Raven

Brussels was moderately cold and rainy in May.

The city of Nice was not.

Two days ago, Sydney Bristow had arrived in France. She'd strolled into the Hotel Beau Rivage after a relatively short flight from Belgium and checked in for a week's stay. She'd been welcomed with open arms by the awaiting staff, including a handsome young bellhop who had eyed her with brazen interest. She'd smiled diffidently in return to his advances, remarking to no one in particular how forward French men could be.

Before her key had been placed in her hand, the concierge had encouraged her to take advantage of the hotel's private beach.

She did.

Most of the time in her first few days in Nice she appeared to be a normal woman in her early thirties vacationing alone. She took time and relaxed on the sunbeds available on the private beach, snorkeled in the pristine turquoise sea, and even spent part of a day venturing through Old Town. She found the time she spent amongst the splendor by herself, especially the little things like beachcombing and the cold tingly feel of sand between her toes, to be quite cathartic.

Her first two nights in Nice brought nothing but dinner, a quick check of the day's happenings on her laptop, and sleep. It was all so oddly simple that she nearly forgot why she was there.

But her third night in France brought about a cold reminder.

The turning point in her stay, she'd reflect later, was when she returned to her room after a long day of basking in the hot Mediterranean sun and listening to the rolling surf pound into the shore. She yanked open the traditional shutters on her windows to reveal the pink-tinted descending sun and freed her hair from the loose twist she'd had it in all day, contemplating a choice of cuisine for dinner. As her fingers were brushing through the damp, tousled strands, the phone in her room rang.

She didn't hesitate to answer.

"Sydney," the terse masculine voice that answered her hello cuts like a knife.

Betrayer.

"There are things that I need to explain." His quick, clipped words were seemingly planned. He knew he wouldn't hold her attention for long.

"You don't need to explain anything. I already know enough," she gritted out between clenched teeth.

"I'm sending you some documents –"

"God, like I need to read any more –"

" – some documents that carry important information about your family – about us – that I think you should know. I can overnight them and you'll have them by –"

"No!" she shouted, squeezing her eyes shut as tightly as her hand was gripped on the receiver. No more lies. No more truths. No more.

Her outburst rendered him completely silent. She tried to breathe around the thick pain spreading throughout her chest, up to her throat, and was barely successful. She let out a long, measured breath, attempting to steady the rampant emotions filling her.

"I've suddenly come down with a strong dislike for this hotel, for this city," she told him unemotionally. "I won't be here."

The phone dropped from her hand, smacking hard on the hickory nightstand and bouncing noisily to the floor. In the distance, she could hear the faint garbled sound of a voice coming from the receiver, but she reached around behind the lamp and ripped the cord free from the wall, tossing the wire aside. Moments later, Sydney started blindly stuffing her clothes, her shoes, her necessities, into her suitcase, ignoring the steady stream of tears cascading down both cheeks.

Italian sounded good, she decided, but food was the last thing on her mind.

Once she'd packed, Sydney phoned downstairs from her cell phone, informing them of her abrupt departure tomorrow. The concierge offered her a complimentary meal and bottle of wine as a courtesy, but she declined, politely claiming a family matter had suddenly made her lose her appetite. Before disconnecting with the front desk, she asked to not be disturbed for the remainder of the night and reinforced that by hanging the small placard outside her door.

Less than an hour later, no one saw the dark-haired woman classically dressed in all black descend the back set of stairs and exit through the hotel's back door.

Some time later, fifteen minutes outside of Nice at the Domaine du Diamant Rose, struggling suspense novelist Sofia Lemieux burst through the double doors leading to the hotel's front desk.

Her appearance was quite startling to the man behind the desk, considering that when Ms. Lemieux had checked in three days prior, she'd requested complete solitude with absolutely no disruptions for her entire week's stay. Writer's block, she'd said, with an added expletive that the man preferred not to repeat, even to himself. The hotel known for its tranquility and seclusion had obliged, of course. No quirk was too odd for their valuable patrons.

So since her arrival, the individual suite she'd been using for the week had sat quiet, curtains drawn and windows tightly shut. Until this very moment.

"La vie, c'est belle. Tellement belle!" she exclaimed. Her cheery green eyes were vivid and alight as she breezed into the room like an excitable dark cloud. The short blunt cut that framed her face flew back like raven's wings with each hurried step she took toward the counter.

"You know that bastard thought he could best me, but no! No! No one outsmarts Sofia Lemieux!" she continued in rapid fire French. "Wouldn't you know that that little fucker Ralph tried to beat poor Albert to the glass key that opens the onyx and sapphire box? Hmph. Like a dastardly fellow such as him deserves to take the cake!"

She was a flurry of hands and flapping arms, and her quick-moving legs continually took her in irregular circles around the small room. "That man will rue the day he tried to double cross me!

"Now I will celebrate!" she rejoiced, throwing her hands into the air. "Champagne… no, not champagne. Too bubbly. Vino! Yes!" She stopped in front of the man with wide, dramatic eyes and placed both hands firmly on the oak desk. "And I am sorry to say that I will be leaving in two days time instead of staying out the entire week as planned – so much to do now! But you, your hotel, of course will get your full week's pay!"

She slapped her hands on the sides of his face and pulled him to her, pressing a full kiss to the man's surprised mouth. He blushed when she released him, stammering inarticulately as he tried to inquire if she had any more needs besides the wine and the early check out. A deep red imprint that was similar to the flush of his cheeks messily coated his lips and got smudged onto the back of his hand as he discreetly attempted to wipe it off.

"Non, c'est tout!" she exclaimed with a nonchalant wave of a hand as she left in the same swift and peculiar manner that she'd appeared.

The man reached for his handkerchief once she was gone, blotting the remainder of the lipstick off his lips. The thin white cloth also kept the empty room from seeing the small smile that was on his face. What a ball of energy, that woman.

Patrons come and they go at this hotel, he thought later as he walked through the potent darkness that had abruptly descended over the elite hills in the outskirts of Nice. He entered the door of the cabin that hosted her individual suite and absently straightened his suit as he relived the passionate kiss she'd thrown upon him earlier. He stopped his fidgeting, properly made his face blank and knocked once on her door.

One thing that kept those patrons coming back, he reminded himself, was the knowledge that what happened at the Domaine du Diamant Rose, stayed here.

Licorice

She should have stayed here instead of in the city, Sydney mused, shaking the last few drops of wine from her glass onto her tongue. The crisp aftertaste of her fourth glass was quite pleasing, lingered succulently in her mouth long after her glass was set aside. The aftereffects of an unnecessary phone call still remained as well, burned, but were steadily being nudged aside with each drop of liquid escape.

She should have stayed here.

The room smelled musty, stale with the surefire effects of being kept closed up for a period of days. The overlay of recycled air and the sharp cloying scent of a fresh bottle of wine mixed disgustingly with the warm, dank breeze now wafting in from outside. One whiff probably would have made her nauseous if that same oversweet scent of Barbaresco Vanotu hadn't been filling her nostrils, invading her mouth, clouding her overworked mind.

Although, she thought as she clumsily poured a bit more wine into her glass, sitting in a room with a hint of stuffiness still clinging tenaciously to it was certainly better than receiving an insulting phone call out of the blue. Especially when said phone call came with the prospect of receiving even more offensive papers in the mail the next day.

But she didn't want to think about any of that. She didn't want to remember awful fathers who didn't think twice about betraying their daughters to the CIA or employers who put daughters' fathers in that very position. She wanted things to be simple tonight. All she wanted to do was drink her wine and get ready to meet her contact.

Her contact. A quick squint at the antique clock on the mantle reminded her that the time was steadily approaching. She sucked the red she'd spilled onto her hand while pouring it and turned in the chair she'd been in for over an hour now, looking at herself in the mirror.

Even through the make-up she'd put on to perform as Sofia she could see the faint dark circles and slight puffiness that reminded her of things best forgotten. She grabbed for her best concealer and, along with a last gulp of wine, worked at forgetting.

Sydney was still sitting at her vanity mirror, making the last few adjustments to her black wig, when she caught a slight movement out of the corner of her eye. She stilled with her fingers on a newly inserted bobby pin and tried to focus on the ghostly reflection that appeared suddenly behind her, having to blink to clear her eyes of the wine haze. She lowered her hands, smoothing her wig down in the process, and attempted to keep the nonplussed feeling at seeing him in the room she'd acquired with her alias from showing on her face.

She could only hope that he fell for it.

His appearance was rash, dangerous, so like him. She tried to maintain the air of authority she'd had over him since Brussels. Needed to. But a quiet niggling in the back of her mind told her that with his expertise, her stiff body language had already given her edginess away. Her mind also told her that if he were to quickly glance at the near empty bottle of Vanotu sitting next to a recently used glass, he'd know something much more detrimental about her condition.

Her hands formed steady fists. I can control him.

"You're early," she said blandly to his unmoving reflection. "And you're at the wrong location. The message I sent said the Musée de la Castre at 11pm." She moves to stand, keeping one hand on the oak table for balance, and faced the dark shadow standing just within the double doors that led to her room's patio. The beige curtains waved carelessly in the breeze behind him, strangely looking like pale fingers caressing his backside.

"I distinctly remember saying something about no variation from the plans and times I designate."

His body appeared poised; both his hands were elegantly placed in the pockets of his flowing black pants. His calm composure was only slightly fractured by the muscle that jumped in his jaw at her words.

"I don't like to be toyed with, Sark."

Keeping him in her peripheral, Sydney walked to the small metal case she kept with her at all times, not aware of how slow or unsteady her steps were. Boldly, she traced the electronic lock on the outside of the case, her sharp gaze sluing to him for effect.

She wondered for a fleeting moment why she felt the need to do this, to remind him. Overcompensation for the lack of control she felt at the moment, she wondered at first. Then, Nah. This was simply a show, a reminder that even though he'd found her, she was still the one wielding the power.

"You're drunk," he said in a biting tone.

A small, cold smile formed on her face, her expression contorting over his audacity to bring up anything but the business at hand, the business he'd forced on her by coming here. She shook her head and elaborated before she remembered that she wasn't the one answering to him.

"Slightly, but blissfully inebriated," she lied. "May I, once again, commend you on such superior intelligence?"

She wasn't aware that he was coming toward her until he'd crossed nearly half the distance between them in long, determined strides. Her eyes widened imperceptibly, her slim shoulders automatically straightening as she fully faced him. Her body shifted to hide the case behind her, and she hoped that he wouldn't make her use what was inside it.

She blinked hurriedly as he approached, wondering when exactly the room had gotten so blurry, so chaotic and literally improbable with its rippling beige walls and wobbling oak bedposts. And its two-headed Sarks.

Shit.

Her attention shifted back to him in time for her to really see how much his control was slipping. His lips formed a thin pink line, and his shoulders had stiffened enough to flex the taut muscle above his collarbone.

Good. If he kept being angry, he'd screw up. And God knew she could use all the leverage against him she could get right now. Her grip tightened on the case, and only the knowledge that if he hurt her she didn't even need what was inside, kept her from punching in the numerical series that unlocked the case and allowed her to retrieve the remote.

She was surprised when he stopped more than a few feet away, his head tilted speculatively to the side to eye her closely. "From the looks of those bags under your eyes, Ms. Bristow, I'd say 'blissfully' is rather incongruous."

Sydney laughed pithily, a bitter sound to even her own ears. "What do you know about happiness? Well, other than the joy you receive from the money offered when you sell yourself to the highest bidder."

He moved closer still, stopping a foot away from her, his eyes narrowed. She could feel the anger pulsing off of him.

"Do you think this is a game, Ms. Bristow?" he asked, the sliver of blue showing lit in pure fury. "Do you find it amusing that I'm required to jump to the task every time you tell me to?" He pressed closer, his breath hitting hot against her face. "I am not your quarry in this. Remember that. I am also not a source of entertainment. I'm putting my life on the line for you – and not by choice."

"And not for money, either," she bit back, lifting her chin regally. "It has to kill you to know that you're getting no monetary gain out of this."

They stared at each other, wary, waiting. She could see the need to lash out at her on his face, in the tensing of his arms and legs. Anything to usurp control and make this predicament she'd forced him into work to his advantage.

It was futile, Sydney thought, just as the strained muscles in his shoulders started to relax and lay flat again.

"Not everything is about money, Ms. Bristow," he replied curtly.

"So says the man wearing the designer suit."

He stepped away from her, shoving a stiff hand through his short hair – and she could finally breathe again. The quiet sigh he released when his back was facing her sounded a bit more exasperated than furious. It hit so close to home that she nearly broke down.

The room started to clear before her eyes and her grip loosened on the case, leaving her with achy, bloodless fingers.

I can control him.

"Argentina," he said to break the silence. "My plane leaves tonight at 11:15 and I plan to be in Córdoba for at least two weeks."

Tossing a silver disc on her dining table, he proceeded to the double doors. He didn't pause, didn't leave her with a parting caustic remark, he just walked silently out the ground level doors through which he came. The stark darkness that usually sat heavily in these more remote parts ensconced him soon after he stepped outside – and then he was gone.

Fatigue pressed down on her once the patio doors were shut and secured behind him. Sydney walked past the disc on the table, taking note of the rainbow glint that seemed to be winking at her, taunting her from every angle. She ignored it, instead focusing on the residual repulsion from every single thing that had gone wrong that day, feeling it like a fist tightening in her gut.

She sat at the vanity again, one arm clutching her stomach. After some time passed, she poured just enough wine to fill the bottom of the glass with deep ruby. She took a generous drink, hoping it'd ease the pain, the tension, the guilt, but it did none of those. The too warm, too exposed liquid tasted bitter in her mouth when she'd thought it would be sweet.

Like tasting black licorice when expecting red, she mused as she lazily rolled onto the bed.

She reached for the bedside lamp, extinguishing the light with a quick snap. Wrapped in sudden darkness, she found herself staring unemotionally at the nothingness above her.

She should have been concerned that he'd found her, should have been worried about this sudden move to South America, should have been sitting at her computer with that disc he'd left and scanning the information. Lifting the light coverlet, she slid between the cool sheets and settled in for the night.

She should also have been concerned with how long it would take for that other person in her life to find her again, to call or send this information he thought she should have. But her eyelids were falling shut before she could form a better plan to avoid him.

She shouldn't stay here, was her last thought before she lost consciousness – the Hotel Beau Rivage was expecting Sydney Bristow to check out before 10AM.

But she stayed anyway.

Oil

There was a newly purchased postcard in her purse that read: 'Bienvenido a Buenos Aires, la capital cultural de Sudamérica!'

Full of contrasts and culture and wondrous color, the large city seemed to be more alive than she remembered. The verve was almost contagious.

The June mornings were slightly chilly. Sydney still woke by seven to run, as was her routine back home, even though she was supposed to be on vacation. The cool end of the fall season generated a thin layer of frost early in the day, the shiny crystals that appeared on the foliage and spread across the sidewalk made the path under her feet appear to be paved with diamonds.

Her second night, she took the Delta del Tigre tour. As she cruised on the small boat, the city lights sparkled against the dark night, casting a dazzling reflection on the water. Later that same night, she strolled by Café Tortoni, sneaking a peek at the couples that could dance the tango to perfection.

There was a carefree smile on her face hours later when she slid between the sheets of her bed and fell asleep for the night.

On her third day in the beautiful city, as she was walking through the lobby of her hotel, the concierge stopped her.

"A package arrived today for you, senorita," he said as he walked to her from behind the counter, large envelope in hand. "Arrived by courier about an hour ago and is marked 'urgent'."

Sydney took one glance at the envelope and her heart sank. He'd found her. Again. The man tried to give her the package, but she took a step away from it as if what was in his hand was lethal. Confusion knitted his brow and he slowly lowered his hand.

She found her voice, barely. "Please, send it back. Tell the courier that I left before I could collect it." Stepping back, her eyes fixed warily on the envelope, she added, "As a matter of fact, I am leaving. I'll be down within the hour to settle my bill."

His mouth opened slightly to question her, but he promptly closed it shut. He answered her instead with a curt nod and watched her turn and leave, her gait noticeably a bit more hurried than when she'd walked through the front doors.

True to her statement, Sydney was dragging her suitcase out the lobby doors less than an hour later.

Of Night

She felt like she was floating somewhere between sleep and consciousness. Her arms felt leaden against the soft mattress, her body too. She drifted aimlessly through the fuzzy darkness, numb and cold, and so tired of it all that she nearly gave in to the dead sleep her mind and body craved. But then a sudden change in the atmosphere around her pushed her straight into consciousness.

Heart pounding, Sydney came awake with her Sig in her hand and instantly had it aimed at the lone chair in her hotel room. The chair now occupied. Her shock ebbed to caution, then turned to irritation once he spoke.

"Your reaction time seems a bit off, Ms. Bristow. Maybe you should work on that."

His hands were held up to show he wasn't armed, fingers uniformly splayed, giving him an air of innocence that was laughable at best. His gaze shifted to the half empty bottle on the small dining table before moving back to her. "Or maybe simply limiting your wine intake would be sufficient," he added with a touch of humor.

The Catena Malbec she'd drank before bed had fermented in her mouth. Each swallow she took tasted foul, and it felt as if the empanada she'd eaten last night had since curdled in her stomach. She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, feeling the minute amount of spittle transfer to her skin.

Letting out a heavy breath, she languidly rose onto one elbow in the bed. "What do you want, Sark?"

He calmly placed one hand on each knee, purposely continuing to show her that he was no threat to her. Sighing again, she placed the safety back on her gun and set it down on the mattress in front of her. He relaxed some, and she noticed a hint of a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. She brought a hand to her forehead, crunching bangs that were sticking out like little spikes, and then self-consciously shoved them aside.

She looked at him expectantly, urging him with a bland look to get on with it.

"You tired of Buenos Aires that quickly?" he asked. Narrowing her eyes, she opened her mouth to reply but then quickly shut it. Instead, she shifted on the bed to sit up, careful to keep an eye on him and a hand near her weapon.

"When are you leaving and what have you got for me?" she asked curtly.

The corner of his mouth quirked up at her obvious evasion of the question and he took his time in answering. "Tomorrow. And there are reports that a lab was broken into and destroyed in Kenya."

"And?" she prompted.

He pushed to stand and casually slid his hands into his pockets. "And this particular lab was deciphering a piece of the code that Nadia had transcribed as a young girl. A piece that was somehow saved all those years ago."

She nodded in response and watched him walk to the door.

"You know this appearing act of yours is merely an attempt to grapple for some control here." The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

He turned around and raised a brow, then shifted his attention to the auburn wig laying on the table. Pointedly, he scanned the length of her on the bed. She resisted the urge to pull the sheet higher.

"Maybe," he replied a moment later, then quietly pushed the sliding door open. "And maybe you're leaning heavily on the spirits because your grasp on control is equivalent to mine."

"My grasp is… I'm not leaning on–" Her sputtered words went unheard as first the strong wind and then the closed glass door drowned out the sound.

" – anything."

She dropped onto her back with a frustrated groan, sinking down into the mattress. It didn't matter. It wasn't like she needed to explain her life to him anyway.

Void

Hot and humid, and extremely wet in June, Taipei made her feel miserable.

It could have been the heat and the way her clothes stuck to her right as she stepped out the front door of her hotel – from either rain or humidity, or most days both. It could have been the smell of the rush of bodies saturating the narrow streets and sidewalks that hit her during her daily trips out – the scent of soiled bodies sometimes nearly as rotten as the wilted, steaming vegetation and muddied earth.

But it was more likely the fact that just being in this city brought her back to many years ago and another discovered betrayal by someone she'd loved.

"Mom?"

Sydney sucked in a quick, startled breath as she whipped her head around to look over her shoulder, not entirely sure the voice was in her head. There was nobody there.

Huddled into the light jacket she wore, she shook her head and continued to walk along Hankou Street, trying to get a grip on herself.

She had taken all precautions when she'd left her hotel – and, just over an hour following, when she'd left the room rented under the name Gabrielle Martinez. She'd donned yet another disguise, doubled back over her route just to ensure no one was tailing her, but yet still didn't quite feel secure.

Shadows in the dark corners of alleys began to turn into people. People who were outwardly disinterested in her turned into agents who'd been sent on clandestine ops to follow her, watching her every move just to have something to report back to the CIA. It was an awful feeling, this paranoia, ridiculous, but she couldn't seem to shake it off.

At 2 A.M. it was eighty degrees and raining – always raining here, it seemed. But in the sleeves of her jacket, her hands were numb, achy. Even her movements felt cold, mechanical, something remarkable considering the summer heat still pulsating like something alive and angry in the early morning air.

Then again, that bone-deep chill had absolutely nothing to do with the weather.

He'd found her. Again. Tonight.

In every single city she'd visited since Buenos Aires, there had been a package waiting for her. Sure, it had taken a few days each time – except for in Paris where she'd only stayed one night and most of the following day – but a package, nonetheless, had ended up waiting for her.

There had to be a way to keep him from finding her, she thought, the frustration and bitterness she felt still curling in her stomach.

She could stay in disguise the entire time. Sydney Bristow could drop off the map for a little while and he'd probably only think she was doing a better job at hiding. But the last thing she wanted him to do was discover what she was doing. How she was doing this.

Who she was using to do this.

She stepped inside the weather and time beaten warehouse, her right hand automatically tightening on the gun she'd grabbed by pure instinct. Large drops of water falling from the rafters mixed with the constant rain that found such easy infiltration in the roofless building; the bold drops continued to pierce her with unnoticed force as she stepped over the debris covered ground.

He moved out of the heavy shadows and, smartly, had both hands held out in front of him.

Sydney lowered her gun and continued forward, keeping as much distance between them as possible. Her gun at her side, she casually absorbed him – clad entirely in black, the same color umbrella in his hand keeping his pale hair and face neat and dry. He did the same, she was sure, but she couldn't quite find the energy to care.

If he noticed her sodden clothing and hair, the dark smudges beneath her eyes or the red in them that nearly overpowered the white, he didn't make mention of them.

"I'm leaving for Panama in a few hours," she spoke with no emotion. "You need to find business nearby."

Besides a slight raise of his brow, he gave no response to her command.

"I expect you to be close by on one of the opposing continents in two days."

For a moment he continued to appear as still as stone, not intending to reply. She shifted on her feet and opened her mouth to demand compliance when his words beat hers.

"You're proposing I drop my current gainful employment and then just leave."

"Yes," she replied. No, it wasn't as ridiculous as he made it sound.

"That's quite inconspicuous," he answered caustically.

She sighed and angrily shoved the strands of her wet wig back from her face. "You're not an amateur. Make it inconspicuous."

The war of wills this time was much shorter than last, she noticed. Resentment still tightened his body, his face, but in the end he made no effort to refute her.

After a briefer silence than she envisioned, Sark took a few steps toward her and the exit. She expected him to brush right past her and leave, but to her surprise he stopped – shoulder to shoulder.

Without even glancing at her, he spoke with a hint of perturbation in his voice. "Is your strategy to die of the pneumonia?"

She looked at his profile, blinking in obvious confusion. "What?"

"Christ," he muttered roughly under his breath. Shoving his umbrella into her hands, he quickly walked through what was beginning to turn into a downpour, toward the door she'd entered through minutes before.

"Take better care of yourself, Ms. Bristow," Sark snapped a moment later over his shoulder. "If I'm going to die, I surely don't want it to be because you've lost your will."

Stunned, Sydney could only watch him go. Her hand, uncomfortable and stiff around the curved handle, flexed painfully as a shiver coursed through her. Suddenly she could feel every drop of water that had soaked into her sagging clothing and hung in her wig. It all seemed so heavy, so exasperating, that she almost couldn't move.

But she needed to. She needed to leave.

Water squished in her saturated boots as she left the building, but her attention was mainly on the burning sensation in her eyes, the constant need she had to sniff and rub at her nose, and this odd pain in her chest.

Damn tropical countries and their storms, she instantly thought.

Only close to an hour later when she was in Gabrielle Martinez's room again did she admit the true origins of the burning eyes and itching nose. She leaned against the back of the door, tired of the pain, the hiding, tired of being so alone.

She wiped the wetness off her cheek with the back of her shaky hand and, after pushing away from the door, removed her coat. Draping it carelessly over the chair, she reached for her wig next and slid it off, placing it next to the coat.

And, as she glanced at the delivery she'd received earlier that still sat on her table, she realized she was mostly tired of those who had a vested interest in her.