The car Wells and Sark were riding in swayed and bounced and finally came to a stop outside a building in a decidedly industrial area, far from their origin at the formal elegance of the city library.
"Where are we," Sark asked, bored with this routine. He should just shoot the driver, and Wells to boot, and just storm the place himself.
"Julian, no need to get your knickers in a knot," Wells purred, "If you'll follow me, please."
They stepped out of the car and entered the building. There were three heavily armed guards at the entrance, but they stood down when they saw Wells with Sark. Perhaps storming the building unaided wasn't the best course of action.
Wells led Sark through a complicated maze of hallways, each one growing more dim as they descended several staircases. Finally, when Sark was nearly convinced they would open a door and wind up in China, they came to a wood-paneled door with a peephole. Wells knocked lightly, almost too politely for the situation.
"Da?" a man's voice, muffled by the wood, came through the door.
"It's me," Wells replied in Russian, "Let us in, will you?"
They heard the man fumbling with the locks on the inside of the door, and Sark saw Wells roll his eyes. It was clear that Wells enjoyed a position of some prominence within this organization, whatever it was.
Wells motioned for Sark to walk through the door first, and Sark declined. "After you," he said, not very nicely. He didn't know that someone wasn't waiting around the corner to bludgeon him into unconsciousness.
Wells shrugged and walked into the room, ahead of Sark. "I would've killed you by now if that were my aim, Julian," Wells said, "But then, you always were a bit better at this game than I."
Sark only raised one eyebrow at the roundabout compliment. He knew it was true, but would never have brought it up.
The room was small, and had only a chair and table for the guard to sit at. Just as Sark was taking it in, and noticing the door on the opposite side of the room, he heard the sound of a shot through a silencer and the sting of a tranquilizer dart as it pumped its contents into the back of his thigh.
He looked at Wells in disbelief as he slumped forward, so sleepy he couldn't keep standing.
"Yes, you were better, but not that much better," Wells said, and then everything was black.
"Sark!" she hissed his name at first, so as not to alert the guard. They had drug him in, tied him to a chair in front of her, and left them alone. The door to the room they were in had no knob on their side.
His blonde head was limp, his chin to his chest. She couldn't tell what they had done to him, though there was no visible bruising.
"SARK!" she fairly shouted, and he stirred a little.
"Mmmm," he moaned without raising his head. "Why are you yelling?"
"Wake up," she whispered again, urgently. "I'm yelling because you're passed out and you need to wake up so you can be of some use."
"Where are we," he mumbled, still not looking up. It was like his chin was glued to his chest.
"I don't know," she scrunched forward on the chair as best as her bonds would allow. "Someone ambushed me in the garage when I went in to follow Wells—I told you it was a bad idea to split up," she accused him.
"Sydney, please," he finally raised his head. "This isn't the CIA. There won't be a briefing later where we can assign guilt as to why the operation went wrong."
"Shut up," she spat. "Listen, while you were off pursuing Wells, I've been in here, talking to your mother."
They stared at each other for a long minute. When he didn't say anything, she finally clarified, unnecessarily, "Anastasia's alive."
"So it would seem," Sark replied, his bored tone infuriating her for some indescribable reason. She wanted some kind of reaction from him.
"Do you have selective hearing?" she said, "I said, your MOTHER is alive."
"Yes, I heard you perfectly clearly," he pursed his lips. "This is not the shocking revelation for me that it might have been for you."
More staring commenced.
"Fine," she said at last, "Be like that. But apparently she's pretty pissed that my mother put you into hiding. I don't think she has a beef with us, I think it's with Irina."
Irina strode into the library and straight up to the archive on the second floor. Natalya was still typing at the ancient computer terminal that Sark had interrupted her at hours earlier. She looked up at Irina when she pushed the glass door open and sashayed up to the counter.
"Irina!" she smiled, a real smile, not the polite professional smile she flashed for the patrons. "It's been forever!"
"Natalya, darling," she said, embracing the smaller woman's frame in her long arms, "It's been too long—but time is short, I need your help."
"Of course," Natalya replied, "Come with me, into the processing room."
They wound their way through the stacks into a small, cluttered room full of rubber gloves, half-empty jars of preservation fluids, scissors askew on top of plastic cover material. Natalya drew up a stool and perched on the edge, expectantly.
"It's about Anastasia," Irina began, but the librarian cut her off.
"She's been here recently, to meet a man," Natalya said.
Irina drew a surveillance photo of her own from under her long coat and Natalya nodded in recognition of Wells. "Yes, that's him—he was just here a few hours ago, but she didn't come."
Irina raised her eyebrows. "Yes?"
"Yes, he was alone, but a young man was following him, a tall blonde gentleman," Natalya gestured with her hand a little above Irina's head. "He was in quite a hurry, then they left together."
"Julian," Irina breathed, and closed her eyes. She knew it was a trap; why had he not come to her first when he'd gotten the photo of Anastasia?
"Julian?" Natalya's eyebrows shot up in surprise, "Anastasia's son? Has it been that long already?"
"More that 20 years," Irina smiled softly, "When she used to bring him."
"The days are long, but time is short," Natalya shook her head, ruefully. "What is it, is something wrong?"
"I don't know," Irina said, honestly, "I'm afraid he may be in danger."
"So you've had some time to get acquainted with Anastasia," Sark said at last. "How is my dear old mum?"
Sydney stared at him like he had two heads. He knew she was in shock at his nonchalance about hearing the news that his long-lost mother was alive after all. He had not, however, spent 20 years dreaming up a fantasy that could never be fulfilled by an actual person. He had not been kidding about not loving anyone.
"She talked to me for awhile, yes," Sydney replied, measured.
"And?"
Sydney shrugged as best she could, tied to the chair. "Like I said, it sounds like she's mad at my mother, and that this all really has nothing to do with us. We're just the bait for some kind of elaborate revenge scheme."
"Brilliant," Sark closed his eyes. "Irina will come, she'll find us here."
"What makes you think that? I don't think she's too thrilled about our partnership, you know."
"I'm well aware of that, thank you."
"So," Sydney narrowed her eyes at him, "Why did you tell her?"
"Why did you tell Jack?"
They stared at each other for a long time.
"She asked if I'd seen you recently," Sark finally admitted. "She misses you."
"Oh."
"No details were shared, only that you had promised me some intel in exchange for my discretion about our… encounter."
"We never did talk about that," Sydney said, her voice low, "Why you double-crossed me anyway."
Sark shrugged, unapologetic. "I like to see Agent Vaughn suffer. Much the same as I used to make Wells suffer. He brings out the worst in me."
"Sark!" Sydney's brow knit together in frustration.
"What?" Sark shot back. "You were coming apart at the seams already—you were as much a willing participant as I."
"That is none of your business," she whispered, on the edge of tears.
"It's not?" he mocked her, "Tell me again, how it's not my concern that you came to my house, to hunt me down like an animal, creeping around in my stable. I didn't force you to do anything you didn't want to do, Sydney."
She wouldn't meet his eyes. He could see her lower lip twitch, that she was trying to hold back tears. He felt no remorse. She got this kicked puppy look when she was on the verge of tears that made him feel extra cruel. He was getting that delicious Schadenfreude feeling again.
"How was it supposed to end up, then?" his voice was low, "You and him? How were you ever going to leave this life? Where were you going to go?"
"Shut up," she whispered, "Just shut up."
"No!" Sark exclaimed, surprised at his anger at her, "Don't be ridiculous! You know it could never happen, Sydney, that's why you never told him, isn't it."
She sniffled then, and he could see the thin line of snot running down her upper lip, towards her mouth. She sniffed harder and managed to stem the flow of mucous temporarily, but still she said nothing.
"Isn't it?" he pressed her, "You can't leave this life because you don't know how to be anything else. Because there is no 'else' for people like us."