Title: Know Choice (WIP)
Author: agentonyx
Author's Note: Post-Season Three, alternate universe going forward. As to what has happened since last episode of third season, details will manifest as story goes. Comments and helpful suggestions are yearned for!
This is also being posted on sd-1.net. I dedicate this posting to my sweet friend, Jill aka Agent Bristow.
Disclaimer: All character's originally seen in Alias are being borrowed for the following story and are in no way my own creation (although I may be taking a few liberties with their personalities). No infrigement or offense intended. This is my little flight of whimsy.
Prelude
A demanding whisper assaults her ears, “Sydney. Wake up.”
Groggy and disoriented, Sydney Bristow’s eyes flutter but fail to open. “No.”
“I’m not asking.”
A sharp pain snakes up her arm, her body jerks involuntarily, and she’s immediately aware of cool metal restricting further movement. As she struggles to open her eyes the voice is back at her ear.
“That’s my girl. Fight it.” A man, definitely a man …and so familiar.
Warmth presses against her stomach. Finally she manages to keep both eyes open and turns her head down to the side. “Who are you?”
“I’m freeing your left wrist. Can you feel this?” Sydney’s fingers move in reply. “Good.” The man pulls back and immediately starts working on the opposite wrist restraint.
In the dim light, Sydney discerns the man’s identity from his distinctive profile. “Sark.”
The young assassin allows a small smile, unnoticeable by Sydney. “Now don’t do anything rash. I’ve reached my quota of injuries today.”
Feeling more lucid with each passing moment, Sydney scans her surroundings. A room, round and bare, with two emergency lights illuminating painted white cinderblock walls. A tug at her wrist brings her focus back to Sark just as the heavy restraint is pulled away with a snap. Wasting no time, he moves to her individually bound ankles. “What is this place?”
“A hospital, supposedly.” Sark answers without looking up, “Try to sit up.”
Sydney is already attempting just that while keeping a wary eye on him. “What is this, Sark? How did I get here?”
“This isn’t the most opportune moment for me to dispel your suspicions.” He finally finishes unlocking the thick metal restraints, his eyes meet hers, “You’re going to have to trust me and follow my lead.”
A incredulous remark dies on her lips as Sydney’s attention snaps to the only exit. Muffled voices come from behind the closed door.
Sark glances at his wristwatch, “A little early, but no matter.” In two strides he’s crossed the room; the cell door opens, concealing him.
Upon seeing Sydney in mid-escape the two men entering immediately stop their conversation and gawk open-mouthed. Still, their surprise lasts only seconds; they rush forward, intending to subdue her. That’s exactly what Sark was waiting for. Two muted gunshots the only warning before the unknown men collapse into a silent heap.
“Can you walk?”
Sydney cannot. Not even a twitch is actualized by the commanding shouts in her brain. She’s a little more than helpless yet she knows that the man before her-a murderer-is who she must rely on. He’s staring at her, the same blank mask she’s always seen. She chooses to stare directly back, giving her answer with a clench of her jaw.
Sark moves toward her-holstering the weapon beneath his dark jacket-any air of urgency seems to have evaporated. Not once breaking eye contact, he scoops her up in his arms with deft ease. As she instinctively wraps her arms loosely around his neck there is no smirk at her vulnerability, no sarcastic remark at her expense.
“Don’t worry, Sydney,” he whispers, “the paralysis is temporary.”
Void of sappy warmth, his tone is laced with respect and-interestingly enough-understanding. Sydney searches his features for any further insight but gives up once they reach the open doorway. Cautiously, Sark moves down the hall which is in direct contrast to her ‘living quarters’. Every surface gleams white, fitting with the smell of Clorox and latex. She hears approaching footsteps as does Sark it seems-for he manages a sudden sidestep into the alcove of another cell’s door. Immediately he lowers her legs to the floor, carefully keeping her upright with an arm around her waist. He presses her close to his side, pinned to the wall.
Again, Sydney reaches out with her mind willing her legs to carry her, to obey. Nothing has ever been so agonizing. She resigns to using Sark as her crutch and tightens her hold on him.
A barely audible whisper, “Ease up, darling.” His free hand surprises her for a moment as it moves against her chest but then it emerges from their embrace holding a silenced pistol.
Footsteps are soon accompanied by the swish of cloth against cloth. Sydney can feel Sark’s whole body tense yet his expression remains impassive.
To Sydney’s experienced ear, the faceless enemy is less than ten feet away when it speaks.
“Hawkins!” A woman’s voice calls out. “How long does it take?!” In the wake of total silence the woman’s pace quickens. In moments she breezes past them cursing under her breath; Sark aims and fires. One quick spit is heard, followed instantaneously by the busy woman’s cry as she pitches forward into a doorjamb. Without hesitation Sark gathers Sydney up, carrying her as quickly as possible down the hall.
“I never-” Sydney snaps her mouth shut, her eyes staring back forlornly at the woman’s still form. Sark has done so many terrible things. Why would she be surprised seeing him shoot a seemingly unarmed person in the back?
Sark takes a sharp turn, several paces, and ducks into a sparsely stocked supply closet. Carefully, he settles Sydney onto the cold concrete between two large unmarked storage boxes and walks back to shut the door.
Sydney glares after him, any hint of gratitude dying with that woman. “This is your plan?” Sydney scoffs.
Sark turns to a single footlocker beside the door, the corner of his mouth twitches slightly. “It’s a tad more complicated now since you cannot walk.” He states flatly.
Unabated she continues burning holes in his back, “From one cell to another and you’ve managed to find one a step down from the first.”
Refusing to rise to the bait he pulls out a crisp white lab coat from the locker, wads it into a ball, and throws it back. “Patients don’t leave this place, Miss Bristow.” He turns to face her, “Even in death. They’re interned here.” He makes a cursory glance at the shelves around the room, “There’s not much we can do but wait.”
“You seriously expect me to accept such a deliberate lie.” She scowls, her hands move down to briskly rub her unresponsive legs.
You‘re with Vaughn still, are you not? “As I see it, you don’t have a choice.”
She can hear the smirk in his voice, but refusing to give him the satisfaction of a retort she continues kneading the muscles of her calves.
“Look, Sydney-” Sark’s attention snaps to the door, one stride and he’s hovering by it, listening. Sydney holds her breath, watching him. Seconds pass and his body relaxes.
“Doesn’t this facility have some kind of security in place?” It seemed a stupid question to ask but she hadn’t noticed him taking any precautions during their short trip down the hall. If anything he’d seemed too sure of himself and for Sark that was quite a feat.
His attention is back on her as he steps away from the door looking puzzled.
“Cameras? Armed guards, maybe?” She hints as though talking to a child.
Sark takes a long blink that successfully replaces bewilderment with the smooth intensity she’s used to seeing. “The whole lot.” He walks leisurely towards her. “Not here though. This entire floor is practically deserted. Still, someone is bound to find the unconscious nurse and that will undoubtedly complicate our escape.”
Unconscious? “Or facilitate it.”
Sark half smiles while Sydney stares grimly back.
Chapter One
A dark SAAB winds along a coastal two-lane highway. Fragrant afternoon air cooled by the ocean tousles Sydney’s hair. Unwilling to close her eyes and relish it, she adjusts her sunglasses to cover up a glance at Sark.
By all outward appearances he’s at ease. As though the two of them were on a casual drive instead of a getaway. Their impromptu plan got them past a few orderlies but the security doors had almost meant her recapture. Regardless of the ‘rescue’, she’s convinced Sark has an ulterior motive or two. Even when the facts in front of her contradict the motives often attributed to him. There are too many questions and her whole body is aching for a hot water escape.
“Now explain yourself, Sark.” She shouts over the wind.
“You’ll have to be a tad more specific.”
“Let’s start with where we’re now headed.” And who’s waiting for us?
He risks a sideways glance and smirks, “Really, Sydney, it’s rather straight-forward. The nearest town.”
“Listen to me, Sark. I have no desire to play this back and forth game with you.” Rage, without warning or gradualness, blazes unhindered. Her voice becomes shrill, “So if you don’t start telling me something useful I swear-!”
Pain, icy-sharp, shocks her.
Eyes shut tight, hands grip her throbbing skull.
Once refreshing air adds the rapidly growing feeling of suffocation. Someone screams.
For the first time in years, Sydney jerks awake with fear. Turning to her left she finds Sark still driving.
“Sydney?”
A few seconds pass and she finds her voice sore with misuse, “When did I close my eyes? I don’t remember falling asleep.”
“You’ve been out for a couple minutes, that’s-”
“Did you drug me, Sark?” The characteristic Bristow menace is strangely absent.
Never taking his eyes off the road, he replies with a simple ‘No’, his jaw tightens. Content with that, Sydney nods and settles back in her seat. An hour and a half passes in communicative silence until the car slows upon entering a small town.
She‘d been here before, but only to pass through to her final destination. “Cape Coast.” Sydney whispers in realization. Why keep me in Ghana?
Sark eases the vehicle into a narrow alley between two three-story buildings. Parts of which are weather-beaten wood painted green and yellow. He turns off the engine, yet makes no move to exit. Placing his hands deliberately relaxed palms-down in his lap he finally speaks. “I’m willing to provide you with a change of clothes and a place to sleep for the night, if you feel so inclined.”
Sydney slowly unbuckles her seatbelt, weighing all possible options. He’s laughing; an unnatural, humorless sound that gives her goose bumps.
“But you’d rather I left you to your own devices.” His voice quiets, “Isn’t that right, Sydney?”
She holds his gaze, searching and analyzing, an imperceptible frown tugging at her from within.
“I‘m not sure what you hope to gain by staring at me.”
“Why are you doing this? Any of this?”
Turning away, he replies quickly, “Professional courtesy.” Keys retrieved, he steps out of the car. “It would be in your best interest to take me up on my offer.” He moves around the front to open the door on her side, “That is unless you enjoy making things difficult for yourself.”
She sighs, resigning control to him for the moment.
Pathetically easy. That’s disappointing. Sark watches her ease slowly out and stand unsteadily. “How are you’re legs?”
Sydney takes a step back -ignoring him- and shuts the door. One hand still grips the side for support which is answer enough.
“Shall I carry you again?” His mouth twitches, the hint of a smile. Sydney glares. “Come now, lil’ bit.” He prods with a mocking frown. In one step he moves forward to scoop her up.
“Don’t touch me.” Her hands go instinctively up to ward him off, knees buckle, and she’s caught up in his arms.
“I don‘t buy this at all.” He begins, turning out of the alley into the archway of an inside stairwell. “Either you have the worst constitution,” He pauses to carefully move up several steps to a covered porch, “or you’re feigning disability to catch me unawares.” He continues noisily down the porch and nudges open a door with his foot.
The room beyond is simply furnished; plain but flattering colors of tan, black, and white; small kitchen tucked away at the back right corner half and only one other door off to the left. Sark lowers her on to a single mattress bed.
Propping herself up against the wall, Sydney watches Sark walk into the kitchen then eyes the second bed sitting flush against hers. “Expecting me? Or do you always have a spare bed?” Instantly an inward grimace. What the hell possessed me to say that?!
Sark stops his unknown task to turn and look at her. A moment of silence passes making her uncomfortable under his scrutiny. His curious half smile turns into a full grin and he folds his arms across his chest, “Sydney, dearest, I believe you’re coming on to me.” He relishes the ghastly look that crosses her features. “However, flattery from you is somewhat superfluous.” He turns back into the kitchen for a moment and walks back with two bottled waters.
“Enough already, Sark, tell me what you know.”
In lieu of a chair, Sark sits casually at the foot of her bed. “Drink this and listen.” He says, tossing her a bottle. Can you do that? Unspoken, yet the question is answered when she guzzles the water hastily. “I’ve never understood why our little meets have you brimming with hostility. You persistently ask questions with no intention of believing a word I say.”
Sydney almost threw the half-empty bottle at him. Despite the loathing she knows is there, her voice remains cool, even. “You’re a murderer, Sark. That’s as good a reason as any to distrust someone.”
He sighs, rolling his eyes. “By simplistic definition, yes I am. But then so are you. My point is that this situation requires a change of attitude.”
“I am NOT like you.”
“Please stay focused. I’m proposing a mutually beneficial exchange of information.”
What could she give him? God, what day is it? She’s been confined in a nightmare hospital for the last few weeks...maybe longer. She’s down to two options, really. Play his game or kick the crap out of him and play her own. Her current position doesn’t afford any options for successfully landing her initial attack. He’s quick, adept.
Sydney crosses her arms across her chest like a petulant child. “Fine. I suppose you’ll be first?”
“What happened to you in the car, earlier?”
Confusion flits plainly across her face, eyes narrow, “What are you talking about?”
“Answer the question.”
“How can I-” She stops, forces herself to think back. Indulge him, Syd. He must be expecting a recount of the drive in order to lead her thinking elsewhere. “We left the facility. I-I must have,” What the hell? Dull throbbing pain came again; smooth and warm at the base of her skull. “Whatever they had me on…When I woke up-”
“No, before that. What were we talking about?”
She stares blankly. “We didn’t.”
Sark says her name and immediately they are interrupted by a lanky man stepping over the front door threshold. Sydney hadn’t heard any sounds of his approach. She wonders if he’s been out on the porch since before they arrived. He says nothing. Merely looking to Sark who summarily dismisses him with a lift of his head.
“We’ll not be staying here after all.” Sark turns conveniently into Sydney’s left hook. The force snaps his head back as she follows up with a sharp kick sending him to the floor in a moaning heap.
Too easy.
She’s out into the night with her mind running through every known obstacle between her and the car. Chatty the bodyguard watches her barrel towards him, mildly interested.
Obstacle number two, she muses. Her keen eyes watch for his first move. Instead of squaring off with her he steps away from the staircase and simultaneously tosses her a single key. Dumbfounded, Sydney’s pace slows but her thoughts are a whirlwind of possibilities. Odd diversion. Someone could be waiting below. She stops short of the stairway landing.
“Gun, now.”
He smiles and deliberately turns his back to her.
Screw it. Sydney pushes flat against the wall behind her before risking a glance around the corner into the dimly lit stairwell.
Nothing obvious.
Senses on full alert, the steps are easily taken quickly but cautiously. She reaches the bottom, allows a miniscule pause, and dashes out to the car. The key inserts perfectly, she turns it hard already moving to lift up the handle but neither action yields results.
Standing patiently above, Julian Sark watches her twist the key once more and -in typical Sydney fashion- gawk unnecessarily at the frustrating thing. There is movement about a mile ahead on a deserted back street, Sark registers the newcomer with passing interest. His eyes flick to follow the progress of what he’d known would come. The two vehicles looked to be blue and white vans typically associated with the Ghana Police, but their lights remain unused. His eyes return to Sydney, reaching through the now broken window in the driver’s side door.
“You’ve the right idea.” Sark’s voice carries down to Sydney effortlessly. She ignores him and slips inside to force access to the ignition wires. “However, your current approach will almost certainly end badly.”
Sark glances one last time at the approaching vehicles estimating their arrival in five minutes. “How unfortunate I will not be there to rescue you again.”
The black sedan coughs to life and Sydney spares not a second more in the alley.
In the wake of her careening away, Sark steps out into the alley and waits as the sun begins to set behind him.
Seconds are lost before one van speeds past and the other pulls carefully into the darkening alley. A man emerges from a side door and hops out before the van stops.
He looks irritated, Sark takes in the man's choice of tie, and purple. Aloud he says, “Tell me one good reason why you insist on not following my instructions.”
The man, a foot taller than him but only in height, stands within arms reach. His whole body trembling either with anger or fear, Sark is unsure of. He doesn’t much care. The man is an imbecile. The driver steps out of the van behind him, eyes menacing.
The imbecile speaks. “Get in the van, Mister Kane.”
Sark shakes his head, frowning. “Haven't you heard?” He glances back at the driver who acknowledges him without overt action. “That is not how it plays out, Doctor.”
The man looks stumped then immediately surprised. Painfully surprised. Sickening moist sounds accompany a few strangled gasps. The doctor falls to his knees, eyes wide, revealing the panting driver clutching a six-inch knife.
Sark's tone steals the driver's attention away from the late doctor. "Find her."
Meanwhile…
Night falls quickly and for that Sydney is grateful since losing the van tailing her will be even easier. A few miles from Sark's accommodations, the van maintains an unimposing distance, headlights on. Perhaps waiting for the okay to run her off the road? Or do they stupidly think she hasn't seen them for what they are? Syd's money is on the former. Now if only Sark had a car phone…
Both eyes on the lightly congested road ahead, Sydney opens the glove compartment and searches the contents by touch. Plastic bottle of…water most likely, loose papers, possible owner's manual, and <she pushes her hand as far back as the little space allows> a packet of -no, it can't be. Sydney brings her find to the steering wheel for a better look. The shiny square packet, identified with one look, is tossed back inside its hiding place.
Wish I saw that earlier, Sydney thought. Definitely would have started an interesting line of questioning. She frowns. Interesting only in how uncomfortable I might have made him.
Of course, knowing Sark, he would have turned the tables before she'd even begun. She sighs. No phone, no passport, no money, and her contact in Accra is either dead or being monitored. Thinking of Accra temporarily brought her attention to the fuel gauge; a quarter full.
Wonderful, her first rookie mistake in years - leaving Sark's without a single proactive thought. Where is her head?
Sark always has a phone on him and definitely a gun. A silenced Glock, she recalls. During her escape from the hospital she'd ignored that little detail. Her head clears allowing other specifics to the forefront of her mind.
He didn't kill the nurse. The guards were expected, timed. Her paralysis had been anticipated. And before that?
Images drew her back to the moment she first awoke.
"Oh, God." She gasps.
Executing a reckless 180°, Sydney speeds straight at the police van. It veers expertly to the right revealing a duplicate van so close Sydney glimpses the confused driver before he swerves around her. The road now clear ahead of her, she checks her rearview mirror in time to see the second van cut off the first.
She glances at the road again before chancing another view through the mirror but she's already too far away to discern what else might be happening. Turning her attention back to the road ahead, she smiles. Another bout of tunnel vision and all she can think about is getting back to Sark as fast as possible. She doesn't notice the blazing fire far behind her or feel the tears fall down her cheeks in streams.
96 Hours Previous…
"You were never supposed to have seen this."
Sydney was speechless, unshed tears brimmed in her dark brown eyes. She could only stare at her stoic father who stood a few feet away.
"Sydney, listen to me." Jack resisted the urge to race to her side and wrap her up in his arms. She looked so vulnerable, so very heartbroken. "I. Am. Your. Ally. You mustn't believe everything you've read." He could sense the questions she silently posed to him. "I can prove it to you but we must leave this place."
In a life filled with lies and half-truths, Sydney wanted to believe him now more than ever. The moment stretched longer as she peered into his eyes, searching. It should be easy to trust her own father.
Jack's eyes softened, almost imperceptibly.
Many questions needed answers, but for now she made her decision, "Where can we go?"
"For now, we simply need to get moving. The CIA has undoubtedly noticed our simultaneous absence and when Vaughn relays what Lauren said before she died…" He left the obvious unsaid.
Sydney took a deep breath and stood as she tucked the top secret documents back into their folder. "We could wait for them. I'll say I understand and stay in pocket." She quickly placed the appropriate contents back into the lockbox and looked to her father for his reply.
"I've thought of that." He turned in the doorway, opening the path for her to follow.
Sydney gathered her tool case and replaced her faux glasses. As they made their way to an emergency exit Jack kept his voice low enough so only she could hear. "At this point, if you willingly stay they will take away the little freedom you had."
"We can't just run."
"No." Jack stepped to the side, pushed the exit door open, and held it for his daughter. "Of course not."
Present
"She's impulsive. Far more than usual." Julian Sark stares impassively at Jack Bristow, but the older man isn't fooled - there's more to it than that.
"Where is she?"
"Not to worry, I've kept my word." Seeing Jack turn towards his car, Sark adds quickly, "Your associate reported in as you pulled up." Jack pauses at his open car door, allowing Sark time to elaborate. "Her opposition was neutralized and she is heading back this way."
Jack closes his car door, "You have something else to tell me."
Sark's trademark smirk beams more confidence than most smiles. "Quite a shot in the dark, Mister Bristow."
"Not at all. You're just easy to read." Jack purposefully allows a small smile. "Especially now."
"You presume much. Still, there is an …oddity."
Sounds consistent with a fast approaching vehicle prompt both men to watch the far side of the alleyway. The little coupe skids around the corner and halts with a plume of dust. A laughing Sydney bursts out, breaking into a run at the sight of her father, who makes it only a couple steps before she crashes into his arms.
"Dad, you're here." Sydney hugs him tight, eyes closed, tears staining her cheeks. "They knew I was coming. They knew and I didn't have any time and I thought I'd never see you. I love you, Dad. I love you so much."
"You're okay?" Relieved, Jack manages to pull back enough to look at her more closely.
She smiles, joyful and glowing, but the tears don't stop. "Dad." She laughs and cradles his now concerned face in her hands. Saying nothing more, content to just stare at him, her smile wanes somewhat.
"Perhaps we should take this upstairs?"
Startled by the new voice, Sydney spins around as though she'd forgotten he was there. "Sark."
So few things can get to Sark, but when she takes his hand he manages to cover surprise with concern.
"You did this. For me."
Jack frowns at the quiet exchange and cuts it short with a step forward. "Come with me, Sydney."
She seems not to hear until Sark speaks up with the same request. Sydney tucks in close, intertwining his arm with her own, as they walk together.
Rattled by the display, Jack's frown grows deeper. To label that as odd would be an understatement.
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
accomplished
hot
awake
creative
Mmmm Sark.
cheerful
contemplative
sick
drained
restless