Broken Pieces
Disclaimer: Alias and all related items do not belong to me. Only the Story and its related original ideas and characters are mine. No copyright infringement intended.
Rating: PG-13, for the moment.
Spoilers: Up to and including 3x19, "Hour Glass"
Distribution: Please ask, the answer will likely be yes.
Feedback: is a gift. It's nice to give.
Dedication: For Eretria.
Author Notes: This is set a good few years after "Hour Glass", so things have happened that weren't in the series. I'm not including what happened in the last three episodes because I hadn't seen them when I started writing this and they don't really fit! I will likely use a few bits and pieces, like names, etc.
This is my first Alias fic, so all comments are welcome. If you have any feedback or constructive criticism, then please let me know. This will likely have three parts total, so it's not an epic.
Huge thanks to Eretria for betaing this. I love you, honey!
xxxxx
Part One
xxxxx
She wasn't sure when she had started to notice that things were not quite right, but in the darkness of their bedroom, when the only sound was that of the storm brewing outside their window, she was able to admit to herself that she wasn't happy. She had lain on her bed, facing the large bay windows, having left their dark green curtains open, and had soon found that sleep was not forthcoming. She could see the thick, grey clouds racing across the sky and she felt something stirring inside her with a gentle rumbling in the distance. She felt as though there was something out there, something that was trying to awaken her. She hadn't even realised she had fallen, but somewhere along the way Sydney Bristow had got lost.
She sighed and glanced over her shoulder at his sleeping form. He was sprawled over half the bed, his face seeming so pale across the pillow as the room was lit by the stirrings of lightning that were beginning outside. So many choices along the way and she was no longer sure that she had made the correct ones. Their lives were filled with missions, danger, guns and death, and yet, when they returned home at the end of the evening to their comfortable house and their comfortable private lives, she often found herself becoming restless.
All Sydney had wanted over the last four years was a normal life. She had wanted a normal home, with a normal job, a normal husband and a normal family. Whilst she had attained the house and the - almost - husband, she realised that her job was a part of who she was. It was not a realisation that she had accepted readily, but the truth was that it was in her blood. The thrill of the game was inside of her, it was in her father and her mother and her aunts. It was even a part of her sister, and the truth was that, despite her protestations to the contrary, Sydney didn't know who she was without it and she wasn't sure she wanted to find out.
She glanced at the clock and rolled her eyes before pulling back the sheets. She padded through to the bathroom and began to run water in the sink, deciding that, if she couldn't sleep, then she could perhaps prepare for the day ahead. It was only four in the morning, but she was becoming used to the early rises, the sleepless nights and the dark rings under her eyes. All she was living for now was the game, her job, and the truth was, she didn't want to analyse why.
She quickly washed her face, dressed, and soon found herself running through the drizzling rain, along the well travelled path by the beach. The day was beginning to dawn and she couldn't help but smile as the sunlight began to peek through the clouds as it wandered over the horizon. Her mind was blissfully quiet and it was, therefore, odd that he was almost right next to her before she noticed he was there.
"Hi," she said breathlessly, stopping by the bench he was sitting on.
"Hey." He patted the empty space beside him. "Come sit with me."
Sydney smiled and did as he asked, shivering slightly as the wind chilled her now that she was no longer in motion. She felt the moisture from the bench instantly soaking a wet patch into the butt of her trousers and made a face. "This had better be good," she said with a mock glare, "you're making me all wet."
He chuckled and placed his arm around her, pulling her close. He looked at her for a moment and frowned. "How are you, Syd? It's been a while."
She frowned. "Weiss, you came to dinner last night."
"I know."
There was a moment of silence in which she realised that he was serious. He was worried about her. "What's wrong?"
"Syd, we're friends right?" he asked. "I mean despite the fact that I don't think you've ever used my first name, we're friends."
Sydney laughed and leaned her head on his shoulder. "Of course, we are. For a long time, you were all I had."
"And now you have Mike again."
She sighed, unable to stop herself. "Yeah, now I have Michael." She felt him nod and, for a moment at least, she wanted to tell him everything. But she couldn't. Despite the fact that she sensed he already knew, she would not put him in that position. Michael was his best friend and there was no way Sydney was going to tell him anything that would jeopardise that.
After almost five minutes of silence, Sydney felt her eyes beginning to drift closed and only his soft chuckle stopped her from just falling asleep. She smiled and sat up to look at him, unable to stop herself from yawning.
"I think I'd better get back, have a shower."
"I think you'd better get back and see if you can get some sleep," Weiss said with a smile. He regarded her for a moment before sighing and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I know that Mike and I are best friends and that makes it a bit awkward, but Syd, you're one of my best friends, too, and if you ever need to talk…well, I'm here."
She felt tears welling in her eyes but refused to let them surface and she nodded and said goodbye. She had spent almost a year of her life doing nothing but cry and, while it had made her stronger in the end, she had vowed to herself that she would not become that shadow of a person ever again.
By the time she arrived back at their home, Michael was in the shower. She debated joining him, but in lieu of her recent thoughts, she would feel too guilty. She decided, instead, to take Weiss' advice and curled up on the bed, deciding to just close her eyes for a moment.
She blinked a few times and rubbed at her eyes, the sudden change in surroundings setting her off balance. She was standing in a large room in what appeared to be a library. When her vision cleared completely, she found that she felt safe, as though she had been there before, although the part of her conscious mind that was present insisted that she had not.
She glanced around again, feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the sheer mass of books around her. The high walls were covered from ceiling to floor in shelf upon shelf, each one filled with more books than Sydney could ever hope to read in five lifetimes, let alone one.
She walked to the centre of the spacious room and sat down in what appeared to be a familiar chair, running her hand along the leather padding on the polished wooden arms. Frowning, and unsure as to her reasons why, she slid her hand down the outside of the chair and slipped it underneath the seat, feeling around for a moment before finding it. Her frown deepened as she quickly worked the small device out of the tape that was holding it to the chair and held it in front of her.
She was staring at the small wooden box. It was handmade, Japanese in origin, and undoubtedly extremely expensive. It was hers; she just wasn't sure how she knew that or anything about it. She slowly opened the lid, waiting for the soft tinkling music to start. It soon filled the room with a gentle lullaby and she smiled.
Leaning closer, she felt herself grow light-headed. She blinked but the feeling would not leave her. She closed her eyes and began to rub them, stopping only when the sound of gunfire drew her attention.
Instantly she was on alert. Her reflexes kicked in and she was only aware of the moment. Her gun, already drawn, had fired three perfect shots before she had even had a moment to fully check out her new surroundings.
"Julia! You need to take out the bloody safe not the men!"
She turned to glare at Simon, who continued to shoot at the growing number of adversaries. "I know what I'm doing, Simon," she yelled in a thick Russian accent. The man rolled his eyes at her pretence of keeping her cover, but years with the CIA, and SD-6 before that would not let her slip. Even if he did.
She ducked as a missile of some sort was thrown in her direction and pulled herself in the gap by a doorway as the offending object exploded. Not willing to let the man who had thrown it get away, and also making sure that Simon became aware of the fact that she could not be ordered around so easily, she took aim and killed the man instantly.
Well, she thought, only a niggling sensation of remorse, that's one thing to be said for the life of a terrorist. You don't have to worry about a body count. She shook her head and pulled out her phone as she entered the building, making sure that her path was clear.
"Where are you?"
"Oh, it's nice to speak to you too, Mom," she said, petulantly. "The weather in Russia is lovely, thanks for asking."
"We don't have time for this, Sydney, your sister's life is at risk."
"I know, I know." Sydney sighed and fired a shot as she rounded the corner, taking out the single guard. "It amazes me," she said, more to herself than her mother, "that someone actually thinks that one guard is sufficient to protect such a valuable object."
Her mother laughed a little in her ear. "They rely on the security system."
"Well, you cracked it." There was no reply to that and Sydney smirked as her mother simply parroted the constantly changing code she would require to get into the main room. She had disabled the main grid and the minor alarms before entering the building, but the final one required a code that changed every five minutes. She was lucky that Simon knew nothing of that fact or he would undoubtedly question where she was getting her information.
There was a slight click and the red light in front of her blinked off as the green one next to it blinked on. "I'm in."
"Good, now don't forget to give Kendall the counterfeit. Ekaterina has left the diamonds for Simon in a small black bag on the second floor behind the Monet, and Sydney, be careful."
"Yes, Mom."
She rolled her eyes and clipped the phone closed, reaching out a hand to open the door.
She was being held down. She thrashed and swung her fist out, connecting with an almost sickening crack. She sat up, alert and ready for action.
"Jesus, Sydney!"
"Oh, my God." She clasped her hand over her mouth as Vaughn clutched at his bloody nose. "Michael, I'm so sorry, I-"
"God, Syd, I know it pays to be a bit paranoid, but that's the second time this week!"
"I know, I'm sorry." She slid off the bed and into a kneeling position in front of him. She reached out a hand tentatively, relieved when he allowed her to check his nose for breakage. After giving him the all clear, she leaned back on her heels, looking at him apologetically. "I really am sorry, Michael."
He rolled his eyes, but she was pleased to see the beginnings of a smile on his face. "Well, it'll teach me. I'll make sure to wake you up from a distance next time. With water."
"Don't you dare!"
He finally grinned at her, the blood on his face making him seem rather manic. "I think I need another shower."
She shook her head and laughed. "Come on then." She reached out her hand and helped pull him to his feet. He leaned down to kiss her and she smiled, forcing away the thoughts she had allowed herself during her insomnia, not even giving her recurring dreams a second thought.
xxxxx
There were few things in life that Sark could honestly say he enjoyed, but being clean, well dressed and in the company of a fine wine was definitely one of those things. He slowly poured himself a glass of one of his favourite red wines, a rather well preserved bottle of South African Merlot, and sat back in his chair.
Whilst grateful that he was back in what could be called his natural surroundings, there was an air of impatience around him of late that he was at a loss to explain. It was easily resolved, usually with the help of his trigger finger, but the fact that it was there was enough to irritate him. Something was coming. He wasn't sure what it was or where it was coming from, but it was most definitely not going to be pleasant.
He took another sip of wine and forced his mind to the present. England was most definitely not his favourite place in the world, but there was a peacefulness about it that helped him to pretend it was his safe haven. He never remained in the same part of the country, but he did tend to stick to the larger cities, London more often than not, but on occasion he even travelled north and over the border into Scotland. The marginally colder climate was generally enough to keep him away from the rustic beauty the country possessed, but he sometimes preferred the added seclusion he was able to find in some of his Scottish properties.
"I need to ask you a favour."
The voice, seemingly coming out of nowhere, did little to startle him and he swivelled around in his leather chair. He regarded the woman before him, expressionless, but somewhere in his eyes he knew she saw the respect, the disgust, the appreciation, and the anger that his mask kept hidden.
He took another sip of his wine, glancing at the deep red liquid for a few moments before deigning to answer her. "Seeing as how the last time I heard you utter those words, I found myself experiencing the hospitality of the United States Government for two years, you'll understand if I don't seem willing to comply."
"I did get you out," she replied silkily. She smiled and took a few steps towards him, stopping at the nearest bookshelf and plucking out his first edition Fathers and Sons. The meaning was not lost on him.
"And in doing so took eight hundred million dollars of my inheritance."
"You got it back."
"Through no help of yours. So, again, I'm sure you'll understand if I don't seem willing to be at your beck and call." He would not allow himself to become agitated by her presence and, if he were truthful to himself, he knew he was genuinely interested in what she had to say. It had been almost a year.
"My daughter needs your help."
He raised an eyebrow. "Which one?"
"Don't play games with me, Sark."
"But I'm so good at them."
"Not with me."
He smirked and leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine around in his glass. "And what could Miss Bristow possibly need that would require my help?"
"Her memories cannot stay hidden forever."
"Ah, I see," he said, his smirk widening. "And you want me to help her? I'm sure she'll jump at the opportunity to bond."
"She needs to know that what she is remembering is real. She won't want to believe it."
"I can't imagine why."
"You may be beyond the reach of the CIA right now, Sark, but don't push me."
He smiled at her and took another drink. She was still leafing through the book in her hands and he regarded her for a moment. He had known Irina Derevko for a long time and, in that time, he had done everything within his power to study her, but the woman gave nothing away unless she wanted you to know it. He was not sure he was willing to give her that kind of power over him again. Years of watching her expressionless face had allowed him to spot every slight twitch or alteration in her demeanour, but the moment he thought he had figured out what they might mean they would disappear.
Despite the fact that her attention appeared to be on the book, Sark knew that she was watching every move he made. He was used seeing an empty expression, or even a smile, without knowing what was going on behind the mask. He had learned that the best way with Irina was just to ask. She rarely told anyone what they wanted to hear, but often what she did say held clues.
"Why should I help you?"
"Because it would further your own end."
"And what do you know of my end?" he asked, trying to keep a slightly playful lilt to his voice. He hoped it hadn't come out forced.
"More than you want me to." She closed the book with an audible thud and stared him in the eyes. "The choice is yours, Sark. Sydney will be in Berlin tomorrow evening. I'm sure you are competent enough to track her down."
"I can assure you, Irina, I am more than capable of handling your daughter. I am also aware of the fact that she is already in Berlin."
Irina's eyes narrowed and he allowed his smirk to widen slightly. "Be careful, Sark. You don't want me to discover I no longer have any use for you." She walked to the door and turned briefly, flashing him a smile as though the previous conversation had never occurred. "I'll return this," she waved the book at him, "when I see you next."
He made no move to reply or acknowledge her as she left the room, instead choosing to finish the remaining wine in his glass. There was no real decision to make; he had been planning on going to Berlin anyway so his plans had not changed. The fact that his intention had also been to intercept Sydney Bristow simply made him feel easier about the fact that he was, once more, doing Irina's bidding. He had his own plans and, despite what Irina thought she knew, he was not going to let anyone get in his way. Not Sydney Bristow or her father, and most especially, not Irina Derevko.
xxxxx
Muffled sounds made their way through the tattered blanket that seemed to have overcome her hearing. She groaned softly as the distant sounds of the traffic and the gentle noises of the city penetrated her ears. She blinked a few times, but soon found that the meagre light surrounding her was hurting her eyes more than she felt was necessary; the light, however, did not seem to care.
She slowly took inventory of her body, stretching muscle after muscle, in a systematic fashion, attempting to ascertain her situation. Her mouth set in a grim line as she realised her position. The ropes binding her wrists and ankles to the steel chair she was sitting rather uncomfortably on were tied tightly, and even the slightest movement served to burn against her skin.
She fought to remember what had happened, but only hazy memories made their way through. She remembered little of what had happened over the last seventy-two hours, and yet she knew that that was a good guess as to how long ago she had left the United States.
Her arrival in Berlin was not memorable, nor would she have expected it to have been. When she had begun her work with SD-6, and even during her double agent days, she had thrilled in new countries, had loved immersing herself in other cultures and drowning herself in the architecture of new cities, but it seemed that even that had been destined to end. For the last few years she had struggled to regain that enthusiasm for each mission and failed. Nothing seemed to hold that fascination for her any more. Nothing and no one.
Pushing away her morose thoughts, she struggled to remember what had happened to leave her in the current situation, but could barely recall the mission, her mind was so addled with confusion. She vaguely recalled breaking into the house. Vaughn and Weiss in a not so distant vehicle tracking her progress. She remembered that there had been a disagreement between them, the sounds being muffled slightly, no doubt covering their microphones, as they fought over whether or not she should continue. Weiss had wanted her to pull out, that much she knew, and from her current predicament, she assumed that he had been correct in his decision.
She wished she could remember more, but the more she tried, the harder it became. She had struggled with forgotten memories for a long time and she knew that she had to wait; she had to wait until they were ready to reveal themselves. She hoped that one day they would.
Memories, Sydney had decided, were precious things. Having spent the last four years knowing that there was a period in her life that she did not remember was infuriating. She wanted to know. Not just so that she could put mind at peace, but more because she knew there was something buried in her head, something that she hadn't wanted to remember. It scared her to wonder what that thing might be.
There was a click to her left and, whilst part of her wanted to feign unconsciousness, she had spotted the cameras in the corners of the room. Her captors - whoever they were - knew she was awake.
"Miss Bristow."
She resisted the urge to groan as the velvety British accent drifted across the room. "Sark."
"It's nice to know that you haven't forgotten me."
"Likewise," she said with a glare, tugging at the chains wrapped around her arms and legs. He chuckled slightly and she wanted to hit him. "What do you want, Sark?"
"A great many things, Miss Bristow, a great many things." He smiled at her, taking a seat on the narrow table in front of her.
"I'll rephrase, what the hell do you want from me, Sark?"
"Again, Sydney, a great many things." He watched her for a moment and she narrowed her eyes, forcing herself not to react to the way he seemed to be taking in every detail of her body. Had it been any other man, she might have taken it as a compliment, but it was Sark she was dealing with; the smirk in his eyes proved that he was mocking her.
"However," he continued, his gaze returning to her face. "For the moment, I believe your help would be satisfactory."
"My help?" she asked incredulously. "You want my help?"
"I once told you we were destined to work together, Sydney." His gaze was steady as his eyes bored into her. "I truly believe that."
"Go to hell."
He smiled and shook his head. He rose and walked to the door. However, before opening it, he stood still. She expected him to turn, but he didn't, choosing to speak whilst facing the door. "When you change your mind-"
"Exactly what part of 'go to hell' are you having trouble understanding?" She knew he was likely more amused than anything else, but he said nothing and, without being able to see his face, he left her alone in the dark, wondering how she would manage to save herself and whether or not she even had the inclination to do so.
Time seemed to slow down the moment Sark left her alone in her dank cell. Her food appeared like clockwork, she was given a few bathroom breaks, and, with the light from the window changing, she was able to count four days passing before she was graced with another visit.
Part of her was constantly wondering why she seemed to have given up all hope of escape, indeed, why she had not even attempted escape. Since her first painful tug at her ropes, she had not tried to pull at them again, refraining from even trying to loosen the tension in her shoulders and legs cause by the position they were being held in. She hadn't even tried to escape when she was taken to the bathroom. The rest of her, however, was wondering whether on not Michael and Weiss were looking for her. Deep down she knew that they were, but she could not deny that part of her did not want to be found. She wanted so much to be left alone; to leave her nice, uncomplicated life and her highly complicated job, but the job was the only thing she lived for, without that, Sydney could not see any point to going on. Michael did not seem to care that there was a darker side to her, or rather, he chose to ignore it and Weiss…well, Weiss was Michael's best friend and she refused to stand in the way of that. She felt as though no one knew her.
Sark entered the room silently, as if trying to gage her reaction to the minimal noise he was making. She gave no outward sign that she had registered his presence, but she knew that Sark would know that she had. She almost felt relief at that. Some things never changed and Sark's awareness of her was one of them.
He crossed the room and, once again, leaned on the table facing her. They sat in silence for a few minutes, simply staring at each other. She would not be the one to break it.
"I had hoped that, by now, you would have changed your mind."
"You know me better than that, j-"
"If you call me 'Julian' I will take great pleasure in killing you."
She raised an eyebrow. "I don't know when it happened, Sark, but Julian Lazarey died a long time ago."
"From the look in your eyes, I'd say so did Sydney Bristow."
xxxxx
He wasn't sure how he had expected her to react, but the calm silence that had enveloped the room was almost chilling. He had spent four days watching her; four days of nothing, barely a twitch of her fingers and not one attempt to study her surroundings, let alone escape. The only recognisable part of Sydney Bristow that seemed to have remained was her stubbornness, but even then Sark was unsure if her refusal of food was simply because she had given up. He wasn't sure why it angered him, but he had reached the point where he couldn't watch any longer. Besides, he had his own plans to work on.
"I find it odd that you, Miss Bristow, would be so remiss as to allow yourself, not only to fall into what was clearly a trap on my part, but to refrain from attempting to escape whilst in my captive."
"Perhaps it's all part of my cunning plan."
"Then I'll await the conclusion with bated breath, however, your inability to spot weakness on the part of my staff," he said, inclining his head to the man by the door, "is something I would never have suspected you of."
"Really? You think I've been unobservant." He shrugged, waiting to see if she would rise to the bait. "Chubby over here could stand to lose a few pounds, not to mention the fact that I could have, on three separate occasions, stolen his side arm. Ginger needs to lighten up on the aftershave and think about maybe giving up the day job if he thinks that appalling accent is in any way going to hide that he's Russian. Captain America might want to see if he can locate some brain cells. A the single lock on the door is hardly enough to keep me in. Your security changes like clockwork, and your staff has vintage fire power and as much ability to sneak around as a pack of rabid dogs."
"And yet here you are. I have to admit that I'm a little curious about that."
"Haven't you heard, Sark, curiosity killed the cat."
"No, I did."
"And here I thought the smell of rotting flesh was coming from tubbo over here."
They fell into silence and Sark couldn't help but wonder what it was he had achieved, if anything, from the conversation that had just taken place. His aim had been clear in his mind, however, Sydney Bristow had a knack for disrupting his plans. He had to admit that that wasn't always something he minded.
He took a deep breath, but her gaze remained stoic. "They all make it sound so difficult, don't they? The CIA. They forget that we made this our lives, regardless of which side we chose to play on."
"Leaving is not an option."
"The thrill or the end, which do you crave the most? Or do you even care any more?"
She glared at him. "Why do you care?" she spat.
"I care little about your affairs, Sydney, but when the person I consider my greatest adversary gets careless, it all becomes too easy." He walked behind her chair, making sure she that could feel his breath on the back of her neck as he leaned forward. "I could kill you right now."
"You've had plenty of opportunity to kill me in the past, Sark, and you never did." She laughed mirthlessly. "You don't have the guts."
"Has no one ever told you, it's not wise to tempt the person with the gun?"
"Gee, I must have missed that page in my CIA handbook."
"Your humour, I see, is still in tact." He moved silently back to the table and, once again, leaned back, staring at her. He was still unsure as to why he was bothered by her current state, but he needed her assistance and he couldn't use her the way she was. Her rant about his security detail was perfect and he was glad to see that she still had her wits about her, even though she was choosing not to act on her observations. He was actually rather pleased that she had decided to stay, although he was unsure as to why that was.
After another small pause, he spoke. "Are you more afraid that they're real, Sydney, or that they aren't?"
"Riddles, Sark?" She almost laughed. "How novel."
"They haunt you, don't they; when you sleep, whenever you take a moment to think? They strike when you least expect them to and they don't let you go. They leave you wondering whether or not you trust yourself."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
She knew. Sark could see it in the sudden paleness of her skin, in the grim line of her mouth, the tense shape of her chin, but mostly in the wide, dead eyes that stared back at him. Those eyes that had once held so much passion, so much hatred, so much…spirit. They were dead. He needed her alive.
"The dreams, Sydney. The memories." He settled back against the table a little more, tucking his hands into his suit pockets.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I don't believe you."
"I don't care."
He was amused by her petulance, but unsure how to proceed and that unsettled him a little. She was one of the two people he had ever met that had ever been able to do that to him; how ironic that one was spawned from the other. "You have been fighting for a long time, Sydney. It makes a mark on people. More so on you, given your history."
"Are you actually trying to have a heart to heart?"
"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response, Sydney. But tell me this. Why do you do it? Is it because you feel you have to, or because it's the only thing that reminds you of who you were?"
"I do it for a lot of things, Sark. Things you would never understand."
"Mr. Dixon's children are dead."
"And if I ever find McKenas Cole, I swear to God-"
"A very skilled assassin."
"Don't you dare, Sark." She glared at him and he was happy to see a spark of life. "Don't you dare speak to me about him as if you respect him."
"I do. I quite respectfully planted a bullet between his eyes."
"Point blank range?" Sark inclined his head by way of acknowledgement and the corners of her mouth twitched up. "So he's dead."
"That is usually what occurs when one is shot point blank between the eyes, yes."
She narrowed her eyes but did not comment, despite the fact that the statement had been more to herself than to him. "So Dixon-"
"-has been chasing shadows for the last year."
"And you didn't think to put him out of his misery?"
Sark smirked at her choice of words but, instead, answered her question. "Somehow, I had the feeling that placing myself in the path of Marcus Dixon would be detrimental to my health. Besides, I have no interest in his affairs."
"What do you want, Sark?"
"I need your assistance."
"You said that already. I think I told you to-"
"-go to hell, yes, I remember." He took a deep breath and stood, but did not approach her. "What I strive to achieve is something I believe you would have a vested interest in."
"I doubt that."
"If there was one thing you could change about the last five years of your life, Sydney, what would it be?" She frowned and he turned and walked towards the door. "Think about it," he said before exiting the room.
xxxxx
Sydney stared at the man by her door. Since her last meeting with Sark, she had not been left alone in her cell. She was constantly surrounded by one of Sark's three stooges. They were not his usual type, she had noted with curiosity, she gave credit where it was due and Sark tended to surround himself with professionals; these three were lazy and careless. She wondered if it were a test. Was she meant to escape?
Captain America grunted and she turned to look at him. He was around seven foot tall, built like a tank, and classically good looking. Had she thought Sark swung that way, she would have assumed his presence to be under different circumstances; however, she did think that Sark would be likely to choose his partners based on more than looks. Then again, there was Lauren.
She smirked and closed her eyes for a moment, shaking her head in an attempt to clear her mind. When she opened her eyes, Sark was standing in the doorway with a peculiar look on his face. He frowned for a moment before entering the room. This time, however, rather than returning to the table, he walked towards her brandishing a knife. There was a part of her that knew she should fear for her safety, but she could not shake the feeling that Sark was not there to hurt her.
He quickly moved behind her and, just when she was beginning to think that she was wrong, she felt the ropes around her arms give way. She tenderly pulled her arms around and rubbed gently at her wrists, hoping to get a little feeling into her fingers. She had long since stopped caring about the position she had been held in, but now that she was free of it her body was aching. As he knelt to cut the roped from her ankles, she slowly tried to move her shoulders around, hoping to get a little feeling into them as well. They protested vehemently and had to hold back a hiss of pain.
She could feel the blood rushing back into her limbs and tried her best to sit still. Pins and needles were beginning to take over most of the feeling in her body as Sark moved to stand in front of her. She made no attempt to move out of her chair. She worked her muscles a little, each of them complaining loudly at the strain they had been under and the unwillingness to do what she wanted. Suddenly she leapt from the chair and smacked Sark hard across the face, but he made no move to protect himself, or even to retaliate as she crumpled to the floor on her unused legs.
He turned his head back around to look down at her, his left hand rubbing at his jaw. "Feel better?"
She groaned. "A little."
He nodded. "Well?"
She took a deep breath and looked up at him, searching his eyes. She was unsure as to what it was that she was looking for, but she felt she had to look all the same. "Can you get me my memories back?"
"They seem to be resurfacing on their own, but I can help."
She nodded. "Rambaldi."
"It appears that we are both on the same page after all."
She nodded. "Okay. I'm in." He turned to the doorway and, as she tried to pull herself into a sitting position, she noted that all of the three stooges were present and accounted for. Quicker than she would have thought possible, they were all dead.
As he put away his gun, Sark leaned down and pulled her onto her feet, leading her slowly to the doorway.
"What would you have done if I had said no?"
"No was not an option."
"Sark-"
"Sydney." He stopped and turned to face her. For a moment, she thought that he was angry, instead, she realised that he was completely emotionless; detached from everything. "I never chose to play this game, it chose me, just like it chose you."
"And that excuses what you do?"
"What we do, Sydney, and I make no excuses. I also never lose."
Realising she was fairly steady on her feet, he let go of her arm. She watched him walk down the corridor, knowing that she had the choice whether or not to follow him, but her decision was already made. She used the walls to keep her on her feet. She was fairly quick to catch up with him, but if her decision surprised him, she couldn't tell. Sydney was under no illusions as to what he was, she knew what he was, but, for some reason, she realised that she wanted to walk the same path as Sark. She just wasn't sure why.
xxxxx
End of part one
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