Crimson
References to Star Wars, Animorphs and the KJV.
I. (And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not. - John 1:5)
The wheel squeaks as it goes on another revolution.
The vicious cycle continues. Sark watches silently as he observes Sydney going back to work. With Vaughn.
He slides behind the pillar as a nauseating feeling rises in his stomach. No, it isn't from, as many would perceive, jealousy. It's from something far nobler, that Sark himself would not have thought he would ever feel. Perhaps only in the presence of someone he truly desired, a desire that went further than a mere taste of despicable lust, but something that engaged his emotions, his soul, every fibre in his being. The desire to be with Sydney.
Indeed. The righteous indignation that rises in Sark's throat surprises even him. Injustice, because Sydney deserves far better, he proclaims to himself under his breath.
He curses the Christmas tune playing in the building. He despises the cheerful commercialisation of the yuletide event. For so deeply has he been sucked into the darkness of his soul that he cannot and will not imagine anything so delightful as the 'joy of giving' during Christmas. He cannot understand why the CIA, of all organisations, sees Christmas as any time to celebrate. Why? He does not stop working during Christmas, and therefore, on that premise, neither should they.
He wanders around the building, as he has done many times, and as always, goes undetected.
Treading carelessly along the marble floor, he imagines his life on a movie.
Much like Star Wars, he muses. He's not important enough to be Darth Vader, perhaps merely one of his Siths. Darth Sark would be a mouthful, though it had an addictive ring to it. And there was Sydney and Vaughn, valiant Jedis working to rid the universe of the Darkness and all under them.
Hey, he can even visualise the double bladed crimson light sabre.
But is it not in their possibly fatal encounters that they can only know what it means to have courage? For before courage, surely there was fear. And before forgiveness, surely there was bitterness, just like how... hatred was followed by love.
Oh, how he loathed Sydney the first time they had met. Too cocky, always hiding behind her damned boyfriend, always pining for her estranged father and dead mother.
Sark had never known his parents. Abandoned kid, grew up at his neighbour's. They hadn't liked him much though - they saw him as just another burden. He'd always stayed away, therefore, and learnt to fend for himself, learnt that survival stems from selfishness.
Sydney, on the other hand, was born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Dad a high paying CIA official, probably had a huge mansion to herself. And now what - a dog called Millie. The only dogs Sark had seen were those snow coloured stray wolves he'd seen some time or the other.
But those wolves, those were nature's beauties. He'd loved them, always likened himself to them. Reckoned if he were an Animorph, he'd be a wolf half the time. Cunning, stealthy, most of all, handsome. And he'd wanted to be a wolf.
As time dragged on, Sark found something captivating about Sydney. Soon she stopped hiding in the shadow of her then-handler, she'd gotten out and birthed an identity for herself, proved that there was life besides Vaughn. And she'd gotten tougher.
But still, the wheel kept creaking, kept spinning - Sydney would chase, and Sark would run. And that was the way they were bound by the cruel hands of fate. That Sark should represent what was evil, and that Sydney his antithesis.
He'd enjoyed playing the villain until then.
Then he realised that because of who he was, because of his nature, because of the way he lived and his dissolved conscience, there was no way that Sydney would ever see him the way he saw her. There was no way that Sydney would ever love him the way he loved her.
"Agent Bristow, your next mission is..."
Sark tunes Dixon out. He already knows where Sydney will be sent: to find him. And he wishes so faintly that for once, she would find him, for all the wrong reasons. He allows himself a step out of his camouflaged hiding, though. Just to gaze upon her face.
Sark traces the contours of her jaw with his eyes. And her lips, perfect. Her intense gaze of concentration, almost admirable, except that Sark knew she was being assigned a mission she would never accomplish, for Sark had already deemed himself impossible to apprehend. Not permanently, anyway.
He wonders if perhaps... no. No one could be as tormented by a forbidden love as he was. Sark saw himself as almost invincible, he could do anything he wanted to do. Just break all the rules, a single swipe of the hand, and he grabbed whatever he needed. Not this time, though. Sydney was... elusive, to say the least. To say she was intoxicating and even more so because he could never have her would have been slightly more accurate, but still an understatement. He never understood the pure and absolute madness of unrequited affection until he'd met Sydney.
Sark tears his gaze away from Sydney's face. He turns his attention to something else, anything else. On the wall he observes a framed painting. It's a painting of a rose, by some famous artist he can't quite be bothered to make out. Silently, he slides over to where it is. From there, he wonders if Sydney can see his shadowed figure, but she never looks up.
The rose is beautiful, though not quite as beautiful as... Sark sighs. He fingers the rough edges of the frame. The single red rose reminds him of a fragility he has never quite understood. Was he not always the infallible? But somewhere within his soul the rose pricks hard, and he tastes the blood in his mouth. Perhaps this is why there is that song about sorrow, love all mingling within blood, for blood is indeed a powerful and binding thing. Even heroes bleed, everyone knows that.
Granted, Sydney's life as a heroine probably isn't easy.
He'd had to watch her bleed though. And he'd had to pretend that he didn't feel anything. Like it was okay. Like he relished watching warm blood trickle down her still perfect face.
It's not easy being a hero, and being a villain, the least of all.
The rose represents him, he realises. The thorns that ward off anyone from coming close to even sensing the gentle caressing and softness of his inner self within. Though inhumanity is what greets the surface, beneath the deep blue eyes lies a vulnerable spirit, still dependent on the most carnal and basic of human intentions - mercy, frustration, even love. And as the petals fall, one by one, there's nothing quite left within... because he is a void without the one he calls his soulmate.
Hmm. The crimson petals remind him of his red lightsabre. Oh well.
Sydney turns. Sark remains in the
shadows, and she seems to stare straight into his mesmerising blue
eyes. Sark looks directly back at her, knowing that she sees nothing
of him, just like she sees nothing in him. He aches, he aches to draw
her into his embrace. Not the way that stupid Vaughn does, just
pretending that he makes everything okay by his mere presence, but
Sark aches to draw Sydney into the truth. That he is madly in love
with her and nothing else matters because loneliness, far more than
betrayal, is the most painful and the most easily remedied of all
human emotions. He longs to wrap her in his arms and show her the
meaning of love - not romance, lovey dovey exchange of sweet
nothings, all that superficiality. But he longs to show her the
depths of his soul... that deception is often the most kind of
actions, that mystery is enticing and that Vaughn is nothing but a
cheap substitute for the truth of the fearsome depth human intimacy
was capable of.
"We are destined to work together,
Sydney. I truly believe that." he whispers softly. Sydney
finally turns away, her magnificent brown hair falling to her
perfectly sculpted shoulders. He attempts to ignore the natural
inclination to vomit when he sees Vaughn running his fingers through
her hair, brushing it down with ease. He imagines the chills running
up and down Sydney's spine, knowing that she is happy with him only
because she knows nothing of the pleasure that he can offer her.
He watches as Sydney leaves her office. He slides in quietly, careful that no one notices him. Silently, he draws out a single crimson rose from his coat pocket and places it carefully on her table. The thorns have not yet been removed, and he pricks himself accidentally. Blood. A drop falls onto the glass top of her table.
He calmly walks outside now, knowing that his work for today is complete.
The wheel squeaks as it continues spinning.
It spins in a relentless pursuit - a pursuit of the completion of his soul he knows he will never find.
II. (For what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? and what communion hath light with darkness? - 2 Cor 6:14)
Sydney listened as Dixon briefed her on her next mission. Sark. Apparently he was somewhere in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.
The mission is the same as always: seek, find, capture.
Sark was an intriguing character, she would not deny that. Yet there was much about him that was disturbing, much about him that simply threw her off guard when she was in his presence. He was semi-ominous, somewhat disturbing but comforting at precisely the same moment.
Something caught her eye, though. She looks up. She thought she saw someone move, just beneath the rose painting.
No, she's just imagining things, she tells herself.
But she can't tear her eyes from the shadowed area just below the painting.
The painting of the rose is a beautiful one. It reminds her of uncertainty, of romance, of love. The rose - governed by thorns and clustered in mystery because of the petals surrounding the dark unknown beneath. She likes it. Her life is an unknown.
There were few things that reminded her of sanity - one being her boyfriend. She was grateful for Vaughn though. A simple minded man, to make her complicated life just a little easier to live.
There! Again! She thought she saw a movement in the shadows, and a glint - a glint of blue as deep as the ocean. A glint that reminded her of only one person.
She would never forget the first time he looked directly into her eyes. His gaze was riveting, piercing, like he could see her soul with all its secrets laid bare. She had stood there frozen, afraid, afraid that he could read what was on her mind, afraid that he could permeate through every brokenness within her, every memory, everything she held dear... it was like a disease. Sark had that kind of a gaze, just like her mother had, that robbed the other party of all security and simply extracted what was required.
It was unnerving, but intricately fascinating.
Just like his character. Sydney could sense a struggle within Sark, like he knew what he was doing was wrong. It hadn't been there in the beginning, no, that was when he killed without a conscience. But now things were different. He looked at the people he killed in a different way, and sometimes Sydney wondered if that look ever meant regret, or possibly remorse, though she knew never would it mean repentance. She'd seen him - he looked at the dead with a pained expression in his eyes, in fact, it was the same way he looked at Sydney.
Sydney realised, Sark never reflected the look of hatred she had often drilled into him. She didn't know why, and it was queer. Like he enjoyed duelling with her, like he wanted to be her foe, her rival, and in every sense, her antithesis.
Because Sark stood for everything she was against.
She had a connection with Sark that Vaughn could never replicate. It was something they shared, though she didn't quite know what. Vaughn was a nice man, she knew that. And Vaughn was deeply in love with her. But somehow Vaughn was just... just a boy. A boy seeking to soothe her pain, a boy who delighted in making her happy. But she could not connect with Vaughn on a deeper level, she could not draw him into the philosophies of right and wrong because he was already so staunchly noble, never having tasted the tantalising tinge of the darkness.
Her world was spinning, much like a crooked wheel that could never do it quite right.
Look away, she warned herself, as Vaughn's curious eyes followed her gaze.
"Sydney?" he asks quietly.
"Yes?"
"Let's... let's go outside."
Sydney agrees reluctantly, her mind still on the British villain. He had a morbidly fascinating kind of lure, a dangerous stealth about him that got him his way wherever he was, whoever he was working with. There is nothing that she wishes to talk to Vaughn about now, nothing that he would understand, for these are the things of darkness, that surely a man of the light would not comprehend.
She walks out of the office. She gets the sensation that someone has entered her private space. She turns around. Is that a figure in the darkened side of the room?
She squints harder. Nothing.
Oh, but what is that?
Nothing, but a drop of blood on her table. And lying next to it, a single crimson rose.
III. (The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined. - Isaiah 9:2)
(Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia - The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.)
Sark sits by himself, a shaded and solitary figure in a corner of the cafe. The atmosphere is stained with the smell of coffee, understandably. He sits back and breathes it in. The faceless people, the pale shadows, the unidentifiable masses - all swiftly changing around him.
He sits silently, and waits, starkly aware of the fact that he is alone.
He picks up the call from a dealer in Selangor. Speaking the routine words, he finishes with a professional 'thank you', clicking the phone shut.
He knows they monitor his calls. Any time now.
He counts the seconds slowly. Three... two... one.
There.
He doesn't bother to get up as the familiar foes enter the cafe, guns blazing.
Same old, same old, he mumbles to himself.
They have spotted him. Time to go.
Sydney shoots. She misses.
He takes his shot. Score: hit Vaughn's leg; he's down.
Sydney turns around, concern spilling out of her. Pained expression on her face. Sark almost regrets it. Then he remembers - Vaughn, he remembers Los Angeles, he remembers... damn those memories. He doesn't regret shooting anymore, though. Sydney's pained expression only translucent now; she hurtles after her enemy, raising her gun to shoot.
Sark realises she's in close range. He is an easy target. Run, he tells himself. He allows himself to cling to one last lingering look, and then he ducks. Expecting the bullets to pierce through his body, he runs like the wind, through the doorway, into the stairwell.
The deafening gunshots have stopped.
Sark doesn't stop running, though he turns his head. Sydney doesn't shoot, for some unfathomable reason. She takes off after him, though her expression has changed. Does she see something different?
Sark runs upstairs, for there is nowhere else to go. Sydney a few metres behind him, still not shooting.
He decides to stop.
Turning around, he flips up his gun and points it at... Oh, she's beautiful. He ignores the momentary infatuation, biting his lip to maintain his composure.
"We meet again, Sydney."
"Shut up, you (expletive)."
Sark watches as the word rolls off her tongue easily. Hatred is still one of the many barely readable emotions in her eyes. He doesn't care, not anymore. Like every single encounter before today, he shoves his feelings away, not wanting to believe, not wanting to believe...
And just to prove to himself he can, he fires.
Sydney dodges to a side, stabbing him with a kick that knocks him off balance. Grabbing a knife from his pocket, he flicks it under Sydney's eyes as she quickly moves away. He jumps back onto his feet. Another duel, another stalemate, he predicts.
He fires again. Her shoulder. She's down.
Damn. And here comes the show. He smiles, though he's breaking inside. He should get an Oscar for this. He smirks, though his twisted heart is in agony. He watches her blink back tears, as he fights to contain his emotions. Compartmentalise, he tells himself. He lifts his gun to shoot her one last time. He raises his gun, his hands shaking uncontrollably.
His finger tightens on the trigger.
And for some unfathomable reason, he doesn't shoot either.
She fights to get up, one arm limp. He sees the pain in her eyes, the absolute physical torture she's going through.
Sark raises his knife as she turns around. He forces his hand down, and he knows Sydney can feel the cool metal blade against her neck. He stops as the metal pierces through something hard. Her necklace falls to the ground, its crimson pendant spinning away.
She is distracted for only a millisecond, then she prances back into her fighting position. Sark knows she's been thrown off. Twice already he could've killed her, and he hadn't.
She shoots.
The searing pain reverberates through his knee. He collapses.
"A life for a life," he thinks he hears her say. Thoughts running through his head, a part of him wishes Sydney had killed him.
Holding her shoulder, Sydney turns and walks off.
Sark grimaces through the pain. He watches his blood seep onto the floor, creating a sticky pool around himself. It's amazing how much blood the human body contains, he muses.
One hand over his knee to stop the bleeding, with the other he reached for the only tangible thing Sydney had left behind.
The pendant.
He picks it up and feels it between his fingers. It's in the shape of a heart, about the size of his thumbnail. Strangely enough, it falls apart in his hands.
It's a locket.
Sark grunts as his agent appears at the top of the stairwell to help him away. He is intrigued by what he finds in the palm of his right hand.
The crimson has faded; it is now brown. Unmistakably, the rose petal is stained by just a drop of blood at the corner. Whose blood? He's not entirely sure.
And so the cycle of forbidden love continues.
The wheel spins round and round, perhaps each time creaking louder than before.