MIRROR IMAGE

Rating: R. Just in general.
Timeline: Mid-season 3, after "Blowback."

Part III, Act 6

She wasn't in leather. Or vinyl or fur or any of a dozen other hideously inconveniencing materials she'd gotten used to wearing over the years. She wasn't wearing a wig. She wasn't wearing sunglasses, or ridiculously heavy jewelry cum communication devices.

She thought if Sark had mentioned that this lack of adornment was part of his "comprehensive offer" three years ago, she might have considered taking him up on it.

It wasn't true, of course. And it was the alcohol that made her even think of pretending it was. Still, Sydney couldn't help enjoying the difference as she and Sark passed through the metal detectors, were patted down—she more thoroughly than he; that at least hadn't changed—and moved through the dark, writhing shapes of dancers to a more strategic point from which to watch the entrance for Ana's arrival.

Ana. It was just after the pilot had announced their descent during their short flight down that Sark had asked about her—his plane, he had said, no need to keep up appearances—and Sydney hadn't answered. Largely because she wasn't in the habit of revealing her weaknesses to international terrorists, but also because she wasn't sure what to say. Ana, Sydney had been told, was dead. But it appeared that Ana was only as dead as Sydney herself was: in other words, not at all.

She'd turned her head to the window, to the cloud banks that streamed endlessly over the wing, and Sark's voice had sounded almost offended as he needled her.

"Not a happy memory, Sydney? Why does it always seem as if you've had so few?"

"You've changed." She turned her gaze back to him, his expression as cool and unchanging as the view she'd abandoned.

His eyebrows raised. "Am I to take that as a compliment?"

He was crueler. He was bitter. He had almost as many edges as she did, now. She wanted to know why. She needed to know why—she didn't trust him, she'd never trusted him, but she'd been able to work him before because she'd felt like she knew him. Now she didn't know what to think. All she knew for sure was that he was loyal to her mother. It was the only thing that hadn't changed. Including his clothes—no suit, just a black turtleneck that accented the sharpness of his chin, his cheekbones, the iciness of his stare.

Instead she said, "You used to act like you liked this. In Denpasar—"

He pressed his lips together, tilted his head back. "Of course. Of course that was you."

"In Denpasar," she pressed, "you looked like you were enjoying yourself."

"And now, you are saying, I do not." When she only waited, he said, "I was a younger man then, Sydney. Some of us didn't have the luxury of forgetting two years of our life."

She ignored the taunt., though it set her teeth on edge. "What changed? Why . . . why is it different?"

He regarded her silently for a long moment. Then he said, evenly, "Because it's personal now. It was never personal before. It was a game, and one at which I excelled." His voice sharpened. "The same reasons, Agent Bristow, I assume it's lost its appeal for you as well. Do you enjoy it anymore? Do you enjoy anything anymore?"

"That is absolutely none of your business."

"I'm making it my business." His eyes gleamed, razor sharp and as actively menacing as she'd ever seen them. "There is nothing, Sydney—nothing—keeping me from turning you over to the Covenant right now in exchange for my inheritance."

She stared at him. That wasn't true. It couldn't be. Because otherwise, why hadn't he? At the least, there was her mother. "Except that I don't have what they need from me at the moment—I'm wearing Lauren's body."

"And you really believe that's all they need from you?" He laughed, humorlessly. "Please, Sydney. They're after your mind. They, unlike I, have no idea what you do and do not remember from your time with them. What you've told the CIA. What missions you sabotaged during your time with them, and which, with the right information, could still be salvaged. You know both too much and too little. They're afraid of how much 'Julia' knows. And they have secrets they'd pay anything to keep."

"What are you getting at, Sark?"

"For instance. Isn't it interesting," he continued conversationally, "how similar you and Miss Reed are? Have you ever wondered about that? The parallels are stunning, really. The hair, the job description. All the things you faked, she has done for real. Killing my father, for instance."

Her eyes narrowed.

"Except you didn't fake everything, did you. I've heard stories."

Her hands clenched on the armrests. "You son of a—"

The men you seduced for information number more than I can count. The number of men who claim to have been seduced would make you ill. You were quite the CIA whore, Agent Bristow." He sneered. "To hear tell of it, the only enemy spy you haven't yet fucked is me—but I've got a few minutes free just now, if you're feeling so inclined."

"I cannot begin to tell you how much you disgust me," she spit.

But she was warm, getting warmer, her entire body vibrating with tension, with fear that he was telling the truth, with loathing for the Covenant, with panic at all the things she didn't know about that she was forced to do to survive. And he was regarding her now with those cool, implacable eyes, that arrogant mouth, and she did hate him, absolutely, but there was something there, in him, that called to her, that made her blood boil. His indifference. The knowledge he held over her. Her loss of control.

"So I ask you, Sydney: Do you enjoy your job?"

"No," she said as she felt the plane touch down on the runway, jaw tense with suppressing the urge to shove the heel of her hand into his face. "No, I do not."

He nodded in grim satisfaction, as if he had proven something to himself. "Then let's go have fun out there, shall we?"

Now they were sitting at the club's glass bar. Lights embedded in the floor shone up through it, lighting Sark's face from beneath with cool blue and making him look eerier than usual. So far, Ana hadn't made an appearance, so they were simply marking time at the bar. She felt warm, and remarkably unworried. She would have suspected Sark of drugging her again, but she was well aware that Lauren's alcohol tolerance was lower than hers.

She was aware of it, but she didn't really care. She needed a few drinks after the tension of the plane ride—a tension that had evaporated the moment they'd left the cabin, and left her with the sense of having been entirely drained. They hadn't spoken in the car—Sark had driven—and they had both been all business as they entered the club. At least she could count on both of their professionalism, she thought darkly, looking down at her not at all CIA-sanctioned drink.

Sark sipped at his glass of red as she nursed her third pleasantly-strong Cosmopolitan. Their silence had become almost companionable. She didn't understand it, but for now she was willing to work with it. They had a job to do—two jobs to do, really—and she'd rather do them like this than while at each other's throats.

"This could be worse," she admitted to herself under her breath.

"Pardon?" Sark asked distractedly. His gaze flickered to her face before returning to the entrance over her left shoulder.

"Nothing," she said. "Just—" Just that this is almost nice, she thought, and was immediately irritated. This was Sark she was sitting there with. Had she been that starved for companionship lately that drinks—work drinks, no less—with an obnoxious assassin whose pastimes included trying to kill her and sleeping with her soulmate's double-agent wife was her idea of a good time?

"Just?" he inquired.

"Nothing," she repeated, annoyed at herself, and he shrugged.

"Have it your way, darling."

She closed her eyes, and gritted her teeth. Of course he had to ruin it. "Don't call me that."

"What shall I call you instead?" he asked, reaching for his wine again and regarding her over its rim. "Sweetheart? Love? Or perhaps Mrs. Vaughn?"

Somehow his heart didn't seem to be in it; she wondered, perhaps for the first time ever when it didn't have to do with work, what he was thinking.

She didn't do it long, because there was a sudden, subtle change in Sark's posture.

"What's wrong?" she asked, instantly alert.

"I see her."

"Is she alone?"

Sark looked grim again. "It appears so. But armed. I see a holster at her thigh."

Girl's best friend, Sydney thought.

"I don't believe she entered through the front door."

"And therefore bypassed the metal detectors."

"Naughty girl," Sark murmured. He took another sip of the wine. "She's made contact with someone. A man. 5'7", 200 lbs. And really horrible shoes. I don't recognize him. Here, take a look."

He reached for her and yanked her over and onto his lap. She almost spilled her drink.

"This is not the only way to do this," Sydney hissed at him, relaxing into his body and giggling for their onlookers' benefit. He was softer than she'd have thought. Less muscle. Like a seal. A seal with really great aim.

"It was the most expedient," he said, nuzzling her neck. She hoped he was enjoying himself. No, actually she hoped he turned out to be allergic to her perfume.

"By the door?" she asked, and he responded, "She's in red."

Sydney focused in on them immediately, the sleek back of Ana's head and the man in the patterned collared shirt and slacks. "I don't recognize him either."

She almost jumped out of her skin when his mouth touched her skin, open and warm. Socializing wasn't he only thing she hadn't been doing enough of lately. No more Cosmopolitans on the job. No more jobs for her mother, and definitely no more jobs with Sark. Ever.

"I'm slapping you, first opportunity," she growled, digging her nails into his thighs hard enough, hopefully, to draw blood.

"I appreciate the warning."

Sydney tamped down on her anger. "They're moving towards the stairs."

"I can see that."

"Can you? Your line of sight isn't obscured by my breasts?"

"I'm trying to be convincing," he protested, failing to stop.

"Great. You stay here and be convincing. I'm going after Ana."

Sark slid a few bills onto the bar—no use drawing attention, she assumed; besides, it's not like he couldn't afford it—as she stood, and they followed the flash of Ana's skirt. Sydney led. No one gave them a second look; maybe it was her lack of flashy wig. Or the fact her thighs were covered.

The couple slipped through a side door; Sydney and Sark followed a dozen steps behind them. Ana's heels clicked on the stairs above them, and disappeared on the first landing. A door slammed. Sydney wished, uncharacteristically, for a gun.

"This is too easy," Sydney said as they reached the top of the stairs and started down the dark, empty hallway, backs close against the right wall.

"This whole reconnaissance mission is beginning to concern me."

"Trap?" she wondered aloud.

Sark frowned. "A set up of some sort, at least."

"And I thought it was just me."

They paused at the first door—no sound. She looked back to Sark. He shrugged. They moved on to the next.

At the fifth door they heard a muffled thumping. Sydney eased open the door—

—and found herself confronted with Ana's smooth bare legs wound around her contact's thankfully cloth clad back. She wore her dress rucked up around her thighs, and a quirk of a smile on her generous lips.

Then Sydney felt steel, cold against the back of her neck, and thought, Sark, damnit! She'd at least thought she could count on him for back up. The man was brilliant at getting his own neck out of trouble. Obviously the skill didn't extend to his partner's, because here she was with hers forced forward by the weight of her captor's gun.

"Thank you, Ana," the man holding the gun said from behind Sydney's left shoulder. "That will be all."

Ana casually reached up, threaded her fingers through the man's hair and drove his head into the wall. Then she smoothed the dress down over her thighs and left the man crumpled on the floor the way other women might discard a blouse.

As she passed, she gave Sydney a smug, audacious wink, and Sydney felt that familiar roil of fury and frustration she always associated with the other woman. It was different from her rivalry with Sark—Sark irritated her, made her angry, and she was of course against him and everything he stood for, but her feelings were solely professional. With Ana, it was personal.

But Ana had nothing with Lauren Reed. And Sydney had to remember that, at this moment, she was Lauren Reed.

"Sydney Bristow," her captor said, and she realized she knew that voice, she hated that voice, and she couldn't believe it had taken her even this long to realize. Sloane. "Won't you step into my office?"