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Aug. 5th, 2003 03:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vaznettiHmpf.
I need help.
Well, you all knew that, didn't you? But I've started to write a story with Sark and Sydney (I can't promise Sarkney, although that's the direction I'm planning to go), and it feels very flat to me. So instead of writing the whole story and fixing whatever's wrong with it, I'm going the instant-gratification route and posting the first chunk of it in hope that some not-so-gentle reader will tell me (a) if it really is as flat as I think it is and (b) if the problem is just Syd's narrative voice. It's perfectly possible that I just shouldn't write Sydney; certainly I wouldn't dare write her pre-missing time.
Untitled Potential Sarkney
Sydney had to reject her first opinion--that Sark had infuriating taste in meeting-points--after she ran into one of her old professors. He asked after her, wondered whether she had returned to the university in the last year. "I was away in Cambridge," he explained. "On sabbatical, working in the library."
"Really?" she said. "I'm planning to go there myself in two weeks. Is it difficult to get into the library there?"
The pleasure in his face at the thought that she was returning to academia gave her a slight pang. "I'll write you a letter," he said. "Just take it to the office in the University Library, and they'll issue you a card."
The CIA would never need to know, she thought, and with that everything fell into place. She would go to Cambridge, she would meet with Sark, and she would find out what he knew. It didn't matter that the new director, Ashworth, was refusing to allow her back into the field until she could account for the last two years: she could take care of this herself.
Vaughn didn't like it, but Vaughn had given up the right to have opinions on Sydney's life. Will didn't like it either, and that almost made her hesitate, but she kept catching Will looking at her as if he didn't quite recognize her. So she stopped insisting that she be taken off medical leave and bought herself a cheap roundtrip ticket to London. Ashworth approved the absence: Sydney had come back all sharp edges and unexplained scars, and no one knew quite what to do with her.
She got off the bus in Cambridge after sixteen hours of travel with an aching back and a new appreciation for the ease of travel on the CIA payroll. After the four-hour wait in the entry hall of the University Library just to get her card, she was nearly convinced that doing this on her own was a bad idea. She should have told Ashworth as soon as she received Sark's email. She didn't even believe that Sark knew where she'd been or what she'd been doing. This was all utterly pointless.
Up the marble staircase and into the library proper: getting the damned card had taken so long that she didn't have time to read anything even if she'd wanted to. She managed to find the library cafeteria--tea room, she corrected herself, that's what Sark's email had called it--and sat down at a table with her back to the wall and a view of the door. The room around her was full of the clatter of trays and the clink of teacups and the buzz of conversation; words familiar from another life caught in her ears, theories that offered no explanation for the mystery she'd become. She sat still and watched the door.
Sark recognized her immediately: he stepped into the crowded room and his eyes turned straight to her. The shock of it made her fingers tighten on the blank notebook she was clutching as camouflage: she hadn't realized how accustomed she's become to the moment of surprise and disorientation, the inevitable "Is it really you?" from her friends and colleagues. The second shock was how perfectly he blended in. Of course, she reminded herself, he was a professional, but still... There was something wrong about how easily he could pass himself off as a research student: jeans, a worn sweater, a clear plastic bag with a notebook and pen in it and he looked no different from any of the academics in the room. He even held himself like them, slightly out of tune with the universe, as if he'd been lost in his work and only hunger had brought him back to the present. His leg knocked against the other chair of her table as he walked past; he turned to mouth an apology and straighten it, and when he moved on there was a new sheet of paper lying under her notebook.
Very neat. She had to admit that.
And after all her trouble getting into the library, now she had to go back out, through some college buildings to the Backs and then a right turn. Sark's directions were meticulous, and the open gate was exactly where he said it would be. She stepped into the garden and let it swing shut behind her. Through the trees she could see flowerbeds and a manicured green lawn; then Sark's voice, on her left, said, "Are you planning to stand there all day?"
She stepped into the sunlight. There he was, not bothering to conceal himself, but why should he? He'd set this whole thing up. "What do you want?" she asked.
"Only to welcome you back. It's a pleasure to see you, Sydney."
"I wish I could say the same. What do you want?"
He smiled. "You don't believe me?"
"Sark, I don't know what game you're playing, even you wouldn't drag me all the way to Cambridge just to say hello."
"Irina always said that the tea room in the University Library was her favorite spot in all of Britain. Maybe I thought you should see it."
She stared at him. "Is that what this is about? You're still delivering messages for my mother?" She watched for a reaction in Sark, but saw nothing. "Fine. Tell her yes, I want to see her." Her voice sounded brittle to her own ears, and she turned to leave.
After a step, Sark's voice caught her. "Sydney?" he said.
She turned back. "What?" How many hours had she been awake, anyway? Too many to make playing games seem worthwhile.
"Suppose I could arrange a meeting between you and Irina Derevko. Why should I?"
Well, she thought, so you aren't my mother's lapdog any more, are you? She almost said it aloud, but she wasn't sure how far she could push Sark before he pulled out the gun that was no doubt hidden somewhere. Instead she kept her voice even. "You must want something, Sark. You arranged this meeting."
"So I did," he said, almost to himself. He stared at her for a long moment while she bit back her irritation and exhaustion. Then he smiled, wide and lazy. "I wanted to see if you would come."
It took a moment for the words to sink in. She stood there staring at him for a moment longer, too angry to think of anything to say.
She turned and left the garden. It wasn't a long walk back to the bus station; she could probably get a seat on an earlier flight back to LA.
to be continued, obviously enough
That wasn't the best way to introduce a fic, was it? But I'm ambivalent about this scene, and begging for criticism seems like a good idea.
I need help.
Well, you all knew that, didn't you? But I've started to write a story with Sark and Sydney (I can't promise Sarkney, although that's the direction I'm planning to go), and it feels very flat to me. So instead of writing the whole story and fixing whatever's wrong with it, I'm going the instant-gratification route and posting the first chunk of it in hope that some not-so-gentle reader will tell me (a) if it really is as flat as I think it is and (b) if the problem is just Syd's narrative voice. It's perfectly possible that I just shouldn't write Sydney; certainly I wouldn't dare write her pre-missing time.
Untitled Potential Sarkney
Sydney had to reject her first opinion--that Sark had infuriating taste in meeting-points--after she ran into one of her old professors. He asked after her, wondered whether she had returned to the university in the last year. "I was away in Cambridge," he explained. "On sabbatical, working in the library."
"Really?" she said. "I'm planning to go there myself in two weeks. Is it difficult to get into the library there?"
The pleasure in his face at the thought that she was returning to academia gave her a slight pang. "I'll write you a letter," he said. "Just take it to the office in the University Library, and they'll issue you a card."
The CIA would never need to know, she thought, and with that everything fell into place. She would go to Cambridge, she would meet with Sark, and she would find out what he knew. It didn't matter that the new director, Ashworth, was refusing to allow her back into the field until she could account for the last two years: she could take care of this herself.
Vaughn didn't like it, but Vaughn had given up the right to have opinions on Sydney's life. Will didn't like it either, and that almost made her hesitate, but she kept catching Will looking at her as if he didn't quite recognize her. So she stopped insisting that she be taken off medical leave and bought herself a cheap roundtrip ticket to London. Ashworth approved the absence: Sydney had come back all sharp edges and unexplained scars, and no one knew quite what to do with her.
She got off the bus in Cambridge after sixteen hours of travel with an aching back and a new appreciation for the ease of travel on the CIA payroll. After the four-hour wait in the entry hall of the University Library just to get her card, she was nearly convinced that doing this on her own was a bad idea. She should have told Ashworth as soon as she received Sark's email. She didn't even believe that Sark knew where she'd been or what she'd been doing. This was all utterly pointless.
Up the marble staircase and into the library proper: getting the damned card had taken so long that she didn't have time to read anything even if she'd wanted to. She managed to find the library cafeteria--tea room, she corrected herself, that's what Sark's email had called it--and sat down at a table with her back to the wall and a view of the door. The room around her was full of the clatter of trays and the clink of teacups and the buzz of conversation; words familiar from another life caught in her ears, theories that offered no explanation for the mystery she'd become. She sat still and watched the door.
Sark recognized her immediately: he stepped into the crowded room and his eyes turned straight to her. The shock of it made her fingers tighten on the blank notebook she was clutching as camouflage: she hadn't realized how accustomed she's become to the moment of surprise and disorientation, the inevitable "Is it really you?" from her friends and colleagues. The second shock was how perfectly he blended in. Of course, she reminded herself, he was a professional, but still... There was something wrong about how easily he could pass himself off as a research student: jeans, a worn sweater, a clear plastic bag with a notebook and pen in it and he looked no different from any of the academics in the room. He even held himself like them, slightly out of tune with the universe, as if he'd been lost in his work and only hunger had brought him back to the present. His leg knocked against the other chair of her table as he walked past; he turned to mouth an apology and straighten it, and when he moved on there was a new sheet of paper lying under her notebook.
Very neat. She had to admit that.
And after all her trouble getting into the library, now she had to go back out, through some college buildings to the Backs and then a right turn. Sark's directions were meticulous, and the open gate was exactly where he said it would be. She stepped into the garden and let it swing shut behind her. Through the trees she could see flowerbeds and a manicured green lawn; then Sark's voice, on her left, said, "Are you planning to stand there all day?"
She stepped into the sunlight. There he was, not bothering to conceal himself, but why should he? He'd set this whole thing up. "What do you want?" she asked.
"Only to welcome you back. It's a pleasure to see you, Sydney."
"I wish I could say the same. What do you want?"
He smiled. "You don't believe me?"
"Sark, I don't know what game you're playing, even you wouldn't drag me all the way to Cambridge just to say hello."
"Irina always said that the tea room in the University Library was her favorite spot in all of Britain. Maybe I thought you should see it."
She stared at him. "Is that what this is about? You're still delivering messages for my mother?" She watched for a reaction in Sark, but saw nothing. "Fine. Tell her yes, I want to see her." Her voice sounded brittle to her own ears, and she turned to leave.
After a step, Sark's voice caught her. "Sydney?" he said.
She turned back. "What?" How many hours had she been awake, anyway? Too many to make playing games seem worthwhile.
"Suppose I could arrange a meeting between you and Irina Derevko. Why should I?"
Well, she thought, so you aren't my mother's lapdog any more, are you? She almost said it aloud, but she wasn't sure how far she could push Sark before he pulled out the gun that was no doubt hidden somewhere. Instead she kept her voice even. "You must want something, Sark. You arranged this meeting."
"So I did," he said, almost to himself. He stared at her for a long moment while she bit back her irritation and exhaustion. Then he smiled, wide and lazy. "I wanted to see if you would come."
It took a moment for the words to sink in. She stood there staring at him for a moment longer, too angry to think of anything to say.
She turned and left the garden. It wasn't a long walk back to the bus station; she could probably get a seat on an earlier flight back to LA.
to be continued, obviously enough
That wasn't the best way to introduce a fic, was it? But I'm ambivalent about this scene, and begging for criticism seems like a good idea.
