Blood Binds – But Betrayal Blinds

TEN – Clash of Intentions

Rating: PG-13 (Harsh Language)

Setting: LA, Unknown Location in Eastern Europe

Characters: Sark, Aiden Ivanov (Hugh Dancy or James Franco), Will Tippin, Elle Williams (Maggie Gyllenhaal), Marcus Dixon, Arvin Sloane, Allison Doren, Simon Walker, Steph Mariani (Eliza Dushku), Sydney Bristow mentioned Renee Persson (undecided), Matthias Mohrle (undecided), Abs Michaelis (Jessica Alba)

Length: 3,773 Words

He sits behind the dark cherry writing desk, a laptop open before him. And he's not sure what he's working on anymore, with the pending drama weighing heavy on his mind. And his attention is drawn immediately from his work, to the man who is walking in, with out asking to be invited, slamming the door shut behind him. He wonders if this is how everyone enters rooms in this house. And Aiden crosses the room, standing in front of the chair before the desk, an angry look making his features all the more bold and fiery. And Sark shuts his laptop, an irritated sigh leaving his mouth. "Sure, come in." He states, even though the man has already entered. And he can see that Aiden does not want to be casual with him, and does not appreciate his personal joke.

"Don't patronize me, you bastard." His words are angry, hard and low. And Sark thinks for a bit, wondering what it is that is going through the man's head. And so he scratches his head, a cocky grin spreading across his face as he sits up straighter to intimidate the man. He doesn't have time for this shit - this petty garbage.

And Sark takes in a slow breath, eyeing the man who dares to cross his path. "Bastard is an interesting choice of word coming from you." He knows the jab is low, and probably cheap, but he's taking it anyway. "I mean, I know I knew who my father was, but... you don't." And he's kind of grinning, hoping that this cheap shot will anger the man enough to leave his office and let him get back to work. And Sark never again wants to take a mission like this. He'd much rather be managed, than manage people who are as nuts as these. Because his only superior in this house is McKenas Cole, and that says a lot about the kind of work he's doing. "And so, don't you believe you're the bastard, Mr. Ivanov?"

Aiden is not having it, even though he has decided to start it. "I don't believe you know enough, if anything, about my past to call me that, you fucking ass-hole." And Sark is bored! He truly doesn't want to be having this conversation or be around this man. He has work to do. He has a damn negotiation to figure out, and he has to get everything together by the time Steph is done with Sydney's interrogation. He has work to do. If this is going to work, he can't have Aiden storming in his office, every time he feels the man has done something wrong, otherwise that is all he'll do.

And now Sark is taking offence to the words. Because he was the one minding his own business, not inviting this kind of confrontation at all. "Ass-hole? Really?" He's trying to intimidate the man, trying to get into his head and make him remember the fear he feels for Sark. "You're going to call me an ass-hle? And what might I have done to deserve that?" He waits now, truly curious as to why Aiden has entered the office with such anger.

"Idi na khuy" Oh so now Aiden has decided to speak both their native tongue; Russian. But Sark knows that merely telling him to 'Go to hell' in this alternate language is going to do nothing to get him to argue. Not now. Not when he has more important things on mind.

Sark sighs, out of frustration he's sure. "Must we speak Russian? It's such a dreadful language." He hates speaking Russian. He hates letting the words of his native tongue leave his mouth. He hates acknowledging his heritage, acknowledging the life he used to lead. And he hates that Aiden embraces his own Russian heritage so much.

"You are a traitor to your homeland." Aiden states. Is that what this is about? Sark rolls his eyes now.

And he takes a deep breath, letting the pen in his hand twirl through his agile fingers. "I don't believe I have ever held a loyalty to that homeland, so don't call me a traitor." Sark scowls, and the words a simple rumbling threat leaving his chest. "You've come here to put me in my place, where loyalties lie? I would have pinned some other kind of conviction from you." And he's exhaling heavily.

"Pizda." Aiden scoffs the words. Back to Russian. And he knows the word, the name he has used. It's one of those terms that, in spite of ones affiliation in the espionage word, Sark knows he'll never say in the presence of a woman. No, this is one of those words. So he lets the anger paint his face.

But Sark isn't one to argue or fight. Sark isn't petty like these people. So he just smiles, knowing the one thing he can say to get to Aiden. "No need to bring your mother into this." And he doesn't at all regret saying it.

And Aiden has now vaulted across the space, grabbing Sark by his shirt, pulling him from his comfortable position in the chair, to stand. And Sark watches the man's eyes. "Bold are we?" He's saying the words clearly because he wants to make sure Aiden is aware of his unaffected state.

"Suka ty zlo'ebuchaya" Aiden's words are low and angry, calling him all kinds of bitches under the sun. And this time, Sark does not roll his eyes, because he doesn't like to when the man's hands are so close to his neck - he knows he could asphyxiate him in a single moment.

And Aiden has never been one to use such coarse language, the loss of control to leave his lips like this. Sark is smiling, almost knowingly. So he sighs, heavily, looking at the man before him. "Aiden, are we really going to go in circles like this, or are you ever going to get to the point?" He's bored with this.

"Here's my point," Aiden growls, "You're fucking things up, and I know of a few Covenant officials who are going to be less than pleased with your immature actions." His words are meant to piss him off, or maybe get him to change. But he knows it's not working.

"I do believe I'm not the one holding someone else in this kind of childish exchange." Sark responds, cool and calm - because he is. "So please do, explain your reasoning behind these sudden words of Russian Revelation."

"Because you are literally screwing every single one of the operatives set on this assignment, and you've managed to cut their productivity." Aiden hates to speak in such monetary terms, but knows that they are all that appeal to Sark. And so he's sighing, waiting to see how the man responds. Aiden does not want to admit that Abs, no Abby, has got him feeling this way.

Sark is still standing in the man's grasp, and he's still pissed off, yet at the same time calm. "Aiden, I don't believe you need to be reprimanding me the way you are, considering that I am your superior." And Sark knows he's glaring, tempting and pushing the man.

"You forget you do not speak for me when we are not on an op." And Sark is now very pissed off, offended even. He's tempted to let this boy know where he stands.

"Excuse me?" His words are slow, eyebrow arched, anger ablaze.

And now, Aiden's voice is deathly low, a rage that Sark thought only he could achieve present in his brown eyes. "You," He shoves Sark away, disgusted with the touch of him under his fingers. And Sark stumbles back, only slightly, when his calves collide with the chair. "Cannot emotionally mind-warp me into doing whatever you wish me too." So, this is Aiden's revolution, self-independence declared in a confrontation with his adversary. "I am not your bitch. I will not SIT in a corner, and wait for you to call me as you wish. DON'T do it to them." And it's not surprising that Aiden would be the one to defend these women.

A hissed intake of breath, while Aiden is reminding him that killing Sark is not the objective, where getting him to see the error of his ways is. "I don't make anyone do anything. These women make their own decisions." Sark responds. "They can do things for themselves, or is it that you believe they have no spines?"

And suddenly it's time for Aiden to go into his normal role. Sark thinks he should work for the CIA with his humanitarian ways. "They do have spines, they have hearts and wishes. They have more feelings than you could ever even fucking fathom." So it's about this. It's about the women and Sark's antics. And as much as he may find Aiden's words to be right, he's pretty sure that Abs has been spending the evening in his room. "You're a fucking robot - you exploit them."

"I do not exploit them, Aiden. I think you need to take a long hard look at who you are talking to, and what you are saying." This is getting more involved than he wants it to be. Damn you Aiden.

Aiden is still seething and angry. Sark is amazed that he doesn't have flames roaring in his eyes. "I know exactly who I am talking to. And what I am saying is the truth. You have no idea what your damn games are doing. Morale is down and with a hostage in our custody - I do believe that should be rectified." The words are a direct stab and punch at Sark's ability as a leader.

He is not going to make light of the situation. "Get out of this office now." His words are low and angry. "I have so many ways to fuck you over to Sunday, but I won't because I have more important things to worry about than what you have to say."

But Aiden is not going to back down. "Otsosi" He dares - more Russian, this time wielding the words 'Blow Me'.

And all the words, still have Sark angry. He is no longer cool and collected. He feels the urge to kill growing within him. "You do not want to get in to this with me." He's warning the other man.

"Oh but I do, or I would never have come in here" Aiden knows he's playing with fire. He knows that this could end any way, but he can't live with himself if he does not try. The anger and the words are now pouring out.

And Sark feels his fists clenching. "I will kill you, Aiden." He's threatening the man with words that he knows he can back up.

"Not if they kill you first," Aiden glares, "These women are experts in guns, knives and torture, are you sure you're wanting to mess with the? Honey catches more flies than vinegar, even you know that. And so why on earth couldn't you go bl'adki some where else is beyond me." The fact that Aiden thinks he views his operatives as whores, actually amuses Sark. A little.

"I believe this conversation is over, Aiden." Sark states, wanting to go back to his prior duties.

"If you wish," He turns to walk away, suddenly stopping and turning back when Sark is speaking again.

"Because I am sure of the one thing I'm supposed to be sure of - we have a mission at hand, and your bringing forth this bull shit is pointless." Sark is callous and cold now. He is in the world of espionage and feelings don't exist.

"Pointless to whom?" Aiden questions. And then a cold laugh. "I'll go now." And he once again turns to leave, but stops, abruptly, thinking. "Oh, but one thing," He turns, and Sark does not see the punch as it flies forward. Only feels as it connects with his jaw. And he does not fall, only his head cracks, feeling the pain and popping of joints out and back. And his eyes blur, becoming a haze with anger. He does not register anything, save for the click of the door as Aiden leaves, and he then collapses into his chair. Words and thoughts run through his head - new concerns for the task at hand. Great, he thinks, A fucking mutiny.

The room is cold, sending unwanted chills through Will's body. And he watches the way Dixon enters the room, both staring through the two-way mirror at the events about to take place. Dixon flips an intercom switch on the wall, and they can hear the events in the adjacent room now. So Will doesn't say anything - because he already knows that he's skating on thin ice with the CIA director standing next to him. And so he stands, silence between them, and the girl he so desperately wants to protect in the interrogation with the man he so desperately wants to protect her from. "So, Elle, what is it that you would like to talk with me about?" Sloane questions.

And the girl taps her papers on the table, sitting across from the man who has his feet cuffed to the bolted down piece of furniture. She lets a heavy breath escape her lips. "First of all, Mr. Sloane, we need to get one thing straight between us." Her eyes make contact with his, "You will address me as Ms. Williams, and only as Ms. Williams." She waits only a moment for the man to respond, brushing the bangs out of her eyes, and then preceding to go back through the papers. Sloane keeps quiet, and so she continues. "I am assuming, that you, being a follower of Rambaldi and his teachings, know about the incident between Mathias Mohrle and Rene Persson nine years ago. Am I correct?" She asks, tilting her head to the side.

And Sloane nods. "Yes." He says, taking a slow drink of his glass of water. And her eyes travel with the glass, as he sets it back down. "Yes, I have heard of the events." He informs her. And she nods back at him, taking a moment to think and prepare her next question. If Arvin Sloane wants a game, she'll give him a game. She is a middle child in the family of four children. She has an older sister who never says anything unless it has an alternate meeting. She can play mind games.
"And?" She prompts, waiting for Sloane to continue.

"And it's the same thing I am sure you already know." Sloane responds. Elle feels a bit of anger growing within her. She doesn't want to play these games, but if she must, she will. She reaches across the table, grabbing the glass of water from its position before the man. And she puts the glass to her lips, taking a slow drink of it. Sloane watches her, his lips pressed together. "The real prophecy from page forty-seven has not been seen in the years, because both men went to jail in Belgium." He states. And Elle nods, taking the glass of water to her lips once more. She consumes all of the liquid in one drink, letting it travel down her throat slowly, and places the glass back on the table. Then she stands.

"So, what did it say?" She asks, walking around him. And she's now standing behind Sloane, but he doesn't turn to look at her.

Sloane lets a smirk dance across his face, and Will can see it through the two-way mirror. "Ms. Williams, I have never seen the true prophecy." He answers. And Elle takes a deep breath, nodding. She walks back around to the front of the table, then to the wall before Sloane. She stands against it. And she's remembering how her older sister once got her to admit to using her lip stick.

"Do you really expect me to believe that?" She asks, crossing one ankle over the other. And she then crosses her arms in front of her chest, running her tongue along her upper row of teeth. "You are a follower of Rambaldi. I've read up on your files and I know how far you would go to seek his words and teachings. And you're really going to expect me to believe that you never looked in to what the prophecy truly says?" She asks, her head tilted forward expectantly.

Sloane takes a deep breath. "I have an idea of what it says." He states. And Elle lets her eyebrows raise only slightly. "You might want to write this down."
There's a faint smell of bourbon hanging low in the air. And the room is hot, heat pouring into the atmosphere from the burning butane lighter on the table. A spoon sits on a contraption created earlier, the rounded scoop of the utensil right above the flame. And it's just like a heroin addict might do, though there is no drug melting.

Allison takes a deep breath, continuing to wash and clean the deep wound on Simon's thigh. And she wonders if this is one of those situations where they should have opted for a hospital. His eyes meet her, almost desperate now, knowing that the bourbon has dulled his senses. And he's waiting for the burning of flesh - the cauterization. Allison presses her lips together, taking a deep breath, continuing to stare at the wound before her. Luckily it was simply a puncture wound - sharp and painful, but straight, with no bit of drag. "She's a bitch." Allison lets the words leave her mouth - a solid disdain and hatred for Sydney Bristow still very present within her.

Simon is wearing a white wife beater tank top and the black tux pants from the banquet still. Allison immediately ripped open the pant leg earlier, to access his injury. "Tell me about it." His words a slurred only slightly, and his hair is a mess atop his head. "I spent a long time sleeping with that woman." He groans, and looks in the direction of the large picture window across the room. "Truly is beautiful here." But Allison has ignored his last words.

"Yeah well I still look like her damn stupid ass room mate." And he can tell that she wishes she could be herself again. She looks to the spoon, wondering if it's hot enough, and pictures herself testing it out on her own finger. "And what the hell is so special about this b? I mean, Jesus Christ, it seems like the whole God Damn world stops for her." Allison is disgruntled, angry, bitter even.

Simon shrugs, still staring out at the beautiful night sky. He's never seen stars like this before, and wonders if it's the bourbon. "It's that prophecy." He answers, slowly. "It consumes Sark." He takes a deep breath and looks at Allison. "I haven't known him long, but I know that he's a follower - he wants to make sense of the words just as much as his every leader has." Simon watches the way she shrugs, slipping her hand into the thick glove and retrieving the scalding metal.

"Don't bite your tongue." She warns him, in the literal sense, knowing that this kind of burning heat can send a person into shock. And he smiles, just before he grits his teeth, taking the heat and pain like a man. Burnt flesh mixes into the bourbon in the air, and he's no longer bleeding. "I know he's a follower." She sighs. And her mind is remembering the Sark she used to know - not the one who now thinks and acts just as erratic as Arvin Sloane. "He's almost like a zealot when it comes to Rambaldi anymore - he's turning into all the old followers who can't control their own actions. And Sark let's his world spin out of control some times, because he thinks that Milo Rambaldi holds that balance."

She begins to start giving the man the stitches he needs. And Simon nods, knowing that unless Sark can get a handle on himself, they might as well consider themselves screwed.
The room is dark, and Sydney is not yet in new clothes, like Sark had promised. But she never trusted that promise. And she's bound to a aluminum chair, not at all slipping out of consciousness like she has before in situations like the present. The door opens, sending light to dance on her face, and a silhouette of a woman is before her. Shivers and memories. And she feels like she sees her mother again, remembering Taipei. Memories of scars and wounds - betrayal of blood. And the heels are clicking on the floor as the door shuts. The woman crosses the room, and pulls up a different chair, a smile on her face. And Sydney sees that it isn't her mother, but the woman she met before, Stephania.

"Hello Sydney." She sits just before her with a leg crossed over the other. "I know it's going to sound cliché, so I won't say that there are two ways we can do this." And she's pulling a small table over, letting the metal legs screech on the cement floor, until it stops just in front of Sydney. "There are many ways we can do this, some good for me and some good for you." She takes a deep breath, shaking her head slightly. "It all depends on you, and if you're going to give me the information I want to hear." She reaches overhead, pulling the dangling switch to a low hanging light.

And Sydney looks away, refusing to make eye contact. Steph smiles. So this is how the infamous Sydney Bristow reacts. This is what the girl she's heard stories about, does as her first act of defiance. Maybe she's going to like this a little more than she planned. "That's fine, Sydney. I prefer the way that's good for me, as well." And Steph reaches for her first tool - tweezers. Sydney is confused, just for one moment, but then realizes what she's set out to do, as the woman begins to remove the bandage on her left arm.

She grits her teeth, and maybe gasps as the first of the fresh stitches is ripped from her flesh. Blood once again begins to pour, sending pain jolting through her body. But the young CIA agent knows she can take it, and so she holds strong.