A Dark Turn
I Was Made to Love You
Title: Façade
Author: Dita
Ship: The Good ship Lollipop. No, just kidding. Sark and Sydney.
Situation: Post Telling; Takes place after Sydney’s inspirational little phone conference with Vaughn in ep 17. Obviously, in an alternate universe (doesn’t that sound so scary and sci fi??).
Commentary: Wow. This has been sitting on my desktop for ages and I finally decided to post it. I had to do some major updates because, since writing it (and finishing it), SD-6 was still around. Also, it’s long and it does have lots of Syd v. Sark action… Just be patient while the story develops. Also, feedback and honest critiques are very much appreciated. Flames, however, are not.
Plot summary: The brutal murder of a diplomat’s beloved daughter may be much more than it appears when it’s discovered that she had high-ranking connections with…the Covenant. Sydney is dispatched post-haste to investigate pertinent details, but it’s proving much more difficult and slippery an investigation than she thought. Complicating matters further is the mysterious presence of Sark, whose connections she must unravel before she can ever hope to find the truth.
Chapter One: The Painted Doll
~ Every note I sing is blue
And every note is more than I can handle. ~
2:30 A.M.; Washington D.C.
She had everything she had ever wanted.
Lydia Antoinette d’Rosseau, the third child and only daughter of a French diplomat in Washington, had never worked for anything in her life…nor had she ever the inclination to try. Dark-haired and doe eyed and graced with a face that many a potential suitor said was more awe-inspiring than any religious conversion, she was the epitome of desire and carelessness in a mink coat and five-hundred dollar Prada shoes.
Right now, those Prada shoes were heading east in the dead night toward the apartment of her one and only, acknowledged lover: a married man who rented a hotel room at the Plaza D’Italia every Tuesday and Thursday. She never minded the married part, nor the fact that she knew next to nothing about her paramour. The sex was exceptional and Lydia got to have a secret, something she loved most about the married lover part. Secrets were like dark chocolate during PMS and a good f**k; they were something you could hold to your heart and smirk out at everyone else because you knew something that they never would trapped in their dull, senseless lives. She lived secrets like other people lived for their families or the adrenaline rush or their jobs; she reveled in her power.
She smiled to herself on the thought of it, even as the clickty-clack of her heels echoed throughout the dead street. Power. Prestige. Sex. Scandal. How absolutely f***ing delicious. Those were also just some of the reasons she had eschewed her limo tonight: the chance at a walk alone to the hotel was doing wonders for the clearing of her mind as one could rarely hold a coherent thought down in a limo, according to Lydia.
This was from a girl who could rarely hold a coherent thought down period, but most people were willing to run along with such a lovely girl’s obviously whacked train of thought. Even if the lovely girl was also obviously a bit on the lunatic side. Spending four months in a mental hospital at the age of eighteen had done little to correct Lydia’s one weakness: a complete and utter lack of remorse. Her little animal torturing stint had ended abruptly, but Lydia’s lack of concern and willingness to kill for match-set advantage made her all that much more dangerous. Really, she was just torturing bigger and smarter animals now.
So, her death should have come has no surprise to anyone. Considering the number of enemies she’d acquired in her short twenty-five years of back-stabbing living, Lydia should have considered herself lucky to have lived as long as she did.
But when that hand reached out to grab Lydia’s long hair, when the knife came up and slit a perfect smile in her throat, she couldn’t absolutely believe…
She stood still for a minute, her body poised straight as if pulled up by some invisible wire. But then, her eyes rolled back, showing only the whites, and… She fell. Her head hit the ground, cracking against the concrete, and her mink coat slipped from her shoulders to join the dark pool of blood gathering in the sidewalk cracks.
Game Over.
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No one realized she was missing for a week.
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CIA, a week and a half later.
“Her name was Lydia d’Rosseau, daughter of Francois d’Rosseau, a key player in the on-going relations between France and the United States.”
A picture of a smiling dark-haired and blue-eyed woman flashed across the screen, obviously taken in happier days. Dixon’s reassuring monotone resonated throughout the briefing room and the only thing that Sydney could think as she stared into Lydia’s oversized glittering blue eyes was: young. Too young and too close to Sydney’s own age for comfort.
“…And we don’t know why. As you all know, this sort of thing would not come under the prevue of CIA, but for one thing.”
Lydia’s picture gave way to another, this one featuring Lydia talking to an older man in a crisp black suit. He looked very European with overtones of metro-sexulaity that included his fake, orange tan and perfectly coiffed graying hair. The self-righteous, smug sneer on his mouth turned a handsome face into something almost ugly.
“Henri de Tourville. He’s a prominent illegal arms dealer and known liaison for the Covenant.”
Another slide showed Henri giving Lydia what appeared to be some kind of folder, probably rife with all sorts of dubious documents.
“He may or may not have been Lydia d’Rosseau’s handler.” Dixon paused for theatrical effect and Sydney stole a glance in her father’s direction, who was staring at her pensively, lips drawn together in a tight line. She switched her look over to Vaughn, sitting near Lauren towards the front of the table. His hand was resting lightly on his wife’s and he was staring at Dixon as if his life depended on it. He was in no way looking in her direction, general or otherwise.
Ah, just like old times.
“Although we knew about and were investigating Lydia’s involvement before her death, her murder changes things dramatically. In fact, we suspect that her murder may have been arranged by the Covenant itself.”
Sydney frowned. Odd. “I don’t understand. Why would the Covenant kill one of its own agents? Wouldn’t that be defeating the purpose?”
Dixon frowned. “Well, we don’t know. The fact is, the fact why it’s so important to find out why and who killed Lydia d’Rosseau are not only her close connections to the Covenant, but...”
Out of the corner of her eye, Sydney saw Lauren whisper something in Vaughn’s ear. She caught his patented look of surprise, and then he turned to meet her eyes. She was almost sick of the familiar hurt and shock she saw within them.
“To you, Sydney.”
A slide of Lydia flashed across the screen, Lydia talking and putting her arm around a woman at her side. The woman, Sydney realized, had her face. Her hair might have been blonde in the slide, but the picture was sharp as a scalpel and Sydney could clearly make out every feature of her own face perfectly.
She was smiling at Lydia. She looked amused.
“So I have a connection to Lydia that is…”
“Unknown,” Dixon finished. “At least for now. But it’s one that could bear serious weight on up-coming events. I think it’s in everyone’s best interest if you were to investigate your relationship- private or professional- with Lydia d’Rosseau.”
Sydney continued to stare at the screen, at her own face in a situation she had no recollection of ever being in.
“Her apartment would probably be the best place to start. You can get the ops and details from Marshall.” Dixon nodded shortly, but there was understanding in his eyes. “That’s it, then.”
She nodded and tried for a smile. It didn’t quite work out. She wondered how long it would be this way; even when someone told her the details of her missing two years, there was always something she missed, always. Her hands slightly shaking, she tried to rearrange the papers in the folder in front of her, though she no longer had any idea what they contained or pertained to…
“Sydney…” Vaughn was standing in front of her. His face was in his normal mode of anxious worry, though Sydney assured herself she needn’t be concerned any of it was for her. Vaughn, of course, was in the game of self-preservation. She ran a lagging third these days...at best.
“Vaughn.”
Why can’t you just leave me the hell alone? Do I have a sign on my face that says ‘martyr’? ‘Will suffer paradoxical whims for food?’
“I-I’m sorry.” They were both uneasily conscious of a frail, pretty Lauren, pert today in a navy pantsuit, standing not five feet away from them, capable of hearing every word. “About…everything.”
The words hung between them like something secret and ugly and unclean. It was as if Vaughn was washing all the blood from his hands in one easy step. No more Sydney, she could imagine him thinking. Mustn’t go that way anymore.
“I have to go,” she said, at last. She didn’t look at him or at Lauren as she left, passing through the glass doors of the debriefing room into the outer offices of the CIA. She half-thought she wanted him to call her back…but, no. Hushed, embarrassed silence reigned supreme.
Well, f*** him then.
“Hey, Sydney. Hello. Hi there. Umm. Good morning.”
“Hi, Marshall.” She walked to her desk to get her coffee cup, a big porcelain one with cows on it that Francie, the real Francie, had gotten her for her birthday a few years back. “Is there something…?”
“Oh. Oh! Yes. Ummm, Dixon and the mission- your thing with Little-Miss-Got-Her-Throat-Cut-In-A-Dark-Alley? You know, that has to be a really rare death. I mean, it’s the stuff that mystery movies and books are based on, but how many people do you know that can actually lay claim to that kind of thing? I realize it’s morbid-“
“Marshall.” She tried for a smile. “The mission?”
“Yes, yeah. I’m sorry, Syd.” He smiled too, but his smile was innocent, like a little boy’s. “Well. Lydia has an apartment in D.C. Washington D.C. that is. Of course, there aren’t many D.C.’s around the world, but… Not the point,” he said, when he saw the red flush on Sydney’s cheeks. “There’s the address. And, yeah. The address. I’ve got a field kit ready for you in my office-camera and plastic glove ready, I might add-and intell’s sent down a list of people who were reported to be ‘very’ close to Lydia d’Rosseau. You know, like in a “Soprano” kind of way.”
She took the list and scanned it. No big suprises, she supposed. Simon Walker, Allison Dorien, Irina Derevko, Arvin Sloane (back in the SD-6 days), and…Julian Lazarey.
Sark.
Simply fanf***ingtastic.
“Thanks, Marshall.”
“Yeah, well, you know. Just doing the ‘ol job, if you know what I… Okay, I’m gone.”
Sydney replaced the list and address info on her desk and looked up to see Jack, standing tall and straight and obviously uncomfortable next to her desk.
“Dad.” Not even room for a breath around here.
“Sydney.” She regretted the flash of pain, of protectiveness that flashed through his eyes and wished she had something-anything- that could make it better. “I just wanted to say…be careful. Lydia d’Rosseau, well, I’ve heard of her in some circles. She wasn’t the sort of girl to play nice or think rationally.”
“All the more reason to investigate.”
“Yes, but, Sydney, I-”
She caught him in a hug. It was so sudden, so spontaneous, it even caught her off guard. But she needed it, she needed to feel someone right now. Her heart was on a tenuous line; a break down in the middle of the CIA was a minute away.
“You worry too much,” she said and squeezed her eyes tight to keep from crying (too much, now, and too long she had been crying). “It’ll all be fine. You’ll see.”
Oh, the lies you tell, Sydney. Don’t you realize by now it’ll never be fine anymore? Never be quite the same?
Deep down, she hated herself for being weak. She was disgusted and yet, another part of her, a sweeter and more naïve part, just she wished she could believe her own promise, this once.
Even if that, too, was just another lie.
~ Cut beneath the surface screen
Of what we say and what we seem,
Is there a truth to be seen?
She keeps crying out your name
But her screams, they sound the same
Oh, how fickle fate can be. ~
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Chapter Two: A Red Afternoon
~ Lost a friend I found
Down some blood red river
Never did find my way home
In time to forget her. ~
“She’s dead.”
“Who?”
“Who? Please, Mr. Sark, your modesty puts even me to shame. Lydia. Found dead in the mouth of an alleyway last Wednesday. Covenant hit.” The voice in his phone, that of a Henri de Tourville, sounded smug and self-satisfied, like a fat cat who had dined on mice galore. “And I must say good job, old boy. I heard it was particularly brutal, vous savez ce que veux dire je?”*
“No, I do not know what you mean and I have no recollection of killing anyone in the last week, if that’s what you’re somehow implying.” But I do want to kill you, Sark thought, dispassionately. “I was not aware or connected with Lydia’s death, and I suggest you look down other avenues of possibility to find your killer. Your congratulations are wasted on me.”
He snapped the cell phone shut and felt vaguely empty.
So, Lydia was dead.
It hardly came as a surprise. The way she’d conducted herself, her indiscretion, her flamboyant decadence… The only thing, Sark mused, that had saved Lydia for this long had been her father, who had protected his wayward offspring with an iron fist and a hired fleet of assassins, most of them on the French government’s bankroll. It seemed that that, in itself, had even come to an end.
He couldn’t say he was sorry… Except that he was. Lydia was, had been, a lot of things: cruel, careless, callous, lazy, reckless. But she was also passionate and, when she put her mind to it, disarmingly charming. He remembered, with sudden clarity, a summer night he’d spent with Lydia on a mission in Venice three years ago. There had been one moment, when she’d turned to look at him over her shoulder, mouth solemn and eyes laughing…
On the motorbike, she asks him what his first name is. Her eyes are so very blue-just like his own- in the moonlight and her mouth is perfect, inches away from his own.
He’d wondered then what she’d been like as little girl, no pretenses and armour to fend off the world.
Hardly the thing to be wondering now, though, he supposed. With Lydia dead and it being the Covenant, that could only mean one of two things: Lydia had betrayed the Convenant or she had become a serious liability. Right now, Sark was opting for the latter given Lydia’s self-indulgent mode of deport. But…then who?
He wondered why he hadn’t been informed and decided, reluctantly if truth be told, to put in a phone call to his associate. Presumably, the one with the answers.
“Hello?” Three rings and the voice that picks up is accented and sweet- pretty but vapid.
“It’s Sark. Are you in a secure location?”
“No. Actually, I’m just in the middle of something. I’ll call you back in a few minutes. Mom.” She paused. “Yes, mother, everything’s fine.” Serious emphasis on the word ‘fine.’
Did she just call me mom? Before he could make some sort of cleverly biting barb in return, she hung up. Sark decided, rather liberally, to be amused at Lauren Reed for calling him ‘mom.’ What was life if you couldn’t take a joke, however unintentional?
True to form, though, less than five minutes later, his cell rang with Lauren’s number flashing in bold red across the screen. Dutifully, he picked up. At the fifth ring. Just to piss her off.
“Lauren. So good of you to return my call.”
“Cut the bullsh**, Sark. What’s the matter?”
“What, no whispered terms of endearment, love? No?” He could well imagine the ‘I’m-so-pissed-at-you’ expression her face must be making; it almost warmed his heart. “Well, no matter. I have a more pressing issue, if you will, concerning one of our fellow associates. Perhaps you know her. Lydia d’Rosseau?”
A long pause. “What about her?”
“She was brutally murdered last week. Henri de Tourville, the arms dealer, called to congratulate me on a job well done.” He let the silence ring in his ears, deafening and damning. “It wasn’t *my* job, love,” he said, faintly underling the word ‘my’ with his tone.
“I didn’t think it would concern you.” Her voice was flippant, but troubled. She was an amateur at hiding her emotions and even Sark could divine that she was trying to guess at what his underlying motives were.
Someday, he thought, I’m going to kill you.
But for now, he just settled for a condescending, bastard-like tone he knew was guarenteed to get a rise. “I don’t like it, Lauren, when you don’t inform me of such things. It makes me look foolish and you as well, I might add. Should I even bother to ask if you did a follow-up mission? Or is that *also* no longer my concern?”
“Sydney Bristow’s been sent on a mission to try and find out what connection she and Lydia had toward one another. Apparently, Sydney was quite close with Lydia sometime during the infamous missing two years. She’s leaving for Washington D.C. tomorrow.”
“This is the first I’m hearing of this, Lauren.”
“I was going to call you.” Her voice had taken on a petulant tone. “I can’t get away right now with my father’s death. Vaughn and I are working on things.”
“F***ing him again, are you? Well, I don’t blame you. Killing-father-and-pretending-to-be-grieving sex is right up there with make-up sex. My blessing, love.”
“It was what you wanted. You suggested it.”
“I never said I particularly cared, either. But, Lauren love, I want to get one thing straight between us. From now on, you don’t keep secrets; everything you even so much as *think* is to be reported to me. Is that understood?”
“Completely.” She hung up before he could venture anything else and he almost threw the cell phone against the wall in rare and vicious temper snit.
Your days are so f***ing numbered, love.
But he stopped to focus. Sydney Bristow the infalliable was going to be in D.C. to “figure things out.” He nearly laughed out loud. He had no idea of her connection to Lydia and, if it was a serious one, Lydia had failed to mention it to him.
But if it was serious enough for Sydney, then it was serious enough for Sark.
It would be interesting, at least, to cross paths with her again.
Even if he did end up killing her.
If we should meet again in some darkened room
I hope to my soul it could be soon.
*Translation: Do you know what I mean?
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The lyrics from Chapter One are: Tori Amos, "Blue Room" and Beth Orton, "She Cries Your Name." From Chapter Two: Beth Orton, "Blood Red River" and "Darkened Room", respectively.
Hope you enjoyed!!!!
Author: Dita
Ship: The Good ship Lollipop. No, just kidding. Sark and Sydney.
Situation: Post Telling; Takes place after Sydney’s inspirational little phone conference with Vaughn in ep 17. Obviously, in an alternate universe (doesn’t that sound so scary and sci fi??).
Commentary: Wow. This has been sitting on my desktop for ages and I finally decided to post it. I had to do some major updates because, since writing it (and finishing it), SD-6 was still around. Also, it’s long and it does have lots of Syd v. Sark action… Just be patient while the story develops. Also, feedback and honest critiques are very much appreciated. Flames, however, are not.
Plot summary: The brutal murder of a diplomat’s beloved daughter may be much more than it appears when it’s discovered that she had high-ranking connections with…the Covenant. Sydney is dispatched post-haste to investigate pertinent details, but it’s proving much more difficult and slippery an investigation than she thought. Complicating matters further is the mysterious presence of Sark, whose connections she must unravel before she can ever hope to find the truth.
Chapter One: The Painted Doll
~ Every note I sing is blue
And every note is more than I can handle. ~
2:30 A.M.; Washington D.C.
She had everything she had ever wanted.
Lydia Antoinette d’Rosseau, the third child and only daughter of a French diplomat in Washington, had never worked for anything in her life…nor had she ever the inclination to try. Dark-haired and doe eyed and graced with a face that many a potential suitor said was more awe-inspiring than any religious conversion, she was the epitome of desire and carelessness in a mink coat and five-hundred dollar Prada shoes.
Right now, those Prada shoes were heading east in the dead night toward the apartment of her one and only, acknowledged lover: a married man who rented a hotel room at the Plaza D’Italia every Tuesday and Thursday. She never minded the married part, nor the fact that she knew next to nothing about her paramour. The sex was exceptional and Lydia got to have a secret, something she loved most about the married lover part. Secrets were like dark chocolate during PMS and a good f**k; they were something you could hold to your heart and smirk out at everyone else because you knew something that they never would trapped in their dull, senseless lives. She lived secrets like other people lived for their families or the adrenaline rush or their jobs; she reveled in her power.
She smiled to herself on the thought of it, even as the clickty-clack of her heels echoed throughout the dead street. Power. Prestige. Sex. Scandal. How absolutely f***ing delicious. Those were also just some of the reasons she had eschewed her limo tonight: the chance at a walk alone to the hotel was doing wonders for the clearing of her mind as one could rarely hold a coherent thought down in a limo, according to Lydia.
This was from a girl who could rarely hold a coherent thought down period, but most people were willing to run along with such a lovely girl’s obviously whacked train of thought. Even if the lovely girl was also obviously a bit on the lunatic side. Spending four months in a mental hospital at the age of eighteen had done little to correct Lydia’s one weakness: a complete and utter lack of remorse. Her little animal torturing stint had ended abruptly, but Lydia’s lack of concern and willingness to kill for match-set advantage made her all that much more dangerous. Really, she was just torturing bigger and smarter animals now.
So, her death should have come has no surprise to anyone. Considering the number of enemies she’d acquired in her short twenty-five years of back-stabbing living, Lydia should have considered herself lucky to have lived as long as she did.
But when that hand reached out to grab Lydia’s long hair, when the knife came up and slit a perfect smile in her throat, she couldn’t absolutely believe…
She stood still for a minute, her body poised straight as if pulled up by some invisible wire. But then, her eyes rolled back, showing only the whites, and… She fell. Her head hit the ground, cracking against the concrete, and her mink coat slipped from her shoulders to join the dark pool of blood gathering in the sidewalk cracks.
Game Over.
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No one realized she was missing for a week.
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CIA, a week and a half later.
“Her name was Lydia d’Rosseau, daughter of Francois d’Rosseau, a key player in the on-going relations between France and the United States.”
A picture of a smiling dark-haired and blue-eyed woman flashed across the screen, obviously taken in happier days. Dixon’s reassuring monotone resonated throughout the briefing room and the only thing that Sydney could think as she stared into Lydia’s oversized glittering blue eyes was: young. Too young and too close to Sydney’s own age for comfort.
“…And we don’t know why. As you all know, this sort of thing would not come under the prevue of CIA, but for one thing.”
Lydia’s picture gave way to another, this one featuring Lydia talking to an older man in a crisp black suit. He looked very European with overtones of metro-sexulaity that included his fake, orange tan and perfectly coiffed graying hair. The self-righteous, smug sneer on his mouth turned a handsome face into something almost ugly.
“Henri de Tourville. He’s a prominent illegal arms dealer and known liaison for the Covenant.”
Another slide showed Henri giving Lydia what appeared to be some kind of folder, probably rife with all sorts of dubious documents.
“He may or may not have been Lydia d’Rosseau’s handler.” Dixon paused for theatrical effect and Sydney stole a glance in her father’s direction, who was staring at her pensively, lips drawn together in a tight line. She switched her look over to Vaughn, sitting near Lauren towards the front of the table. His hand was resting lightly on his wife’s and he was staring at Dixon as if his life depended on it. He was in no way looking in her direction, general or otherwise.
Ah, just like old times.
“Although we knew about and were investigating Lydia’s involvement before her death, her murder changes things dramatically. In fact, we suspect that her murder may have been arranged by the Covenant itself.”
Sydney frowned. Odd. “I don’t understand. Why would the Covenant kill one of its own agents? Wouldn’t that be defeating the purpose?”
Dixon frowned. “Well, we don’t know. The fact is, the fact why it’s so important to find out why and who killed Lydia d’Rosseau are not only her close connections to the Covenant, but...”
Out of the corner of her eye, Sydney saw Lauren whisper something in Vaughn’s ear. She caught his patented look of surprise, and then he turned to meet her eyes. She was almost sick of the familiar hurt and shock she saw within them.
“To you, Sydney.”
A slide of Lydia flashed across the screen, Lydia talking and putting her arm around a woman at her side. The woman, Sydney realized, had her face. Her hair might have been blonde in the slide, but the picture was sharp as a scalpel and Sydney could clearly make out every feature of her own face perfectly.
She was smiling at Lydia. She looked amused.
“So I have a connection to Lydia that is…”
“Unknown,” Dixon finished. “At least for now. But it’s one that could bear serious weight on up-coming events. I think it’s in everyone’s best interest if you were to investigate your relationship- private or professional- with Lydia d’Rosseau.”
Sydney continued to stare at the screen, at her own face in a situation she had no recollection of ever being in.
“Her apartment would probably be the best place to start. You can get the ops and details from Marshall.” Dixon nodded shortly, but there was understanding in his eyes. “That’s it, then.”
She nodded and tried for a smile. It didn’t quite work out. She wondered how long it would be this way; even when someone told her the details of her missing two years, there was always something she missed, always. Her hands slightly shaking, she tried to rearrange the papers in the folder in front of her, though she no longer had any idea what they contained or pertained to…
“Sydney…” Vaughn was standing in front of her. His face was in his normal mode of anxious worry, though Sydney assured herself she needn’t be concerned any of it was for her. Vaughn, of course, was in the game of self-preservation. She ran a lagging third these days...at best.
“Vaughn.”
Why can’t you just leave me the hell alone? Do I have a sign on my face that says ‘martyr’? ‘Will suffer paradoxical whims for food?’
“I-I’m sorry.” They were both uneasily conscious of a frail, pretty Lauren, pert today in a navy pantsuit, standing not five feet away from them, capable of hearing every word. “About…everything.”
The words hung between them like something secret and ugly and unclean. It was as if Vaughn was washing all the blood from his hands in one easy step. No more Sydney, she could imagine him thinking. Mustn’t go that way anymore.
“I have to go,” she said, at last. She didn’t look at him or at Lauren as she left, passing through the glass doors of the debriefing room into the outer offices of the CIA. She half-thought she wanted him to call her back…but, no. Hushed, embarrassed silence reigned supreme.
Well, f*** him then.
“Hey, Sydney. Hello. Hi there. Umm. Good morning.”
“Hi, Marshall.” She walked to her desk to get her coffee cup, a big porcelain one with cows on it that Francie, the real Francie, had gotten her for her birthday a few years back. “Is there something…?”
“Oh. Oh! Yes. Ummm, Dixon and the mission- your thing with Little-Miss-Got-Her-Throat-Cut-In-A-Dark-Alley? You know, that has to be a really rare death. I mean, it’s the stuff that mystery movies and books are based on, but how many people do you know that can actually lay claim to that kind of thing? I realize it’s morbid-“
“Marshall.” She tried for a smile. “The mission?”
“Yes, yeah. I’m sorry, Syd.” He smiled too, but his smile was innocent, like a little boy’s. “Well. Lydia has an apartment in D.C. Washington D.C. that is. Of course, there aren’t many D.C.’s around the world, but… Not the point,” he said, when he saw the red flush on Sydney’s cheeks. “There’s the address. And, yeah. The address. I’ve got a field kit ready for you in my office-camera and plastic glove ready, I might add-and intell’s sent down a list of people who were reported to be ‘very’ close to Lydia d’Rosseau. You know, like in a “Soprano” kind of way.”
She took the list and scanned it. No big suprises, she supposed. Simon Walker, Allison Dorien, Irina Derevko, Arvin Sloane (back in the SD-6 days), and…Julian Lazarey.
Sark.
Simply fanf***ingtastic.
“Thanks, Marshall.”
“Yeah, well, you know. Just doing the ‘ol job, if you know what I… Okay, I’m gone.”
Sydney replaced the list and address info on her desk and looked up to see Jack, standing tall and straight and obviously uncomfortable next to her desk.
“Dad.” Not even room for a breath around here.
“Sydney.” She regretted the flash of pain, of protectiveness that flashed through his eyes and wished she had something-anything- that could make it better. “I just wanted to say…be careful. Lydia d’Rosseau, well, I’ve heard of her in some circles. She wasn’t the sort of girl to play nice or think rationally.”
“All the more reason to investigate.”
“Yes, but, Sydney, I-”
She caught him in a hug. It was so sudden, so spontaneous, it even caught her off guard. But she needed it, she needed to feel someone right now. Her heart was on a tenuous line; a break down in the middle of the CIA was a minute away.
“You worry too much,” she said and squeezed her eyes tight to keep from crying (too much, now, and too long she had been crying). “It’ll all be fine. You’ll see.”
Oh, the lies you tell, Sydney. Don’t you realize by now it’ll never be fine anymore? Never be quite the same?
Deep down, she hated herself for being weak. She was disgusted and yet, another part of her, a sweeter and more naïve part, just she wished she could believe her own promise, this once.
Even if that, too, was just another lie.
~ Cut beneath the surface screen
Of what we say and what we seem,
Is there a truth to be seen?
She keeps crying out your name
But her screams, they sound the same
Oh, how fickle fate can be. ~
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Chapter Two: A Red Afternoon
~ Lost a friend I found
Down some blood red river
Never did find my way home
In time to forget her. ~
“She’s dead.”
“Who?”
“Who? Please, Mr. Sark, your modesty puts even me to shame. Lydia. Found dead in the mouth of an alleyway last Wednesday. Covenant hit.” The voice in his phone, that of a Henri de Tourville, sounded smug and self-satisfied, like a fat cat who had dined on mice galore. “And I must say good job, old boy. I heard it was particularly brutal, vous savez ce que veux dire je?”*
“No, I do not know what you mean and I have no recollection of killing anyone in the last week, if that’s what you’re somehow implying.” But I do want to kill you, Sark thought, dispassionately. “I was not aware or connected with Lydia’s death, and I suggest you look down other avenues of possibility to find your killer. Your congratulations are wasted on me.”
He snapped the cell phone shut and felt vaguely empty.
So, Lydia was dead.
It hardly came as a surprise. The way she’d conducted herself, her indiscretion, her flamboyant decadence… The only thing, Sark mused, that had saved Lydia for this long had been her father, who had protected his wayward offspring with an iron fist and a hired fleet of assassins, most of them on the French government’s bankroll. It seemed that that, in itself, had even come to an end.
He couldn’t say he was sorry… Except that he was. Lydia was, had been, a lot of things: cruel, careless, callous, lazy, reckless. But she was also passionate and, when she put her mind to it, disarmingly charming. He remembered, with sudden clarity, a summer night he’d spent with Lydia on a mission in Venice three years ago. There had been one moment, when she’d turned to look at him over her shoulder, mouth solemn and eyes laughing…
On the motorbike, she asks him what his first name is. Her eyes are so very blue-just like his own- in the moonlight and her mouth is perfect, inches away from his own.
He’d wondered then what she’d been like as little girl, no pretenses and armour to fend off the world.
Hardly the thing to be wondering now, though, he supposed. With Lydia dead and it being the Covenant, that could only mean one of two things: Lydia had betrayed the Convenant or she had become a serious liability. Right now, Sark was opting for the latter given Lydia’s self-indulgent mode of deport. But…then who?
He wondered why he hadn’t been informed and decided, reluctantly if truth be told, to put in a phone call to his associate. Presumably, the one with the answers.
“Hello?” Three rings and the voice that picks up is accented and sweet- pretty but vapid.
“It’s Sark. Are you in a secure location?”
“No. Actually, I’m just in the middle of something. I’ll call you back in a few minutes. Mom.” She paused. “Yes, mother, everything’s fine.” Serious emphasis on the word ‘fine.’
Did she just call me mom? Before he could make some sort of cleverly biting barb in return, she hung up. Sark decided, rather liberally, to be amused at Lauren Reed for calling him ‘mom.’ What was life if you couldn’t take a joke, however unintentional?
True to form, though, less than five minutes later, his cell rang with Lauren’s number flashing in bold red across the screen. Dutifully, he picked up. At the fifth ring. Just to piss her off.
“Lauren. So good of you to return my call.”
“Cut the bullsh**, Sark. What’s the matter?”
“What, no whispered terms of endearment, love? No?” He could well imagine the ‘I’m-so-pissed-at-you’ expression her face must be making; it almost warmed his heart. “Well, no matter. I have a more pressing issue, if you will, concerning one of our fellow associates. Perhaps you know her. Lydia d’Rosseau?”
A long pause. “What about her?”
“She was brutally murdered last week. Henri de Tourville, the arms dealer, called to congratulate me on a job well done.” He let the silence ring in his ears, deafening and damning. “It wasn’t *my* job, love,” he said, faintly underling the word ‘my’ with his tone.
“I didn’t think it would concern you.” Her voice was flippant, but troubled. She was an amateur at hiding her emotions and even Sark could divine that she was trying to guess at what his underlying motives were.
Someday, he thought, I’m going to kill you.
But for now, he just settled for a condescending, bastard-like tone he knew was guarenteed to get a rise. “I don’t like it, Lauren, when you don’t inform me of such things. It makes me look foolish and you as well, I might add. Should I even bother to ask if you did a follow-up mission? Or is that *also* no longer my concern?”
“Sydney Bristow’s been sent on a mission to try and find out what connection she and Lydia had toward one another. Apparently, Sydney was quite close with Lydia sometime during the infamous missing two years. She’s leaving for Washington D.C. tomorrow.”
“This is the first I’m hearing of this, Lauren.”
“I was going to call you.” Her voice had taken on a petulant tone. “I can’t get away right now with my father’s death. Vaughn and I are working on things.”
“F***ing him again, are you? Well, I don’t blame you. Killing-father-and-pretending-to-be-grieving sex is right up there with make-up sex. My blessing, love.”
“It was what you wanted. You suggested it.”
“I never said I particularly cared, either. But, Lauren love, I want to get one thing straight between us. From now on, you don’t keep secrets; everything you even so much as *think* is to be reported to me. Is that understood?”
“Completely.” She hung up before he could venture anything else and he almost threw the cell phone against the wall in rare and vicious temper snit.
Your days are so f***ing numbered, love.
But he stopped to focus. Sydney Bristow the infalliable was going to be in D.C. to “figure things out.” He nearly laughed out loud. He had no idea of her connection to Lydia and, if it was a serious one, Lydia had failed to mention it to him.
But if it was serious enough for Sydney, then it was serious enough for Sark.
It would be interesting, at least, to cross paths with her again.
Even if he did end up killing her.
If we should meet again in some darkened room
I hope to my soul it could be soon.
*Translation: Do you know what I mean?
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The lyrics from Chapter One are: Tori Amos, "Blue Room" and Beth Orton, "She Cries Your Name." From Chapter Two: Beth Orton, "Blood Red River" and "Darkened Room", respectively.
Hope you enjoyed!!!!