What the hell am I doing? Of every single life-threatening event I have planted myself in the midst of; this has got to be the singularly most idiotic move I have ever made. I might as well be an unarmed man walking through Battle Abby in 1066.
The figure stood in the hallway outside the door to the apartment. Finally, his hands blindly fiddled with the lock, clicking it open in a matter of seconds. His thoughts had continued whilst he moved instinctively, a rare show of emotion being presented to anyone who cared to take note through an uncomfortable grimace set on his face.
Well, he was right. Something his self-confidence had never let him doubt. And that was going to annoy her more so than his ironic presence in the home, the home of such a morally uptight puritan.
A sardonic grin slipped over his face.
Well, at least I'll get to play with her a little before she righteously decides that she will die with me if it means this world is rid of such immoral scum, before throwing herself wholeheartedly into ending my life, even if she knows she won't.
The grin stopped suddenly. He remembered what he was right about and it didn't come down to just his baiting of her through his well placed, if not prophetic, instincts regarding their partnership. Sark's eyes hardened impenetrably, these were not games. They undoubtedly would play though; in vain attempts at distraction.
We're very good at distracting each other from our realities.
But their games had long lost the romanticism of the naïve. They were playing in the dark now; they'd begun walking into the sunset some time ago.
The art of our opposition. Perhaps because we really do detest everything the other stands for, perhaps because we detest the connection forced by our equality, perhaps because we detest the constant games with those that really are unworthy. Or perhaps because we love the chase.
The man bristled, his thoughts were too personal and his attentions too pointless.
Perhaps it's because I take from this everything I can and you give it it all that you have. Well I'll take from you everything I need and you'll give me everything you have, Miss Bristow. That's something I have no doubts about.
Without so much as blinking Sark slid through the door and into the apartment, his hand already playing with the handle of his gun expectantly. He wasn't met with a fist to the face, a bullet to the chest or even so much as the condescending presence of Agent Sydney Bristow peering incredulously at him and his audacity. Sark looked around the room he was standing in, it was all impersonal, affects she had bought after her resurrection in equal attempts to make her feel alive and convince others that she was very much so. The same old Sydney Bristow.
The 'same old Sydney Bristow' died in that house fire along with everything else that she stood for. And its time you acknowledged that, Sydney.
It was then that Sark noticed the figure lying on the couch staring at the ceiling completely unaware of her surroundings. He then noticed the scotch sitting on the table and despite his obvious attempts he was not able to contain a smirk.
I see you've dealt with acknowledgement stunningly. How appropriate.
A voice, something that would have resembled Sydney Bristow's, take away the slurring and halting speech pattern.
"Who'll the 'ell are –wait I actually not care. Kill me and j-j-j-ob good done to you. Mucho congratulations." Sydney didn't even bother to turn to look at the intruder.
Apparently not that unaware. Even when inebriated.
"A drunken CIA agent with a death wish, that does instill in me a considerable amount of hope regarding the future of you beloved, albeit ignorant, country." The words came out impassively, the bored tone and haunting accent inciting a far more volatile reaction from the young woman than the knowledge of an intruder standing a few feet behind her, the probability of a murderous intent being high. She jumped, attempted to jump, from her position, only missing hitting her head on the edge of the coffee table by millimeters when she stumbled before righting herself. Swinging to face the intruder she didn't have time to compute that her reaction time had been so slow that a man with the reflexes of a ninety year old suffering from obesity could probably have pulled that off quicker and with more grace.
"Sark!" The exclamation came out in a far higher pitch than she intended, resulting in an almost squeal, something she immediately regretted, clutching her head in pain.
He expected her to demand he explain himself, to launch herself at him, to point a loaded gun at his head, to throw the nearest heavy breakable his way. He did NOT expect what ensued.
Sydney stood staring at him, her features a mixture of shock and a slight touch of fear. She stood there for several minutes, her computing and deduction skills considerably delayed due to her horrific alcohol intake.
Then she giggled. Manically.