I hate formatting on this site. Bah. Scenes separated by the letter "O" since symbols don't seem to be working for me.
OOOOOO
Chapter 1 –
Seven years later
Head slumped and hands firmly braced on the rim of the white sink, Sark expelled some of his queasiness on a shaky breath. His fingers clung so tightly to the cold porcelain, like it was the rock keeping him from sagging to the floor, that his knuckles had turned stark white.
He was physically wiped out. Emotionally, too. Almost too tired to stand, but through some act of God his legs kept. Lifting his head again, he stared impassively at his pale reflection in the much-too-small bathroom mirror, hoping for even a moment's reprieve from this bout of sickness.
Soon. The soothing feel of the eventual end was just out of reach, but he knew, as was custom after days like today, that it was only minutes away from arriving.
Tiny beads of sweat formed incessantly on his forehead in non-descript patterns and shaded his upper lip like a pearly saltlick mustache. The overlay of fresh and stale sheen only managed to heighten the lackluster effect on his pasty skin.
He'd stopped vomiting minutes ago, the lingering ache in his gut a reminder of the violent upheaval, yet it seemed that even though his stomach had completely emptied, it still wanted to clench and lurch.
Who knew? By the time Sark reached his destination, Moscow, the muscle could have turned itself completely inside out.
The four walls seemed to be gradually closing in on him. The partitions leading to the cabin of the plane inched closer and closer, making the distance between him and the wall behind him – hell, even the floor and ceiling now – smaller and smaller...
"Get it together, fuckhead," he seethed, his jaw in a perpetual clamp. "Par for the fucking course."
That's it. Get mad. It always seemed to be the best cure for any of life's side effects.
Seven years spent as Julian Lazarey should have gotten easier. Working his way up through the ranks to the director of operations of this organization, just as tenaciously as Julian would have had he been out, beget much in the way of thievery, treachery, various forms of debauchery, torture, and even the big M.
Murder.
Seven years of it and still that last one didn't sit very well with him in the end. Well, honestly, the last two still turned him, or rather on occasion his stomach, out. But usually never like this.
Logically Sark should have been used to all of his duties by now, should have had a harder, biting edge to him. Hell, he should have even had the ability to detach himself completely from his duty and not have to think about who he'd harmed in the end. But, instead, each incident seemed to make it more difficult. Ethics were a bitch.
To a certain extent, he was used to this life and he did put himself at a distance. Yet, for some reason, that didn't seem to stop the periodical sickness.
Earlier that day in Hong Kong, when he'd walked into Tyno-Chem, so confident, so sure and ready to obliterate anyone who stood in the way of him and the Rambaldi artifact he sought, it was as if he was a different person. Or, at the very least, had shut off all valves inside that led to the scraps of compassion or virtue he had left.
Oh, those feelings remained, cunningly hidden in a narrow box that had only opened a few times in years past. Usually hours post the most highly gruesome ops, when he disappeared to deal with the repercussions of what he'd had to do, was when it creaked open. And when it did, what materialized was either a blurred night of overindulgence or a bowl full of heaved up vomit and bile.
Sark jerked a paper towel out of the dispenser, briskly running the coarse material down his face to wipe away the sticky sweat and the trace of remorse that lingered. At the same time, willing away what he hoped was the rest of the sickness.
The irony that that inner box had chosen to resurface and open this time when he, himself, was stuck inside a narrow box killed him. Was hideously compounded by the fact this narrow box now smelled terribly tart. The faint scent of vomit still lingered in the stagnant air – left stuffy by a lack of circulation. If he'd had the energy, or more of an inclination for it, he might have chuckled.
But he had neither at the moment, so he attempted to freshen his pallid face and parched throat with cold water instead.
Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and prayed for strength – something he found he did a lot these days. In youth, he'd never been one to dabble in religious frivolities, considering them for the weaker man. Plus he lacked the patience, and the church lacked the exhilaration to tantalize an undisciplined young man the way doing something mischievous or, better yet, lascivious did.
Looking back at it now, coming up on the age of twenty-nine, maybe the church hadn't lacked those things, maybe it had been that he hadn't wanted to acknowledge that there were ramifications to his actions.
Screw the maybe. He knew that was the reason, even realized he was in for a treat when karma caught up with him.
Analyzing the past and comparing it to how differently he viewed the present was much too big a task. His only concern these days was in hiding this desire he held inside to make some assertion of his ultimate good intentions.
God forbid those around him discovered the small habits he resorted to in order to keep himself safely teetered on the brink of sanity. Or the lengths he went to in order to keep the many facets of himself from warring to near Armageddon inside.
Displays of weakness, especially where the job was concerned, were strictly verboten for the man who, after a small meeting with the head of K-Directorate tomorrow, would be very well known across the board as Mr. Sark: A man who was completely devoted and would go to the extreme to further his employer's cause.
If he had anything to do with it, none of those people would ever know this part of him. The part that gave a damn about the fate of the world, the part that, even though he had to deter it as best he could, wanted the good guys to always win. Or this part of him; empty, still nauseated, and wanting nothing more to keep his head in the toilet for another solid hour.
No. He'd do whatever he needed to ensure that secret was safe until MI-6 received all the intel they needed – including shutting himself off and keeping that box of humanity secure.
He squeezed his eyes shut tightly for a last quick regroup. Flashes of the terror on Quan Li's face as Sark had cocked his semi-auto, aimed it to where it'd be fatal and fired remained, but were steadily fading. The pain, the fear. The obstinate plea for last minute salvation that had flitted through the man's eyes as the life had crept out of them...
"Sir?" the muffled voice of the co-pilot interrupted his recollection through the door. "We're preparing to land now."
Quicker than he readied his weapon, Sark watched the verve, along with the regret and doubt, disappear from his eyes, leaving his gaze wintry and hollow. It no longer stunned him how swiftly he could put the game face on.
"Thank you," Sark called out strongly, tossing the wadded towel in the trash bin. "And please do not forget to radio the tower ahead to ensure my transportation is readied. I don't want to have to go through what I did the last time I used your services."
"Of course, sir," the man offered before Sark heard him walk away.
The disruption the man had made was more than welcome. Sark had yet to slip, even around those who mattered little.
Sark emerged from the room with his aloof persona intact once again, leaving no visible hint of the near meltdown he'd just faced and conquered. Returning to the plush leather seat he'd occupied for most of the flight, adamant on showing nothing even if no one but him remained in the cabin, he awaited the plane's pending descent. His body conformed nicely to the supple mold beneath, and he allowed himself to enjoy the feat that most would consider insignificant.
Conquering the chair.
Out his window, he saw the markings of the city he neared. Hundreds of homes dotted the flatlands in even rows along narrow paved roads. He stared indifferently out at the hilly terrain rambling in the distance, trying to tether the scant remainders of the flawless op in Hong Kong in hopes of then releasing them entirely before he had to deal with the next set.
He recalled little more of the engineering building, but oddly the vision of tilting his head to the side in consideration as the blood had trickled and stained Li's shirt came in quite clear.
A part of him that he'd conveniently labeled "Julian" harbored those thoughts. The killing, all sanctioned by Faye and his other superiors, were his "twin's" expertise. And "Julian" had been morbidly fascinated by that growing blot of crimson, the light as it had distinguished in the man's eyes. But now that that part had receded, he, Sark, was the one left to deal with it.
The blood. All the blood.
Flashes of red – blurry, fleeting – flowing from the countless bodies left inside the building, assaulted him all at once. But thankfully the flashes, other than those about Li, weren't more than scant details.
There had been so many times when a subordinate had had to refresh his memory of an op. So many times, he'd gone through the motions of battle, of murder, of not seeing anything, just working on autopilot.
He considered it a gift, of sorts. This ability he had to plod through the sickening horrors of slaughter, when the job called for it, with no immediate damage to his psyche. Drolly, it reminded him of a tale once told to him by one of his first nanny's – the story of the Berserker. He remembered fondly the animated way she had told the legend of the Norse warriors who were known for their fury and wildness in battle.
Berserk. That word did, indeed, sum his outward behavior up quite well.
A crackle of static rang out in the silence, the pilot's voice sounding clear, bringing nary a reaction to his cool, unreadable face.
"Five minutes to touchdown, sir. Welcome to Moscow."
Sark didn't move more than to casually cross his legs after the announcement. His belongings would be gathered and carried off by the crew, such was frequently, if not always, the case. What he did do was allow that last bit of ambiguity in him over what he'd done, and what he was about to do, to finally wash away with a parting thought.
R.I.P. Quan Li, head of FTL. You were one wickedly depraved fuck anyhow.
OOOOOO
Sydney Bristow hadn't realized her mistake until it was too late.
With her life's track record, she didn't know why she had temporarily forgotten the ramifications of just one moment's ease, or God forbid, happiness. She should have remembered. Countless times before, something had always seemed to go terribly wrong if she even had the inkling to start and feel even a minute amount of contentment.
But she had, again, felt something good earlier that week.
It was a mix of situations and feelings and decisions involving a combination of people. She had been recovering from SD-6's infiltration by McKennas Cole et al. She had once again managed to retain her cover and stop the Rambaldi device from getting into the wrong hands – although SD-6 was anything but the right hands. Her bruises, when wearing no cover-up, still stained her fair complexion. But all around, she was physically starting to feel better.
And emotionally, Sydney had almost soared.
Between the confidence her father instilled upon her when they'd met at the carousel, telling her to keep with her grad-school courses so she could become the kind of teacher her students would always remember, and Vaughn disclosing that she hadn't made a fool out of herself when she'd brought up the hockey game – that he too would like to get to know her on a personal level if things were different – she felt like she was floating.
Although, a small bob in her flight had occurred, of course, when Francie had found out the truth about Charlie's infidelity. But even that hadn't resonated, hadn't reminded Sydney that bad things did happen to good people, and usually at times when they felt they didn't have much of a care in the world.
For her, the chance of that happening was twofold. When a person continually endangered their life by secretly working to see the devil brought down, bad things were bound to happen.
But she still felt sky high tonight – which, ironically, she was. Suspended in mid-air with her only security being a wire that hung between two buildings. She dangled from hundreds of feet as she waited for the meeting between K-Directorate and some murderous blonde-haired man who worked for "The Man".
She was nearly silent as she crossed the thin wire and reached her destination, the one man below keeping guard of the building unaware of her presence. The fiber optic camera was in place, as was the memory card Vaughn had given her when he'd revealed his bit about things being different...
The blonde man walked into the room, introducing himself to the awaiting mini-crowd.
Mr. Sark. Director of Operations.
Chaos was a swift moving thing. Then again, if chaos happened slower, it might not be considered such since those involved would have more time to think, plan, and conclude the best remedy.
Sydney had received the confirmation from Dixon that not only were the people that Mr. Sark had propositioned for the Rambaldi manuscript members of K-Directorate – they were K-Directorate.
Head of, Ilyich Ivankov, and second in command, Kessar.
She heard the gunshots and the offer restated to Kessar, and then it reigned.
Chaos.
As her foot adjusted on the building, she felt a part loosen and crumble, falling to the ground below. The next thing she heard was a muted yell and the pop-pop-pop of gunfire.
Her instinct kicked into overdrive; the need to flee to safely driving her to get the fuck out of there, hopefully without getting wounded. She tried to scramble away from the window she was near, but she'd thrashed too hard in her hurry and was propelled directly in front of it. In plain view of all the members of the meeting.
She heard more shots – they seemed to be coming from all directions. Glass splintered next to her, imbedding into her arms and torso, but she barely took notice. What was happening in the meeting, and around her, was forgotten as her feet found solid wall and she dragged herself up the building.
Escape was in the air, she could smell it and feel it in her bones. She reached the roof, having removed herself from the danger with little damage. The little cuts in her sleeve and chest weren't even felt above the adrenaline she packed.
She saw two ways out of there: down through the building – not the wisest choice – or a running leap across to the building next door. The latter was, of course, the better option, even if the drop of the lowered building that stood about fifteen feet away would likely jar or even sprain her ankles.
That was nothing, she'd walked through worse.
She unhooked herself from the cable and took off. The wind blew fiercely from the high elevation and whipped her hair around in frenzy. Arms pumping, legs straining and pushing with all their might, she crossed the large distance. And she was just about to reach the raised edge of the roof when a whir of black tackled her from the side.
The force of the fall knocked the wind out of her so hard it hurt her lungs, and it seemed that the skidding across the smooth cement would never stop. A heavy figure lay on top of her, pushing her back against the cement, and making the friction between her and the surface she slid on that much more painful.
She literally felt the skin rippling and tearing under her shirt, a hellacious burn that was multitudes worse than one from carpet. Thankfully, due to her mindset and the initial numbness that coated her skin, she couldn't feel a thing.
They came to a stop mere feet away from another edge of the building, mere feet from her head being slammed into brick, and she moved through the stiffness in her back, trying to remove the weight from on top of her.
His position, and she was positive it was a man, more than dominated her. It practically consumed her. He had flattened her to the ground – body, arms and legs, all pinned under hard muscle. His breathing was as heavily labored as hers, each puff of breath like a punch to her gut. She squirmed, and shifted, and prayed... God she prayed.
But she was stuck. Her life had been looking up as well as it could considering the circumstances and she felt instantly crushed. She had more to see, more to do, so much more to say.
The pain forming in her back begged her to scream, the loud screeching banshee type. But the only thing Sydney managed when she opened her mouth was a worthless croak. Her back was on fire; wet, hot, fiercely intense fire. So much worse than a centralized bullet wound or even a dislocated limb.
Her effort to yell was fruitless as both the whipping wind and his cheek engulfed the sound. Or maybe the chunk of her hair she swallowed and choked on in the process absorbed it. Either way, he firmly pressed his face against her mouth and she tried to snap her mouth shut, her only, even if feeble, method of defense.
He pulled back just in time and her teeth forcefully clattered together. He crossed his arms over her chest, resting on his forearms, but still applying enough pressure to overpower her.
Sydney shook her hair out of her face, wanting to look the man who, if she didn't get herself out of this fix, would be her end. She cursed and her heart sank the moment she glanced into icy blue eyes.
This was no lackey she'd have the best chance of defeating. He was young, albeit not a boy. Even in the darkness, she could see the same face she had seen a good day earlier on screen at SD-6. The lack of concern on his face was similar to that horrible blankness, that utter determination she'd seen as he'd taken down Quan Li.
Sydney's eyes dared him to do his worst. Even to kill her. She didn't have the upper hand, but she had her pride and fuck if this man would take that from her too.
To her surprise, a flicker of shock bounced in his eyes. Whether it was the fact that she was conscious or that she was female wasn't clear, but whatever it was only lasted an instant before he grabbed her roughly by the collar of her shirt and yanked her up to stand.
Cold metal pressed against her temple, while his other hand held a second weapon. The second was pointed at the direction of the door for roof access – the same place she figured he had come from.
Now was her chance. Work through the pain, she told herself. She had a split second to make the decision on which method would do best to disarm him, but before she could act she heard him speak.
"If you move, I'll kill him and then you."
Her confusion only lasted a few seconds before she saw a shadow step out of the darkness. Dixon. A small sob bubbled in her throat at the sight of him, but she didn't vocalize it.
Dixon's gun was trained on Sark. Sark's aim was right back on him while his second weapon was still fixed upon her. The situation couldn't get much bleaker and she didn't dare move for Dixon's sake.
"Release her and we'll all just leave here without incident." Dixon yelled.
Sydney could feel nothing on the man behind her. No worry. No fear. His hand steadily held both guns and she could barely hear him breathe.
"I'm afraid you've mistaken this for a negotiation. You see, I have two guns – both aimed quite rightly, I may add – and you have but one. I'm the one with the advantage, so I ask the questions and determine the terms."
His cool tone, laced with his British accent, was equal to his demeanor. He didn't seem fazed over the situation. That shouldn't be surprising to her, but for some reason it was.
She saw Dixon warring with himself, his eyes subtly shifting from her to check her condition back to Sark. "What are your terms?" Dixon questioned.
Sark didn't skip a beat. "What organization do you represent?"
Dixon gritted his teeth and kept silent. Sydney held no grudge over that, it was what he had been trained to do. She just hoped he didn't end up doing anything to worsen the situation.
She heard Sark scoff, or maybe laugh bitterly, at Dixon's silence. He dug the barrel of the gun into her temple, causing her to wince as he broke the tender skin.
"The next thing hitting her skull is lightning-quick metal if you don't respond."
Indecision marked the older man's face and he swore curtly. "SD-6."
"Ah..." Sark replied knowingly. "Arvin Sloane's branch. Terrible that that cell was infiltrated and detained for that short period of time just last week. It's a shame that people feel the need to stick their noses in where they have no business. Don't you agree?"
The meaning of that wasn't lost on either Sydney or Dixon, but neither answered the question Sark didn't even expect the answer to.
"What do you want?" Dixon asked.
"I want you to relay a message to Arvin Sloane." Sark answered.
"A message...?"
The gun bit further into Sydney's temple at Dixon's interruption, and she tried to mask her cry. Dixon held up a hand in apology and let Sark continued.
"Please inform Arvin Sloane that his interference is offensive to my boss and that he will be contacted within a week with the acceptable terms to mollify this disruption."
"And her?" Dixon asked hesitantly.
Sark paused, and Sydney pictured him smirking in cocky victory over his performance. She knew the answer, as did Dixon.
"She's my employer's bargaining chip." Dixon looked distressed over the announcement and he appeared to want to object. "Consider yourself lucky, if you hadn't been with SD-6, a negotiation wouldn't have been possible."
Dixon stood there in the darkness, cold wind beating ruthlessly against his jacket. Sydney pleaded with her eyes for him to go. Save one of their lives at least, but he wouldn't budge.
"You have one minute, my friend, before I decide to rid myself of this problem and find other means to barter."
A muscle ticked angrily in Dixon's jaw, but he backed away. Only when he disappeared into the building again, did she breathe a bit easier. She could handle this. But to have both of them get injured or die so needlessly? It just didn't make sense.
Dead on her feet, she readied herself to accept her fate, knowing that until an opportunity arose she was in Sark's and "The Man's" hands. The wind picked up as they stood there in silence, his one gun still held on her, the other now somewhere behind her. She felt him rustling around, but wouldn't risk further injury to see what he was doing.
Moments later, a faint prick stabbed her arm and she knew...
Blackness overtook her mere seconds later, right after he'd let her slump to the ground. At least it took the pain away.
