Part Seven
As the man's eyes fall upon the ghostly forms before him, his face runs the gamut of emotions.
She is surprised to see that the first is fear. Terror, maybe. Horror more likely.
The next expression is confusion, followed by happiness entrenched in pain.
The tears gently roll down the man's cheek as the threesome stands like gawky teenagers at a high school dance. None wanting to make the first move – or knowing what it should be.
"You're not…" he chokes out as he wipes futilely at his eyes, "You never…"
She shakes her head.
"But why? And why have you…" he attempts again to finish a sentence but continues to fall short. His meaning is not lost, however.
"Eric, it was our only option. Sloane was going to have us killed – you know that."
"And I thought he had succeeded! Mike, all these years you were alive and you couldn't even…"
"No," she cuts in with surprising volume and force, "don't finish that sentence. Don't second guess the choice we made. We've second guessed it enough."
The two men look at her, befuddled by the vigor emanating from such a feeble form.
She feels their eyes burning.
She can hear their minds rumbling.
Many things could be said here… where they have been, why they have come. Millions of thoughts run through her head, fighting to be vocalized – but no words are formed.
"She's beautiful," Vaughn says at last. "How old is she?"
Weiss' proud eyes glitter as he responds, "She'll be three next month."
The thoughts that had previously whirled through her head seem to have vaporized. Her mind is a virtual vacuum. Empty… save one burning image.
A tear slides down her cheek – the sound drowned out by the hum of the television. The chalky texture of the human voice and electronic static.
Hum.
"… tonight at Wrigley Field the Cubs moved one step closer to…"
Buzz.
"… tell me about her. Where did you…"
Inhale.
Exhale.
"… with a single to lead off the third…"
Buzz.
"… long story but I promise…"
Hum.
Inhale.
Exhale.
"… her mother and I…"
Hum.
"… tight in the top of the sixth with two men on and no…"
Buzz.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
"… what I wanted, but now that she's here I can't even imagine…"
Buzz.
Buzz.
Inhale.
"… came in to relieve the weary but still dominant…"
Hum.
"… happiest I've ever been."
Exhale.
Buzz.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
"What's her name?" she barely coughs out, hoping she managed interest without any semblance of pain.
"Sonia … Syd, are you okay?" he reaches for her arm in an attempt to stabilize her shaking form. Her halfhearted attempt at concealment is readily transparent.
Vaughn guides her to the couch just moments before the shaking begins.
Sirens wail outside the house and scream inside her head. Her fingers pinch the bridge of her nose, but nothing stills her body nor silences her mind.
But after these long years they've grown accustomed to it.
He slips into the kitchen and returns with a glass of cold water to cool her nerves and give her something to focus on.
""
Burning.
Something is burning.
Her body is on fire… if only she could open her eyes she would see flames erupting from her skin. Singeing her flesh, melting her.
Her stomach clenches and clenches again.
And again.
No release.
Inhale.
Inhale.
Screaming.
She's screaming.
At least – she's trying to scream.
But somehow she can't hear it.
It's as if her ears are turned off. There's no sound.
Not the dull hum of the lights she can see illuminating the room behind her eyelids. Not the trickle of the sweat as it seeps out her pores. Not the shriek that pries itself from her lungs.
Nothing.
Perhaps this is the sound of everything.
Everything all at once.
Inhale.
""
She watches from a distance as the men in black assemble outside the building that was once so familiar.
It's the middle of the day – as good a time as any for a takedown. Or so the person who planned this operation must think. An entire team of CIA agents packed conspicuously against the side of a bank in downtown Los Angeles.
She would have done it under the cover of night.
But she's not in charge.
People on the sidewalks gape and gawk. Regular people in their regular clothes. On lunch break from their regular jobs. They just happened to be passing. Just happened to bear witness as the takedown she has spent nearly six years facilitating finally manifests itself.
There they stand. Perfect strangers with jaws ajar as they stare like they're at some sort of exhibit. Their heads bob back and forth as they follow the team's movements closely, necks straining to catch all they can before their amusement disappears out of sight.
Maybe a tennis match.
Orders are received and twelve masked figures proceed clumsily through the large glass doors, like elephants in combat boots. The pounding of their joint mass rattling the walls.
A zoo, perhaps.
She never imagined this day to transpire quite like this. The opposite, in fact.
She, the great Sydney Bristow, would be on the other side of the line, her hand wrapped firmly around a government issued automatic – the fire in her heart clearly visible in the depths of her eyes.
She can't count the number of times she imagined the shock on the bastard's face when she peeled off her black cotton mask… and the resulting elation.
The feeling of triumph, of victory.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Instead she stands in the shadows – indistinguishable from the bricks stacked beside her.
There is no fire.
No triumph.
No victory.
It's not her battle. The fight died long ago.
But this day is not without its reward.
There, between the cold, hard wall and the only person left in her life, she finds herself wrapped in a numbness long deserved.
Relief.
""
The iron gates creak with age as she gently pushes through them. It's not a piercing sound, she notes. Softer, more calming. Peaceful, yet strong. She will remember it easily.
The swish of the grass as it brushes the leather of her shoes. Like the sweeping of an old worn-out broom.
Gravel crackles beneath her soles as she cuts across the path. Crunching – the harshest sound thus far.
The almost silent whoosh of fresh dirt as it sinks under the weight of her body.
The whisper of the wind. Steady, stout.
The scratch of flesh against stone.
The splash of a tear slamming into the cold embrace of polished marble.
She stares at the letters.
Remembering every curve.
Every indentation.
Every discoloration.
Hope
A breath of life
She will remember.
She will remember.
""
They escort him out, handcuffs behind his back, betrayal in his eyes.
He doesn't look her way.
He doesn't sense her there.
She watches as the van door slides closed – shutting out her past and opening up her future. The bright lights of the city shine before her, once again at her fingertips. She's not in limbo anymore.
It's the end now.
But not the ending they planned for.
He takes her hand and gently pulls her away from the scene. They've witnessed what they came for. Their task is complete. The blood they shed, the time they spent – it got the job done.
They're safe.
Stepping silently into an old worn sedan, she looks out onto the city and the life she once left behind – and knows she will never come home again.
Inhale.
Exhale.
He slips his hand into hers and gives it a reassuring squeeze. He too knows that life is no longer here.
As he places the car in drive and turns toward the future she listens intently to the silence.
For in that silence lies the most precious thing she has lost.
Creak.
Inhale.
Swish.
Exhale.
Crackle.
Inhale.
Whoosh.
Exhale.
Whisper.
Inhale.
Scratch.
Exhale.
Splash.
Splash.
Splash.
The End