Chapter 3

Sydney woke up to the smell of…flowers? It was an odd fragrance, one she couldn't quite pinpoint. It was a mix between a sweet smelling strawberry and a lilac. Odd, but the concoction it made was intoxicating. She breathed in again. The smell was gone.

She opened her eyes slowly, adjusting to the lamp beside her bed. She swallowed. Her throat was dry. She winced at the pain in her shoulder and side. It hurt just to breathe. She looked around the room without sitting up. It contained only the bed, a lamp, and a small table with medical supplies.

She froze once she had taken in the room. She wasn't in a hospital. That meant whoever had fixed her wasn't CIA—

Marshall.

The memory of him being shot was still fresh in her mind. He had fallen to the ground. Was he dead? Was he still lying there on the ground of the club, bleeding to death?

She made up her mind. She was getting out of here.

She sat up very slowly, very painfully, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She put one foot on the ground, then the other. She stood. She grabbed the bed as a wave of nausea swept over her. Once it past, she walked over to the table and glanced at the objects. The only weapon was a syringe. She picked it up, gripping it in her right hand tightly.

She walked slowly towards the door, stopping to listen for any noises. She heard voices coming closer to the door. She glanced wildly around the room. What was she going to do?

----------

"Did it really hit the guy, Jul?" Simon asked him skeptically as they walked down the hall. He had arrived an hour ago, coming straight to the house after Sark told him what had happened.

"I swear it hit him," Sark said, glancing at his friend, "I threw them at the same time, I heard one bottle hit the floor and break, then I heard a man cry out as the other bottle hit him."

"Curse you to bloody hell if you're lying, mate." Simon said, shaking his head twice.

"Jealous, mate?" Sark mocked him. Simon just shook his head, a grin covering his features. Sark stopped abruptly in front of a door; he gave Simon a questioning look. Are you ready? Simon nodded, his features turning sullen. Sark slowly opened the door, stepping inside the room, Simon following. Sark looked at the bed, turning around swiftly.

"Simon!" Sark's shout was too late as Sydney came up behind the man and stuck the needle in his shoulder.

"Fuck!" Simon yelled, trying to grab the needle. Sydney pulled it out before he could, only to stab him again. He cried out, bucking back against her. She pulled it out, intending to stick it in again when her arm was pulled back, a hand gripping her wrist tightly.

She turned around, twisting her hand out of the grip. She swung, the needle connecting with Sark's shoulder, leaving behind a deep gash. Sark cursed. She swung again, but was stopped, this time by a pair of arms wrapping around her, pinning her arms down by her sides. She kicked out wildly, trying to get free, but the arms wouldn't budge.

Sydney stopped moving, her breaths coming in short gasps. She couldn't breath. Her arm ached, her side hurt. She couldn't breathe…

She heard Sark call out to her before she fell unconscious.

----------

"Fuck me Freddy," Simon cursed, trying to reach behind him to check out his shoulder. They were still in the room with Sydney, Sark was checking her wounds, and Simon was checking his own. "These are going to leave nasty bruises, mate."

"You better hope the stitches on her side didn't open back up." Sark said, giving Simon a glare. Simon raised his hands in the air, a sign of helplessness.

"Hey, mate, if I hadn't of done something," he pointed to Sark's shoulder, "she would've done more of that." Sark looked at his shoulder, grimacing. There was a diagonal gash across it, blood still oozing out of it. Sark reached down and pulled his shirt over his head, using it to wipe off the blood.

"We need to disinfect these." He said, looking up at Simon, who was already grabbing the alcohol bottle and cotton swabs. He soaked some and threw them to Sark, who caught them and started cleaning his wound. Simon did the same.

"I need some gauze," Sark said, noticing that the gash was deeper then he had thought. He caught it as Simon threw it at him, and started wrapping it around his arm. He tucked the end in when he was done, glancing up at Simon. "You good?"

"Yeah," Simon said, looking at Sark's shoulder, "I think you got the better deal, yours must sting like hell, but mine's gonna hurt like a fuck for weeks." Sark nodded, turning back to Sydney.

"We've got to make sure she doesn't do that again," He said, "I doubt the stitches in her side will hold again." Simon nodded.

"Shall I go grab us some chairs?" He left before Sark could respond, already knowing the answer. Sark watched him leave, his gaze turning back to Sydney. She looked pale, but not as white as before. She was getting better. He brushed a strand of hair away from her face, letting his hand hover over her cheek. He looked at her left shoulder, where she had been shot; making sure the bandage was secure. His eyes skimmed over her arm, down to her finger tips. His gaze froze.

There was something on her wrist.

He lifted her arm gently, turning her wrist over in his hand.

He stopped breathing.

On the inside of her wrist, something had been burned into it.

He breathed in deeply.

A mark.

He held his breath.

A mark, that hadn't been there earlier.

He exhaled out.

The Rambaldi mark.