ground, breaking most and relishing it.
Irina remained rooted to the spot, watching the pieces she'd spent her life collecting clatter brutally to the floor.
"Solved your problems, Mom?" Sydney asked, her voice lifeless and jarring. "Your solution to the puzzle? Spill as much blood as it takes for me to kill you?"
"Sydney..." Irina warned, gripping the barrel of the Glock until her knuckles went white.
"How do you justify taking everything from me just so that I'll follow in your footsteps? How do you dare fall asleep at night? How do you…" Her voice trailed away, breathless with disbelief, carefully locking off the realizations reaching her mind. Process, compartmentalize, act.
Sydney reached out and lifted the Notebook off the shelf. Irina froze, all threats dying on her lips as Sydney casually flipped open the cover and scanned the pages.
"Faith… It's a tricky thing, isn't it?" she observed, watching Irina from the corner of her eyes as she read the meaningless line of text that meant everything to her mother. "It's so enigmatic, and it contradicts itself constantly. It demands respect when it gives none in return. It relies on unerring belief to conquer all skepticism, disdaining of anything less than fanatic worship. In the eyes of the holy, there's no in-between, no common ground. Nothing in the world is as ruthless as faith."
"Perhaps. But once you have it, there's no turning back," Irina answered, staring at the book in Sydney's hand.
"Yeah," Sydney said. She extracted Ockley's lighter from her pocket. "That's really gotta suck for you."
She flicked on the flame, orange and angry, and held it to the frayed edges of the pages.
It burned with alarming ferocity; Flame traveled speedily across the dry paper, devouring words and sketches and diagrams, ashes crumbling in Sydney's fingers as she released her hold on the manuscript, letting it waft to the floor, embers in its wake.
Irina let out a howl, ragged and indistinct, and lunged forward. Sydney jumped back, but Irina ignored her, swiping at the flames as it demolished Rambaldi's greatest achievement.
It was a hopeless effort. The flames grew and consumed, biting as Irina's hands until she was forced to draw back.
Sydney smirked in agonized triumph. "Hurts, doesn't it?" she mocked.
Irina launched forward, catching Sydney around the waist and throwing her into the wall. Sydney readily jammed her knee under Irina's jaw.
From there-on out it was a brutal give-and-take, blow after blow exchanged as the two danced across the room - blood, bruises, and broken bones. Her youth and general screw-you attitude toward this particular fight would have normally left Sydney indisputably the victor. Normally, though, she wouldn't be coming off 28 hours of repetitive torture.
Irina caught her once more against the wall, using her forearm across Sydney's throat as an anchor, and proceeded to punch her daughter silly. The destruction of Rambaldi's masterpiece had sent Irina over the edge; She no longer strove for dignity, for respect, for absolute control. She thought only of disciplining her savagely errant child.
Sydney fought for relief as Irina's fist pounded repeatedly into her already-damaged face, bruises appearing around the cuts inflicted by Ockley's scalpel. A grunt escaped her throat as Irina's knuckles tore a rend in her lip. Tasting blood, she forced her eyes to focus.
Irina drew back her arm for another strike, so Sydney did the logical thing, and head-butted the arrogant bitch.
Shoving Irina back, Sydney got back in the game, her kicks and punches landing with renewed accuracy. Julian was dead, she told herself grimly. She didn't bother questioning how he had got here, focusing only on the result. She had work to do before she joined him.
Stepping out of reach from Irina's wild swings, Sydney scrutinized her opponent. She cleared her mind, focusing desperately on her agent training. She again moved forward, ducked a punch, and drop-kicked her with both feet to the chest.
As customary in this hellish fight, Irina was thrown through the air, lost from Sydney's vision momentarily as Sydney hit the ground lightly (hence the term 'drop-kick'). Sydney hastily flipped back vertical, coming up ready, and stumbled to a halt.
Irina stood by the door, blood trickling unheeded from the corner of her mouth. Supported by the wall, breathing heavily with his arm snaked threateningly around Irina's throat, Sark caught Sydney's gaze and held it.
None of it made sense, not really. None of it was justified. Certainly not right. "I though you'd died," Sydney whispered, tears finally flooding her eyes.
Sark shrugged, attempting his patented smirk. "I gave you my word," he explained, struggling for air.
Irina attempted to escape, digging her fingers painfully into Sark's arm. He held Sydney's gaze.
As always, he could read her clear as day: fright, uncertainty, defeat, acceptance.
Without breaking their stare, Sydney nodded.
A practiced move, almost effortless, Sark gripped Irina's chin and twisted. A surprised look flitted across her face at the sound of bone snapping. Sark released Irina instantly, pushing her away as she tumbled to the floor, head bent at a sickening angle.
Sydney couldn't move, couldn't think, or do anything besides wrap her arms around herself and attempt to achieve inner peace.
Right. Because that always worked.
"You were dead. Irina threw that knife and… you were dead," Sydney mumbled, unaware of the fact that she hadn't blinked since she'd noticed Sark alive and killing.
Using the wall for support, Sark regained his balance, holding a hand to the wound at his side. Implausibly, he looked faintly embarrassed. "It's not that bad. Just clipped a rib. I hit my head when I fell, blacked out for bit," he explained inelegantly. "Come here."
Numb, Sydney staggered over to where he stood, towering amid the two bodies littering the stone floor. Cautiously she reached out her hand.
He virtually snarled when he examined her hand, her fingertips a revolting carnage save for her intact index finger. The rest of her had fared little better – incisions, deep and shallow, marred every exposed inch of skin. Bruises, every shade of the rainbow. Her ankle was twisted at an odd angle, and she walked with a slight limp.
"Beautiful as always," he sighed.
He jumped slightly at the unexpected touch on his face. She looked up at him, shivering. "You found me."
He smirked at that. "Did you expect otherwise?"
Unsteady, she swallowed, forcing the words through her mouth. "Mom said... Eric..."
"It was his choice," Sark interrupted shortly. "We discovered your location and it never crossed his mind to stay behind. He took a bullet aimed for me. He died saying your name, and he didn't regret any of it."
Biting her lips, swatting at her hair, looking at her shoes, the ceiling, the battlefield cluttered with Rambaldi's artifacts, Sydney struggled in vain to put some order to the chaos, some reason behind the mindless slaying of her loved ones. She latched onto Sark's chest, clutching at fistfuls of his shirt.
"So now what?" she repeated, burying her face in his shoulder.
With sudden fierceness, Sark's arms tightened around her waist. Logic told him that now was not the time, certainly not the place, that both of them were injured, perhaps beyond repair. The sentiment failed to register as he tugged her head back and set about kissing her frantically.
He'd come close, so perilously close, to losing her. Sydney, the one thing he had faith in, the one thing he valued in a lifetime of stealing priceless objects. He ran his fingers along her skin, slick with blood from the awakened wounds carved along her body, felt her wince against his mouth but lacked the restraint to pull back.
Her arms wound around his neck and his around her waist, gripping each other vehemently without any intention of ever letting go. He licked away the blood seeping from her split lip, grazing his tongue along her teeth. Sydney took a step backwards as he pushed against her in an attempt to hold her closer than scientifically possible.
Her heel caught on Irina's limp arm and they nearly fell. Sydney broke away out of necessity of adjusting her stance, her eyes drawn reflexively to the massacre at her feet. She let out a shuddering laugh.
"That kinda kills the mood, huh?" she said wryly.
Sark reached up, softly guiding her face back to his. He stared intently, ice blue against fiery brown. "Sydney..." he stated, hesitant.
Her heartrate stilled, his accelerated. Briefly considering retreat, Sark compulsively tucked an errant strand of dark hair behind her ear.
"Sydney," he attempted again. "Forgive my insidious timing, but I'm compelled to confess that I'm rather deeply in love wi-"
She quickly pressed a finger over his lips, halting his words. "Don't," she objected.
He promptly began arguing, but she shook her head to silence him, smiling faintly. "Don't say it. Don't change. I already know. I don't want to change you."
Mr. Sark's infamous smirk, the look of bemused superiority, returned full-force. He lazily ran his fingers across her face, taking his time replying.
"Silly girl," he drawled finally. "You already have."
Sark took a step back, holding out his hand for her.
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Slowly, shaking, she knelt beside him. Gently she lifted his head onto her lap, combing trembling fingers through his thick black hair. His skin, always so pale, now grey. His eyes, always so expressive, now cold. His lips, always grinning or laughing or kissing, now stained with a fine layer of dark dried blood. His heart, always forgiving, now stilled.
Sydney considered what a waste it was, what a pathetic end to someone so remarkable. His body lay spread-eagled across the worn tiles in the abandoned chapel. Heroes didn't die like this, she thought. All the stories he had told her, redundant fairy tales energized by his infectious optimism, none of them had ended in such a way. It was twisted, wrong, because Happily Ever After did not include Eric Weiss sprawled on the floor, killed by a bullet in his back.
She cried freely, something Eric had always said took courage. She hadn't understood until now – tears acknowledged pain instead of hiding from it.
"I'm sorry, Eric," she sobbed. "I'm so sorry."
Silence reverberated through the empty church, the air sickening with the taste of darkness. Sark stood by, wary. All their enemies dead, he now had to face the task of surviving.
"I miss you," Sydney whispered, and kissed Eric softly on the lips.
"He'd better take good care of you," Eric had told her, the morning of Jack's funeral. Sydney laughed.
"You really got screwed over in this whole mess, didn't you?"
Sark touched her shoulder, catching her attention. "We have to go," he warned.
Nodding, Sydney climbed to her feet, memorizing Eric's features one last time. Sark pulled her away, guiding her vigilantly toward the doors. He pushed them open wide, savoring the cool night wind that swept over them.
Outside the doorway, Sydney turned, casting a final glance inside the L'église des âmes perdues, the Church of Lost Souls. On the opposite wall, dominate behind the ornate altar, the symbol of Rambaldi stared vacantly back at her.
With a shove Sark slammed the mahogany doors closed, trapping the bloodbath within.
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Author's Note : I got a bit preachy, a bit chatty, a bit kill-happy. So, the next and last chapter will be coming very soon, I promise.
Thanks as always to my lovely and talented beta Becca (or, for short, Betca) (though don't call her Betca) (I'm serious), who actually read this through while she was at work. I hate (read : envy) people who can multitask. Makes me feel like an uncoordinated loser. Ignorance is bliss and all that, you see.
Also many thanks to my readers. Who needs morphine when I have reviews?
Cheers,
Renny