Title: Drunken Monkey Race
Author: Amy
Disclaimer: I wish I did own them, but I don’t
Rating: PG-13, since somebody does die
Summary: Season 3, around the time of 3.7 ‘Prelude’. What if the NSC didn’t find Sydney at Julia Thorne’s apartment in Rome? What if Sark, bent on revenge for the murder of his father, found her instead?
Author’s Note: A quick shout-out to my fabulous Beta for this piece, Liz. Thanks a million!
Challenge Requirements:
1) Stories should not be more than 3000 words
2) You can not kill anyone who is a member of this site. I'd actually refrain from killing any real life people, because it'll just make me think you're a psycho
Word Count: 1,740
- - -
The dark red liquid swirls in the fragile wine glass sitting in front of him.
What should he do?
But in the end, he is given no choice. For the price of $800 million dollars he sells his soul to the devil in order to avenge the death of his imperfect father. But a deadbeat father is better than one who is just plain dead.
So he works for them, this organization known as The Covenant. He steals, he kills, and he uses their connections for personal gain.
- - -
He finds the picture in a file, hidden in plain sight at the Russian Embassy in Washington, DC. Getting clearance into the building is difficult. The Embassy is more like a compound, enclosed by tall stone and iron slats. But he pulls it off. He is the master of disguise and persuasion.
He waits an hour before looking at the photograph. He does not want to be distracted while he leaves the building inconspicuously. He reaches the airport and is on his private jet before he opens the file.
It is thick and black. It opens like an envelope. There are multiple pictures; each becomes consecutively clearer and the figure larger.
There is a full on shot of her face. The hair is different, but he recognizes her other features.
- - -
Step Two of his plan is set into motion. He opens the door of Lauren Reed’s car and walks away slowly, looking back only while he activates the weight sensor. He half hopes that she will disbelieve his intentions and try to follow him, dying with the evidence in the process.
But he knows that she will not jeopardize her own safety and her mission. He knows that his plan will succeed. After all, he is a member of MENSA – under an alias, of course.
- - -
He watches her leave the airport in Rome, having driven her out of Los Angeles, and follows her to first meet her contact, then to the apartment building.
She walks slowly, tentatively. He follows her.
She leaves the door unlocked, lucky for him. She is dazed and distracted, staring into the mirror on the medicine cabinet. He watches her from the doorway to the bathroom. She still has not detected his presence. She opens the door, picks up a bottle of prescription pills, reads the label, then replaces the bottle and closes the door.
While she does this, he moves into the room. When she looks back into the glass of the mirror, he is standing behind her, his reflection clear.
She whips around, shock and fear written clearly on her face. He makes no move yet, standing patiently a mere five inches away from her.
She works hard and eventually masks her face into a bland expression. He gives her a mocking half-smile. He appreciates her efforts, even though he is still there to kill her.
She walks past him slowly, as if not to wake a sleeping person. He shifts his body to the side, allowing her to pass. He follows her into the main room, across to the bed with the glass ceiling above it.
She motions him to the bed, where she is currently sitting. Intrigued, he walks to the other side while she lies down, looking out into the night sky. He lies down next to her and leans his face to the right, staring at her unmoving profile.
“Look up,” she says, “and tell me what you see.”
He looks up. The night sky is dark and few stars scatter the sky above. The window looks out at an old building, most likely a church. He responds to her question seriously, “I see a statue. It appears to be an angel.”
She nods and looks over at his face, her expression still unreadable. She continues speaking, “I dream about the angel. In my dreams, it comes closer and closer to my face, as if it is falling down on me. I always wake up in a sweat when it happens.”
He is silent as she speaks, soaking up her words, but reminding himself of his plan.
She finishes her thought. “It is the only thing I remember from the past two years.”
He looks over at her, not surprised, merely curious. “You don’t remember killing my father, then?”
She recoils further into the soft mattress. “So that is what this is about,” she whispers softly, “I didn’t know he was your father.”
“So you do remember?” He asks her harshly, given her statement of a few moments ago.
Her eyes water slightly. She responds, “No. But I do know about it. In fact, that is why I am here.”
His eyes frost over and his face becomes slightly mocking as he drops his bombshell, “I know. I orchestrated this whole situation.”
She isn’t as surprised as he hoped she would be. She merely says coldly, “I suppose you are here to kill me.”
He surprises himself by responding with the unvarnished truth, a simple, “Yes.”
She surprises him by first by replying with a question, “What about the information that The Covenant wants from me?”
“I don’t care about it.”
Then, she surprises him even more by saying, “Better death at your hands than possible brain damage at the hands of the NSC.”
He can hear the resignation in her voice. It grates on his nerves. It is unbecoming of the nemesis that he once knew. He gives her a scathing look and says with anger in his voice, “I do not want to kill you like this. I want to you to fight me.”
She is tired. He can see it in her eyes. She rolls over and closes her eyes. In five minutes, she is asleep. He watches her for a few more moments before turning away from her and closing his own eyes. Before he falls under the seductive spell of sleep, he says into the dark room coldly, “I want you to fight me.”
- - -
When he wakes up the next day, she is already up and out of bed. He blinks rapidly for a moment then rubs a hand across his face. He is awake.
His clothes are wrinkled, having slept in them, but it hardly matters anyway since murder can be a messy affair. That is, if she chooses to fight him.
He finds her sitting at the table in her dining alcove. Sunlight is pouring through the large window on the ceiling. The angel statue looks larger in the daylight.
She is sitting calmly; her expression is cold and masked. In front of her on the table are two black boxes. She smiles. In contrast with her cold eyes, the face is haunting.
He grins back at her, pleased in the turn of events. “I see you have chosen to fight me.”
She replies with the same blunt truth he had given her the night before, with a simple, “Yes.”
“Good.”
She leans her head to the right as she starts to speak in a friendly manner. “Since you have adopted British mannerisms, regardless of your origins of birth, I thought that an old fashioned duel would appeal to you. In front of me are two cases. One contains two pistols; the other, two swords. You may choose the weapon; I will choose the time and place.”
He contorts his facial features into a studious look as he walks over to the cases, opens them, and examines both sets of weapons.
After five minutes of examination, he closes both cases and sits down at the table, across from her.
“I’ve always fancied using swords in a duel.”
“Dusk, the Giardini Segreti at Villa Borghese”
- - -
She waits for him in a secluded portion of the gardens. He watches her for a few moments before approaching. The case containing the swords lies at her feet. She stands, tapping her right foot impatiently.
He coughs lightly, alerting her to his presence.
“No backup?”
“No backup.”
“Good.”
They both draw their chosen swords and take the opening stance; his is that of the aggressor and hers the defender.
The fight is a battle of wills. He matches her every blow, sometimes striking her but never piercing skin enough to draw significant blood. Her strokes are strong and defiant. The fight stretches out minute by minute. Sweat starts to run down their bodies, mixed with blood from the blows received by both. But neither opponent is ready to admit defeat.
There is a feral glint in her eyes that he cannot match. He is cold and calculated, taking his training seriously. Yet somehow, her passion starts to rule the match. He feels her strength overpowering him. He tries to find a new wind through his rage, but inside he only feels empty.
He is on his back and she is standing over him. The point of her sword glides across his neck, but she applies no pressure to the weapon. He waits for her to go back across, this time slicing through his skin, but she does not do it.
Instead, she removes the blade and places her right foot on his neck. She slices open his shirt with her sword and he lies on the ground bare-chested. The tip of her sword finds the spot where his heart in encased.
She stops. Her voice is commanding as she yells for him to look into her eyes.
“Since you never showed any compassion in life, I thought it was fitting that you die with my sword piercing your heart.”
His gaze does not falter as he replies mockingly, “I concede the point, madam.”
She lifts her sword slightly, and then plunges it through his skin. He dies with smirk gracing his lips. She watches the cold mocking dissipate from his eyes.
- - -
There is an unmarked grave in Russia that an unidentified woman visits twice a year. There are never flowers next to the small marker and she never stays long, or even cries. Every six months she is there, though, standing still while silently taking in the scenery. She always places her right hand on her mouth, her fingers against her lips, almost as if blowing a kiss. She does not appear to grieve, but she does pay her respects to the grave and the person lying under the cold, dark earth.
Author: Amy
Disclaimer: I wish I did own them, but I don’t
Rating: PG-13, since somebody does die
Summary: Season 3, around the time of 3.7 ‘Prelude’. What if the NSC didn’t find Sydney at Julia Thorne’s apartment in Rome? What if Sark, bent on revenge for the murder of his father, found her instead?
Author’s Note: A quick shout-out to my fabulous Beta for this piece, Liz. Thanks a million!
Challenge Requirements:
1) Stories should not be more than 3000 words
2) You can not kill anyone who is a member of this site. I'd actually refrain from killing any real life people, because it'll just make me think you're a psycho
Word Count: 1,740
- - -
The dark red liquid swirls in the fragile wine glass sitting in front of him.
What should he do?
But in the end, he is given no choice. For the price of $800 million dollars he sells his soul to the devil in order to avenge the death of his imperfect father. But a deadbeat father is better than one who is just plain dead.
So he works for them, this organization known as The Covenant. He steals, he kills, and he uses their connections for personal gain.
- - -
He finds the picture in a file, hidden in plain sight at the Russian Embassy in Washington, DC. Getting clearance into the building is difficult. The Embassy is more like a compound, enclosed by tall stone and iron slats. But he pulls it off. He is the master of disguise and persuasion.
He waits an hour before looking at the photograph. He does not want to be distracted while he leaves the building inconspicuously. He reaches the airport and is on his private jet before he opens the file.
It is thick and black. It opens like an envelope. There are multiple pictures; each becomes consecutively clearer and the figure larger.
There is a full on shot of her face. The hair is different, but he recognizes her other features.
- - -
Step Two of his plan is set into motion. He opens the door of Lauren Reed’s car and walks away slowly, looking back only while he activates the weight sensor. He half hopes that she will disbelieve his intentions and try to follow him, dying with the evidence in the process.
But he knows that she will not jeopardize her own safety and her mission. He knows that his plan will succeed. After all, he is a member of MENSA – under an alias, of course.
- - -
He watches her leave the airport in Rome, having driven her out of Los Angeles, and follows her to first meet her contact, then to the apartment building.
She walks slowly, tentatively. He follows her.
She leaves the door unlocked, lucky for him. She is dazed and distracted, staring into the mirror on the medicine cabinet. He watches her from the doorway to the bathroom. She still has not detected his presence. She opens the door, picks up a bottle of prescription pills, reads the label, then replaces the bottle and closes the door.
While she does this, he moves into the room. When she looks back into the glass of the mirror, he is standing behind her, his reflection clear.
She whips around, shock and fear written clearly on her face. He makes no move yet, standing patiently a mere five inches away from her.
She works hard and eventually masks her face into a bland expression. He gives her a mocking half-smile. He appreciates her efforts, even though he is still there to kill her.
She walks past him slowly, as if not to wake a sleeping person. He shifts his body to the side, allowing her to pass. He follows her into the main room, across to the bed with the glass ceiling above it.
She motions him to the bed, where she is currently sitting. Intrigued, he walks to the other side while she lies down, looking out into the night sky. He lies down next to her and leans his face to the right, staring at her unmoving profile.
“Look up,” she says, “and tell me what you see.”
He looks up. The night sky is dark and few stars scatter the sky above. The window looks out at an old building, most likely a church. He responds to her question seriously, “I see a statue. It appears to be an angel.”
She nods and looks over at his face, her expression still unreadable. She continues speaking, “I dream about the angel. In my dreams, it comes closer and closer to my face, as if it is falling down on me. I always wake up in a sweat when it happens.”
He is silent as she speaks, soaking up her words, but reminding himself of his plan.
She finishes her thought. “It is the only thing I remember from the past two years.”
He looks over at her, not surprised, merely curious. “You don’t remember killing my father, then?”
She recoils further into the soft mattress. “So that is what this is about,” she whispers softly, “I didn’t know he was your father.”
“So you do remember?” He asks her harshly, given her statement of a few moments ago.
Her eyes water slightly. She responds, “No. But I do know about it. In fact, that is why I am here.”
His eyes frost over and his face becomes slightly mocking as he drops his bombshell, “I know. I orchestrated this whole situation.”
She isn’t as surprised as he hoped she would be. She merely says coldly, “I suppose you are here to kill me.”
He surprises himself by responding with the unvarnished truth, a simple, “Yes.”
She surprises him by first by replying with a question, “What about the information that The Covenant wants from me?”
“I don’t care about it.”
Then, she surprises him even more by saying, “Better death at your hands than possible brain damage at the hands of the NSC.”
He can hear the resignation in her voice. It grates on his nerves. It is unbecoming of the nemesis that he once knew. He gives her a scathing look and says with anger in his voice, “I do not want to kill you like this. I want to you to fight me.”
She is tired. He can see it in her eyes. She rolls over and closes her eyes. In five minutes, she is asleep. He watches her for a few more moments before turning away from her and closing his own eyes. Before he falls under the seductive spell of sleep, he says into the dark room coldly, “I want you to fight me.”
- - -
When he wakes up the next day, she is already up and out of bed. He blinks rapidly for a moment then rubs a hand across his face. He is awake.
His clothes are wrinkled, having slept in them, but it hardly matters anyway since murder can be a messy affair. That is, if she chooses to fight him.
He finds her sitting at the table in her dining alcove. Sunlight is pouring through the large window on the ceiling. The angel statue looks larger in the daylight.
She is sitting calmly; her expression is cold and masked. In front of her on the table are two black boxes. She smiles. In contrast with her cold eyes, the face is haunting.
He grins back at her, pleased in the turn of events. “I see you have chosen to fight me.”
She replies with the same blunt truth he had given her the night before, with a simple, “Yes.”
“Good.”
She leans her head to the right as she starts to speak in a friendly manner. “Since you have adopted British mannerisms, regardless of your origins of birth, I thought that an old fashioned duel would appeal to you. In front of me are two cases. One contains two pistols; the other, two swords. You may choose the weapon; I will choose the time and place.”
He contorts his facial features into a studious look as he walks over to the cases, opens them, and examines both sets of weapons.
After five minutes of examination, he closes both cases and sits down at the table, across from her.
“I’ve always fancied using swords in a duel.”
“Dusk, the Giardini Segreti at Villa Borghese”
- - -
She waits for him in a secluded portion of the gardens. He watches her for a few moments before approaching. The case containing the swords lies at her feet. She stands, tapping her right foot impatiently.
He coughs lightly, alerting her to his presence.
“No backup?”
“No backup.”
“Good.”
They both draw their chosen swords and take the opening stance; his is that of the aggressor and hers the defender.
The fight is a battle of wills. He matches her every blow, sometimes striking her but never piercing skin enough to draw significant blood. Her strokes are strong and defiant. The fight stretches out minute by minute. Sweat starts to run down their bodies, mixed with blood from the blows received by both. But neither opponent is ready to admit defeat.
There is a feral glint in her eyes that he cannot match. He is cold and calculated, taking his training seriously. Yet somehow, her passion starts to rule the match. He feels her strength overpowering him. He tries to find a new wind through his rage, but inside he only feels empty.
He is on his back and she is standing over him. The point of her sword glides across his neck, but she applies no pressure to the weapon. He waits for her to go back across, this time slicing through his skin, but she does not do it.
Instead, she removes the blade and places her right foot on his neck. She slices open his shirt with her sword and he lies on the ground bare-chested. The tip of her sword finds the spot where his heart in encased.
She stops. Her voice is commanding as she yells for him to look into her eyes.
“Since you never showed any compassion in life, I thought it was fitting that you die with my sword piercing your heart.”
His gaze does not falter as he replies mockingly, “I concede the point, madam.”
She lifts her sword slightly, and then plunges it through his skin. He dies with smirk gracing his lips. She watches the cold mocking dissipate from his eyes.
- - -
There is an unmarked grave in Russia that an unidentified woman visits twice a year. There are never flowers next to the small marker and she never stays long, or even cries. Every six months she is there, though, standing still while silently taking in the scenery. She always places her right hand on her mouth, her fingers against her lips, almost as if blowing a kiss. She does not appear to grieve, but she does pay her respects to the grave and the person lying under the cold, dark earth.
Now I'm gonna read...