A/N: As usual, not mine, don't sue. This is a stand alone ficlet.

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"Fancy meeting you here."

The voice is accompanied by the sound of a safety being disengaged. Cold steel puckers the skin on her neck where the barrel rests.

"The plans, please."

She is motionless, crouched on the ground, the papers in her right hand.

"I will not repeat the request."

This time she moves, withdrawing her hand from the safe. Before he realizes her subterfuge she slams it shut, documents still inside. He curses as she springs to her feet. But he is faster, and brings the handle of the gun savagely down against the back of her head.

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When she wakes her head throbs and her lips are dry and cracked. The room spins when she turns her head, so she closes her eyes once more. Metal cuffs bite at her wrists and ankles. She struggles to no effect. The chair is solid metal and well-soldered.

"Shit," she swears, and follows the verbal declaration with an internal litany of all the foul words she can remember from every language she knows. She tries opening her eyes again, and this time manages to ascertain that the walls are solid concrete and the only exit is a steel door ten feet away. The cuffs around her ankles are attached to the floor with two feet of steel chain.

"Sydney, you must be thirsty. Drink."

That is not the voice she was expecting. She opens her eyes to find her mother in a plush chair at her side, holding a glass of water. There is no ice in the glass but she imagines it will be perfectly chilled, can almost feel it sliding down her throat.

"Not with you holding the cup," she sneers instead. Irina's tender expression is replaced by hurt for the briefest of moments, and then covered by a cold mask. She spills the water on the ground at Sydney's feet.

"As you wish."

Irina walks away, and the door swings shut with a deep boom against the frame.

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The door opens, and Sark steps through carrying a briefcase. He sets it on the chair Irina so recently occupied and flips it open. Sydney keeps her gaze fixed on Sark, unwilling to betray her curiosity, or her fear.

"Your mother does not wish for you to become to dehydrated," he explains, stepping around behind her chair carrying a squeeze bottle of water. "She thought perhaps I could convince you to drink."

One hand closes her nose and pulls her head firmly back against his chest. The other is poised at the corner of her mouth with the bottle. She fights for air through clenched teeth, but finally her burning lungs take over and she gasps. Sark forces the tubes past her teeth to the back of her mouth, and with the hand that was plugging her nose now takes her jaw and immobilizes her head against his body. He squeezes, and cool water floods her mouth. She lets the first mouthful dribble out down her ruined evening gown, shivers, and swallows the next.

With the first gulp down she craves it more than ever, and opens her mouth to the steady flow Sark provides, drinking quickly.

"Good girl," he comments. She doesn't respond, still drinking greedily. Sark lets go of her chin and steps in front of her. Finally, the bottle is empty. Sark is back to himself. "You accept water from your enemy, but not from your own mother. I'm surprised."

"You tortured your father, then had him killed," she bites back, voice still hoarse. "You're hardly an expert on healthy family relationships."

"Touché," he responds, but his voice is surprisingly mild. "As much as I would like to continue exchanging witty banter, Ms. Bristow, I have business to attend to."

"Wait!" she cried out, when he was halfway out the door. He stopped, turned around on perfectly polished shoes, and raised one eyebrow expectantly.

"Well?" he prompted.

"I'm still thirsty."

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"Put the gun down, Sark!"

Her voice is iron, tinged with terror. Irina has her weapon trained on Sark, who has his trained on Sydney, still bound to the iron chair.

"You're in no position to bargain. I suggest you lower your weapon."

"What do you want?"

"I want you to lower your weapon, or I will kill her."

"This is madness. What do you want?"

"What are you doing, Sark?" Sydney hissed.

"Effecting a change in management. Irina, there are two possible outcomes. You shoot me, I shoot Sydney. You are effectively responsible for the death of your only daughter. Or you drop the gun and we can resolve this in civil negotiation."

"What guarantee do I have you won't just shoot me, and kill her anyway?"

"You have my word that I will not harm Sydney Bristow."

"Your word as a sociopath or as an international terrorist?" Sydney quipped.

"Quiet, Sydney!" the both yelled in unison.

"Or what? You'll shoot me? I'm your bargaining chip and her daughter."

Again Sark ignored her comments, keeping his gun trained on Sydney and his eyes locked with Irina.

"I'm losing patience, Irina. Throw it towards Sydney."

Irina hesitated, weighed her options, looked back and forth between her treacherous protégé and estranged daughter before finally conceding. Sark fired one bullet through her calf, enough to slow her down but not cause permanent damage. Then he brought the butt of his gun down across her skull, rendering her unconscious.

"You're a bastard."

"That's the thanks I get for breaking you out of here?"

"What if she had called your bluff?"

"It was no bluff," he replied, stepping behind the chair to unclamp the metal braces that held her. She rubbed her arms and wrists, but didn't stand up. He offered her a hand up. Sydney eyes him suspiciously.

"You would have shot me and gotten yourself killed in the process. What would that have done for any of us?"

"Nothing."

"You're insane."

"Completely."

She slipped her hand into his, and let him pull her up and to him, her hands braced against his chest.

"How would you like to work for me?"

"Never in a million years. But since you're getting me out of here, I guess I can keep from killing you for a while longer."

"As if you even could."

She shoved against his chest and broke free of his grasp.

"Where are we?"

"Prague. I'll just show you to the door. Right now I need to transfer all Irina's assets to my name. I trust you can contact the CIA for an extraction?"

"What a gentleman," she sneered.

"Yes, well, you're still alive, aren't you? Next time I meet you in the field I may just shoot you."

"Like you even could, Sark."

Sydney smiled wryly, and let him lead her out through the maze of corridors.

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