A/N : Don't get spoiled, OK? I'm only updating this fast because I had three chapters written before I posted. Study-intensive college will be keeping me busy for a few days, so don't expect too much – I don't handle pressure well. I just wanted to say oodles of thanks to those who reviewed, especially the beloved faithfuls who stayed with me through "Two Years Lost". You guys mean everything to me!
Cheers,
Renny

(Sidenote : Annie, you know I love you, but I couldn't possibly have them at Yankee Stadium instead of Shea. I'm a die-hard Red Sox fan!)

3. A Day in the Life...
-

"I've been chased through a drainage system in Somalia that was cleaner than this."

Sydney glanced up from the ground, glaring critically at him as she retched tainted lakewater. "Your fault," she rasped, and flopped wearily onto her back in the sparse grass.

They had just dragged themselves in from Little Neck Bay, aching and exhausted. They'd swam from Parsons Beach to the shore of Long Island under the heavy shade of midnight, in harsh water and cold temperatures.

Sark closed his eyes, gasping for air on his hands and knees. "Next time, I'd prefer the bullet in my lung to swimming across a New York bay."

They lay on a depleted shore, a beach of dirt and grass, the bay kept back by a wall of crumbling underwater granite that they'd clawed their way up in a daze. The air was full of noise, screeching tires and honking horns, the buzz of the Cross Island Parkway twenty yards away.

Sydney took aim and punched him in the jaw.

He yelled in surprised pain, reeling back and falling clumsily on his back. Sydney was up in an instant, straddling his chest as she seized his collar and lifted her fist.

"What did you do?" she shouted.

Impudently, he spit blood. "The caveman approach is one thing, love, but take it easy," he rebuked.

"My patience washed away in the water, Sark. What did you do?" she snarled. "What murder, what theft? Jesus Christ, Julian, it's only been a week! How could you possibly have someone trying to kill you already!"

"Obtuse, Sydney - I already told you. I was under contract when I was sent to jail. These things don't just go away when you spend a few years in the cooler."

"When?" she demanded.

"Clarify, love," he noted, quarrelsome.

"The contract - when did you agree to it? Before we captured you in Stockholm, or before we re-captured you in L.A.? Clarify, jackass."

"Before Stockholm. I was hired... I was hired to kill someone. When the Covenant sprung me, my employer insructed me to put off the assassination until further notice. I didn't have time to ask, Sydney, and back then I didn't care."

Who was your employer?" she demanded predictably.

He didn't answer, staring up at her with the stagnate expression of a man facing a firing squad.

"Who?"

Sark reached up, slowly, and tucked a wet coil of hair behind her ear. "Arvin Sloane," he said.

A low growl escaped Sydney's throat. One of these days, she thought, it'd be a different mastermind. The statistics demanded it.

Disgusted, Sydney stood, pacing away from Sark as he rose stiffly. Impatient, he grabbed her by the arm.

"Sloane paid me to do a job and I won't do it. I won't, Sydney," he said, feverish. "That's why he had me released, but I'm not a murderer anymore. He can execute me, punish me, lock me in a cage miles from the light of day, but I refuse be what I was."

She bit her lip, conflicted. Sympathy and derision, skepticism of his achievement of serenity and hope for it, rose equally in her heart. "C'mon," she said simply. "There's a CIA safehouse nearby. I'm taking you back to L.A.."

She turned to go, but there was nothing doing. Sark seized hold of her, his grip tightening to a vice as he pulled her against him, inches away.

Sydney didn't bother to protest. He'd have his dramatic declaration with or without her permission.

"I'm not going back there," he insisted, his breath hot against her cheek. "I'm done with those people - the glaring and the ghosts. I'm done messing with your lackeys."

Suddenly, quicksilver, she ran her fingers through his salient blond hair, sending droplets of water exploding into the air.

"You can't run forever, Julian," she whispered. "Not from your enemies, and not from your past."

He locked eyes with her.

"And get your hands off of me, Mr. Inappropriate," she added cavalierly.

Sark sneered. "Lord, Sydney. You spent, what, two seconds on that insult?"

"Hands!"

He clearly had no intentions of removing his arms from around her waist. Conversely, he moved closer.

There was no need for this, none beyond the wretched ache he'd felt for her since the very beginning. It was ultimately, of course, The Plan – capitalized, italicized, a destiny he'd been sure of since day one – but this was foolish, and he was playing the cards too soon.

She didn't resist - he would defy her to - as he touched his lips to hers, a ghost of a kiss. He held there, breath uneven, eyes closed. He craved to move further (unleash, unlock, make her see, make her feel) but resisted, basking in the fragile peace of the moment.

"Strategic much?" Sydney said, and laughed.

Sark recoiled like he'd been burned, his brain forcefully catching up to his body as she snickered.

"What was that, Sark? The Sensitive Spy? The Killer who Cares?" She put the back of her hand to her forehead, pretending to faint. "'He kissed her with the tender hesitation of a man starving for love'. That wasn't making a move, Jules, that was a romance novel!"

Disconcerted, Sark adjusted his sopping silk tie. He watched her sullenly as she doubled over giggling.

"I'm sorry, it's just – who would've thought you'd see the light and then go Merchant Ivory on me?" she burst, holding her breath against convulsions of amusement.

"Hilarious, Sydney, downright rollicking," he drawled iracibly. "Would you prefer I throw you down and have a go?"

She snorted. "Mind? Gutter? Let's seen some daylight between them, thank you."

"Let's get out of here," he said, ill-tempered, and began walking in the direction of nearby civilization.

"Wow. The boy can dish it, but he sure can't take it," Sydney called at his back, grinning wide.

Pout all he liked, Sydney hadn't much sympathy for him, and showed it freely.

He was trying to present to her a broken man, and she wasn't buying it. He was hurt, conflicted, at odds with himself and world, but not broken. He'd done heinous deeds, damnable deeds, put his soul at risk for wealth because he'd disdained of humanity. He'd been used, too, by anyone who saw his weakness, and exploited into being the creature he'd become. Atonement was achievably, and commendable – remarkably, Sydney had faith in him. But sympathy? No.

Sark wasn't a victim. Sark was an inevitability.

He stopped, illuminated in the darkness by the thin ray of a streetlight. He looked back at her crossly. "Are you coming?"

Smiling, still taunting, Sydney caught up to him, and took his offered hand. They walked aimless into the city under the grey cast of dawn.

-

"There is much that is immortal in this medieval lady. The dragons have gone, and so have the knights, but still she lingers in our midst."

- E. M. Forster, A Room with a View

Can you take this life,
Can you make it right,
Do you have the words to say to make it
All go away?
You act so wise,
And so refined.
You can keep your lies 'cause I'm
never gonna go your way.

- Smile Empty Soul, Your Way

"You ain't leadin' but two things now, pal : Jack and shit. And Jack left town."

- Ash, Army of Darkness

-

The screams from that room never ceased, or quieted, or even varied. It was a constant noise, perpetual, and it eventually faded into white noise, like the air conditioner humming in the overhead vents.

"Please! Stop, stop – I'll tell you! Anything, anything, I'll tell you! Please, just make him stop!"

Soon it was unintelligible, sputtering into a piercing howl of mindless pain. In a moment the door opened, rusted metal scraping against the aged granite floor. A man stepped out, expressionless, and stripped blood-slick disposable gloves from his hands.

It was a revolting sight for the lieutenant, who waited patiently for his attention.

"Sir," she prompted, once she had his attention. "There's someone here to see you. He's CIA, senior administrator. He didn't give his name, just asked for Agent James Lennox immediately."

The man nodded absently, smoothing out the wrinkled sleeves of his stained dress shirt. "Lead the way," he muttered.

Up empty stairs and through a labyrinth of cement and secrecy that was Alder Penitentiary, the lieutenant halted at the door into one of the interrogation rooms. It was identical to the one he'd just left but for one detail : in this room, there were cameras.

Arvin Sloane sat behind the steel table, leafing idly through a file.

The lieutenant followed orders, locking the door as she left. He stared impassively at Sloane, waiting.

"Agent Lennox," Sloane greeted, and waved absently to a chair. "Sorry to interrupt your work. I hope it's not a bad time?"

He pulled out the offered metal folding chair, sitting carelessly as he studied Sloane, unimpressed. "It's always a bad time around here. Who are you?"

"You know who I am," Sloane said lightly, and pushed the open file toward Lennox. "I need a favor. I'm CIA now, Black Ops devision. An agent of mine has gone rogue."

"I'm retired from the field," Lennox said flatly.

"Make an exception."

He glanced down at the picture, frowning. "No. She's a friend."

"There's no such thing, Renzo."

Lennox hissed, and slumped back angrily in his chair. After a moment he stood, and leapt lazily onto the table. From his sleeve (or from thin air?) he drew a switchblade, reaching for the security camera in the corner and slicing the wire cleanly.

"It's hard enough maintaining cover without you shouting my fucking name," he reprimanded, dropping back to the floor.

"This is a high-risk assignment. I need the best available."

"In exchange for what, exactly? Street credit?" he asked sarcastically.

"Before you and Sydney destroyed the Helix prototype, the CIA was able to download the schematics. That's Class 6 clearance, Renzo. They wouldn't give that to the butcher here at Alder Penitentiary, but the senior operations officer of A.P.O.?" He smiled darkly. "You ever want your real face back… I've already got a copy of the schematics just waiting to be built."

Lennox sighed, raking fingers along his scalp. "The objective?"

"She'll trust you. Get in close. I want both of them dead and buried, Dr. Markovic. Quickly."