New Fic (Alias)
Aug. 18th, 2003 09:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vaznettiThe first installment in the Sarkneyesque (tm Rez):
Lectio Difficilior
by Vanzetti
Lectio Difficilior: (textual criticism) the principle that the more complex variant is more likely to be correct.
1.
An envelope fluttering out of her morning newspaper, that's how it started. Slow motion fall to the doormat, her arm reaching down to pick it up and the thought, "I know that writing."
From where, though, that was the question.
She ripped it open, scanned the few lines and time went back to fast-forward mode. Sark. That was better, she might have seen his writing during his time at SD-6, if only she could remember when.
She tossed it on the table, grabbed her bag and headed for the door. Why bother rushing, the voice in her head asked her, they aren't going to let you into the field, not today, not tomorrow, maybe not ever.
Shut up.
Sark contacting her, setting up a meeting. She had to reach for the anger she should be feeling. As if she had nothing better do.
You don't have anything better to do.
Shut up, she told the voice again.
The handwriting, though, was familiar where so little else in the world felt familiar: the world had moved on without her, was still rushing forward while she stood hesitating here in the doorway, as if she and the plain white paper on the table were the only still things in the universe.
Shut up.
2.
"Tell me again how you lost him." Too harsh: it wasn't Dixon's fault Sark had escaped.
"You saw the report."
"I know," she said. "I'm sorry, Dixon, I didn't mean it like that..."
Dixon sighed. "Will Tippin probably knows more about this than I do."
"But I'm asking you, Dixon. I read the report and I've talked to Will. The report doesn't say much and Will..."
"Who is he blaming now?"
"Who doesn't he blame? I need to know what happened."
Dixon leaned back on the couch. He had moved in the two years she'd been gone, but there were enough familiar things in his living room to make it almost comfortable. "Right," he said. "There isn't much to know. We kept Sark for a month before he was transferred to NSA custody--and it took some high-level string-pulling to get that done. Kendall wanted to keep him until we'd gotten everything we could. Including your location, if he knew it."
"Do you think he did?"
Dixon shrugged. "Your father thought he might. But if Sark told him anything, I never heard about it."
"Go on." She didn't want to discuss her father, not even with Dixon.
"He disappeared into the NSA system. We started to get suspicious when even Kendall and your father couldn't arrange to see him. Then seven months after the transfer he was spotted in Buenos Aires. Tippin hit the roof, and raised as much hell as he could--and with Kendall's help, that was a lot--but they kept stonewalling us with national security. And then Kendall was transferred back to the FBI, and your father disappeared, and that was it."
Her mouth curved down as she considered the possibilities. "What do you think? Are they covering their own incompetence? Could he have tricked them into believing they'd turned him?"
"If he did, it was a fast job. I guess you know what Tippin thinks."
"Will thinks that someone in the NSA is corrupt--but could Sark really have that kind of influence?"
"Sark, or whoever he's working for now, you mean."
It was her turn to sigh. "Will keeps trying to find the trail back, to figure out who might be responsible, but the whole thing's been covered up. I don't know--corruption on that high a level? I don't want to believe that it's true." She looked up and met Dixon's eyes. "Even after what happened to us."
"There's another possibility," Dixon said.
"For Sark's escape, you mean?"
He nodded. "What if they grabbed him from us and let him go on purpose?"
Her forehead wrinkled. "But isn't that what Will... Oh." She was silent. "You mean he was already an informant, even before we caught him."
"Maybe," Dixon said. "An informant, or a deep-cover agent."
It took her a moment to get her breath back. "That's... that can't be possible." Another deep breath and she could manage a shaky laugh. "That's even less likely than Will's theories."
"We don't know anything about him, Sydney. Nothing. It's the simplest explanation for his easy escape."
"You've seen him, Dixon," she argued. "He's... he doesn't have a conscience."
"It might be the role he's playing. It can happen, in undercover work: the things you do to maintain your cover change you."
"I know that," she said. "Believe me, I know it." She wanted to stand up, to pace the apartment, anything to shake off the sense that she didn't belong in the world she'd woken up in. "You say it's the simplest explanation. Do you think it's true?"
Dixon took a long time to answer. "I think it's possible. I don't think it's the most likely--you're right, I've seen him. I've seen what he can do. But I wouldn't rule it out just because I don't like the man."
"So you think I should meet him." The meeting Sark had suggested, three weeks from tomorrow. That was why she was here, after all. She already knew what Will would say, and with her father missing too and Vaughn... Well, Vaughn had given up the right to have opinions about her movements. Marcus Dixon was very nearly the only person she knew she trusted.
"No," he said, and kept talking before she could interrupt. "He was in custody when you disappeared: whatever he claims to know will only be second hand, and there's no reason to think he's going to tell you the truth. There's no reason for you to put yourself in danger."
"I'm better than Sark." It was a fact.
"You were," Dixon said.
Her hands were fists. "Dixon, that's not..."
"Listen to me, Sydney. You've been missing for two years, and that makes you vulnerable. Just because Sark knows enough to play on your weaknesses doesn't mean he knows what's happened to you."
"No," she agreed. "I'll think about it."
"Sydney..."
"I said I'll think about it. And if I go, I'll be careful."
3.
It didn't matter, anyway: Ashworth, the new Director, had her grounded, smothering her in cares and worries and "We just don't know enough" until she could feel padded walls closing in around her. Running helped, long walks, swimming, anything to make her body believe that she wasn't trapped in one place.
Aside from the conversation with Dixon, she kept Sark's message to herself, one secret she knew hidden among all the unknown secrets she was keeping. It didn't matter: even if Ashworth would let her go she had better things to do than jump through hoops for Sark's amusement.
Running. Long walks.
She was halfway across the university campus when an old professor spotted her, waved her over: no escape here either, out in the open. She parried the usual questions-no she wasn't back in school--and was working on her extrication when a name caught her: Cambridge.
"...sabbatical last year, working in the University Library, absolute heaven..."
"I'm planning a trip to England," she found herself saying, "in three weeks. I was thinking of visiting Cambridge."
"Oh, you must!"
And then wasn't it a miracle, aside from the missing time her memory was perfect. She mentioned a manuscript she had once thought of examining and there it was: the offer of a letter to get her into the library, a list of people she could consult, the name of a pub.
A cheap ticket to London, and it all fell into place. Ashworth would never need to know why she'd stopped snarling at him whenever he crossed her path.
4.
Eleven hours on an airplane and three on a bus stuck in traffic left her with an aching back and a new appreciation for the ease of travel on the CIA payroll. Four more hours waiting in the entrance hall of the library so they could take her picture and issue a card meant she had to run up the curving marble steps and it was a damned good thing the cafeteria-tea room, she corrected herself, that's what Sark's message had called it-was nearby. She hurried in and looked around-of course he wasn't there yet--and took a table along the right hand wall. The link of cups and saucers and the clatter of trays and the buzz of conversation rose up around her, bouncing off the high ceiling and the tall windows.
"...Helen's indeterminacy is the subject..."
"...off the punt and smack into the water, over by Trinity..."
"...the poet suffers a metamorphosis of his own..."
"...so I said, that's not how dialectic works, you cow, and she..."
The phrases were familiar from another life, no explanation for the mystery she was now: that was just a cover, she reminded herself, this was the real Sydney, sitting alone and waiting to meet a killer. If that's what he was, if Dixon's theory wasn't right.
Dixon's theory couldn't be right.
There he was--she'd almost missed him, and how the hell was that possible? It was the way he was moving, not quite a shuffle but just awkward enough to give the impression that he'd been lost in study and only hunger had brought him into the present at all. He blended well, too well. She only saw him because his eyes went straight to her.
The shock of it made her hands tighten on the notebook she was carrying for camouflage. She was used to the moment of hesitation and confusion, the "Is it really you?" and the "Where have you been?" What right did Sark have--Sark of all people--to recognize her right away?
He vanished into the cafeteria line and reemerged a few minutes later holding a tray: that was done on purpose, she thought, as if she'd believe that Sark was less dangerous with his hands full. When he came over to her table she saw a cup of milky tea and some kind of lumpy roll. Following her eyes, Sark said, "It's a cheese scone. Irina recommended them once."
"Have you seen my mother lately?" Keeping her voice casual, although the room was noisy enough for their conversation to be swallowed up.
He shrugged. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Sydney."
"I wish I could say the same." She looked him over. 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. Only his eyes set him apart, the cold, watchful killer's eyes. "What do you want?"
"May I sit down?" Polite words and underneath them steel. She was tempted to tell him no just to see what he'd do, but nodded at the chair instead.
"What do you want?" she asked again. "And don't waste my time."
"I didn't realize that you were so busy," Sark said.
The bastard. He knew that Ashworth had her penned up.
He met her glare and smiled--it was unexpected and looked genuine. "It is good to see you as yourself, Sydney."
Breathe, she thought. Breathe. No point trying to hide her reaction: his eyes had been sharp on her face when he spoke. There was a chance--a good chance--that he was making this up, that he didn't know anything.
"Although," he continued, "I admit that I'm slightly surprised that you decided to come."
A good thing Sark loved the sound of his own voice--it gave her time to recover. "There's always the chance that you're still running errands for my mother." There was always the chance that Dixon's theory was... no.
But look at him, she thought. So relaxed, leaning back slightly in the plastic chair. He'd been here before. MI-5 and 6 still recruited out of Cambridge, she'd heard.
No.
"Poor Sydney. Your return to this world ignored by both your parents. Why do you suppose that is?"
"You might still be working for my mother, Sark, but don't pretend to know anything about where my father is."
"He's in Istanbul, with Arvin Sloane." She must have looked surprised, because he kept talking. "You did know that they've been working together for a little over a year. No? Apparently Jack rather fell apart after you disappeared. Tragic, or so I'm told."
She stood: the chair scraped backwards across the floor. "Shut up!"
Too noisy: she could feel the people around them turn to look, then look away. Sark stared up at her, a moment longer. "Not exactly subtle, Sydney," he murmured, then stood. "I wouldn't recommend trying to see him, but if you survive the attempt I'll be in touch."
TBC.
This is, of course, what became of that Sark/Sydney piece I posted a while back. It's much improved, thanks to everyone who commented.
And isn't it Jo's birthday, sometime around now?
Lectio Difficilior
by Vanzetti
Lectio Difficilior: (textual criticism) the principle that the more complex variant is more likely to be correct.
1.
An envelope fluttering out of her morning newspaper, that's how it started. Slow motion fall to the doormat, her arm reaching down to pick it up and the thought, "I know that writing."
From where, though, that was the question.
She ripped it open, scanned the few lines and time went back to fast-forward mode. Sark. That was better, she might have seen his writing during his time at SD-6, if only she could remember when.
She tossed it on the table, grabbed her bag and headed for the door. Why bother rushing, the voice in her head asked her, they aren't going to let you into the field, not today, not tomorrow, maybe not ever.
Shut up.
Sark contacting her, setting up a meeting. She had to reach for the anger she should be feeling. As if she had nothing better do.
You don't have anything better to do.
Shut up, she told the voice again.
The handwriting, though, was familiar where so little else in the world felt familiar: the world had moved on without her, was still rushing forward while she stood hesitating here in the doorway, as if she and the plain white paper on the table were the only still things in the universe.
Shut up.
2.
"Tell me again how you lost him." Too harsh: it wasn't Dixon's fault Sark had escaped.
"You saw the report."
"I know," she said. "I'm sorry, Dixon, I didn't mean it like that..."
Dixon sighed. "Will Tippin probably knows more about this than I do."
"But I'm asking you, Dixon. I read the report and I've talked to Will. The report doesn't say much and Will..."
"Who is he blaming now?"
"Who doesn't he blame? I need to know what happened."
Dixon leaned back on the couch. He had moved in the two years she'd been gone, but there were enough familiar things in his living room to make it almost comfortable. "Right," he said. "There isn't much to know. We kept Sark for a month before he was transferred to NSA custody--and it took some high-level string-pulling to get that done. Kendall wanted to keep him until we'd gotten everything we could. Including your location, if he knew it."
"Do you think he did?"
Dixon shrugged. "Your father thought he might. But if Sark told him anything, I never heard about it."
"Go on." She didn't want to discuss her father, not even with Dixon.
"He disappeared into the NSA system. We started to get suspicious when even Kendall and your father couldn't arrange to see him. Then seven months after the transfer he was spotted in Buenos Aires. Tippin hit the roof, and raised as much hell as he could--and with Kendall's help, that was a lot--but they kept stonewalling us with national security. And then Kendall was transferred back to the FBI, and your father disappeared, and that was it."
Her mouth curved down as she considered the possibilities. "What do you think? Are they covering their own incompetence? Could he have tricked them into believing they'd turned him?"
"If he did, it was a fast job. I guess you know what Tippin thinks."
"Will thinks that someone in the NSA is corrupt--but could Sark really have that kind of influence?"
"Sark, or whoever he's working for now, you mean."
It was her turn to sigh. "Will keeps trying to find the trail back, to figure out who might be responsible, but the whole thing's been covered up. I don't know--corruption on that high a level? I don't want to believe that it's true." She looked up and met Dixon's eyes. "Even after what happened to us."
"There's another possibility," Dixon said.
"For Sark's escape, you mean?"
He nodded. "What if they grabbed him from us and let him go on purpose?"
Her forehead wrinkled. "But isn't that what Will... Oh." She was silent. "You mean he was already an informant, even before we caught him."
"Maybe," Dixon said. "An informant, or a deep-cover agent."
It took her a moment to get her breath back. "That's... that can't be possible." Another deep breath and she could manage a shaky laugh. "That's even less likely than Will's theories."
"We don't know anything about him, Sydney. Nothing. It's the simplest explanation for his easy escape."
"You've seen him, Dixon," she argued. "He's... he doesn't have a conscience."
"It might be the role he's playing. It can happen, in undercover work: the things you do to maintain your cover change you."
"I know that," she said. "Believe me, I know it." She wanted to stand up, to pace the apartment, anything to shake off the sense that she didn't belong in the world she'd woken up in. "You say it's the simplest explanation. Do you think it's true?"
Dixon took a long time to answer. "I think it's possible. I don't think it's the most likely--you're right, I've seen him. I've seen what he can do. But I wouldn't rule it out just because I don't like the man."
"So you think I should meet him." The meeting Sark had suggested, three weeks from tomorrow. That was why she was here, after all. She already knew what Will would say, and with her father missing too and Vaughn... Well, Vaughn had given up the right to have opinions about her movements. Marcus Dixon was very nearly the only person she knew she trusted.
"No," he said, and kept talking before she could interrupt. "He was in custody when you disappeared: whatever he claims to know will only be second hand, and there's no reason to think he's going to tell you the truth. There's no reason for you to put yourself in danger."
"I'm better than Sark." It was a fact.
"You were," Dixon said.
Her hands were fists. "Dixon, that's not..."
"Listen to me, Sydney. You've been missing for two years, and that makes you vulnerable. Just because Sark knows enough to play on your weaknesses doesn't mean he knows what's happened to you."
"No," she agreed. "I'll think about it."
"Sydney..."
"I said I'll think about it. And if I go, I'll be careful."
3.
It didn't matter, anyway: Ashworth, the new Director, had her grounded, smothering her in cares and worries and "We just don't know enough" until she could feel padded walls closing in around her. Running helped, long walks, swimming, anything to make her body believe that she wasn't trapped in one place.
Aside from the conversation with Dixon, she kept Sark's message to herself, one secret she knew hidden among all the unknown secrets she was keeping. It didn't matter: even if Ashworth would let her go she had better things to do than jump through hoops for Sark's amusement.
Running. Long walks.
She was halfway across the university campus when an old professor spotted her, waved her over: no escape here either, out in the open. She parried the usual questions-no she wasn't back in school--and was working on her extrication when a name caught her: Cambridge.
"...sabbatical last year, working in the University Library, absolute heaven..."
"I'm planning a trip to England," she found herself saying, "in three weeks. I was thinking of visiting Cambridge."
"Oh, you must!"
And then wasn't it a miracle, aside from the missing time her memory was perfect. She mentioned a manuscript she had once thought of examining and there it was: the offer of a letter to get her into the library, a list of people she could consult, the name of a pub.
A cheap ticket to London, and it all fell into place. Ashworth would never need to know why she'd stopped snarling at him whenever he crossed her path.
4.
Eleven hours on an airplane and three on a bus stuck in traffic left her with an aching back and a new appreciation for the ease of travel on the CIA payroll. Four more hours waiting in the entrance hall of the library so they could take her picture and issue a card meant she had to run up the curving marble steps and it was a damned good thing the cafeteria-tea room, she corrected herself, that's what Sark's message had called it-was nearby. She hurried in and looked around-of course he wasn't there yet--and took a table along the right hand wall. The link of cups and saucers and the clatter of trays and the buzz of conversation rose up around her, bouncing off the high ceiling and the tall windows.
"...Helen's indeterminacy is the subject..."
"...off the punt and smack into the water, over by Trinity..."
"...the poet suffers a metamorphosis of his own..."
"...so I said, that's not how dialectic works, you cow, and she..."
The phrases were familiar from another life, no explanation for the mystery she was now: that was just a cover, she reminded herself, this was the real Sydney, sitting alone and waiting to meet a killer. If that's what he was, if Dixon's theory wasn't right.
Dixon's theory couldn't be right.
There he was--she'd almost missed him, and how the hell was that possible? It was the way he was moving, not quite a shuffle but just awkward enough to give the impression that he'd been lost in study and only hunger had brought him into the present at all. He blended well, too well. She only saw him because his eyes went straight to her.
The shock of it made her hands tighten on the notebook she was carrying for camouflage. She was used to the moment of hesitation and confusion, the "Is it really you?" and the "Where have you been?" What right did Sark have--Sark of all people--to recognize her right away?
He vanished into the cafeteria line and reemerged a few minutes later holding a tray: that was done on purpose, she thought, as if she'd believe that Sark was less dangerous with his hands full. When he came over to her table she saw a cup of milky tea and some kind of lumpy roll. Following her eyes, Sark said, "It's a cheese scone. Irina recommended them once."
"Have you seen my mother lately?" Keeping her voice casual, although the room was noisy enough for their conversation to be swallowed up.
He shrugged. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Sydney."
"I wish I could say the same." She looked him over. 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. Only his eyes set him apart, the cold, watchful killer's eyes. "What do you want?"
"May I sit down?" Polite words and underneath them steel. She was tempted to tell him no just to see what he'd do, but nodded at the chair instead.
"What do you want?" she asked again. "And don't waste my time."
"I didn't realize that you were so busy," Sark said.
The bastard. He knew that Ashworth had her penned up.
He met her glare and smiled--it was unexpected and looked genuine. "It is good to see you as yourself, Sydney."
Breathe, she thought. Breathe. No point trying to hide her reaction: his eyes had been sharp on her face when he spoke. There was a chance--a good chance--that he was making this up, that he didn't know anything.
"Although," he continued, "I admit that I'm slightly surprised that you decided to come."
A good thing Sark loved the sound of his own voice--it gave her time to recover. "There's always the chance that you're still running errands for my mother." There was always the chance that Dixon's theory was... no.
But look at him, she thought. So relaxed, leaning back slightly in the plastic chair. He'd been here before. MI-5 and 6 still recruited out of Cambridge, she'd heard.
No.
"Poor Sydney. Your return to this world ignored by both your parents. Why do you suppose that is?"
"You might still be working for my mother, Sark, but don't pretend to know anything about where my father is."
"He's in Istanbul, with Arvin Sloane." She must have looked surprised, because he kept talking. "You did know that they've been working together for a little over a year. No? Apparently Jack rather fell apart after you disappeared. Tragic, or so I'm told."
She stood: the chair scraped backwards across the floor. "Shut up!"
Too noisy: she could feel the people around them turn to look, then look away. Sark stared up at her, a moment longer. "Not exactly subtle, Sydney," he murmured, then stood. "I wouldn't recommend trying to see him, but if you survive the attempt I'll be in touch."
TBC.
This is, of course, what became of that Sark/Sydney piece I posted a while back. It's much improved, thanks to everyone who commented.
And isn't it Jo's birthday, sometime around now?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-08-18 10:02 am (UTC)And I'm hooked.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-18 10:31 am (UTC)Glad to have caught you.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-18 10:06 am (UTC)Sydney's restlessness is much better captured, and I still love that Sark recognizes Sydney in spite of the missing time.
I think I caught a typo-- you have a "role," on Sark's tray, and I think that should be "roll."
no subject
Date: 2003-08-18 10:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-18 10:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-18 10:34 am (UTC)I'm pleased that you like it--and yeah, it's really much improved. I feel bad about posting the other, but I needed the comments to shake things up a bit.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-18 01:54 pm (UTC)*bounces* Could I possibly be more excited for the beginning of the season? I think not.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-18 02:36 pm (UTC)Could I possibly be more excited for the beginning of the season? I think not.
I'm dying. Dying, I tell you. I have this feeling that the first few episodes are going to make me want to write, and write, and write. I can almost feel all the words brimming, and I just need something to hang them on.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-18 02:41 pm (UTC)Yes, *exactly*. I do have some niggling worries that it'll end up being all about the S/V/O triangle, but there's too much other material to play with-- that won't happen.
I almost feel like the people who are actually psyched for S3 need their own club or icons along the lines of those Buffy Fans: No apologies icons. I don't remember being this marginalized before. *g*
no subject
Date: 2003-08-18 03:14 pm (UTC)Really? I find that it's my normal state. But yes, it's a bit odd to have to read through posts and posts about the new Mrs. Vaughn's hair color (who cares?) to get to anything interesting. And by interesting, I mean having to do with Sark, because there's practically nothing about Jack or Irina or anyone else out there.
(And I can tell that the bashing of the new wife is going to get worse than distasteful very very soon.)
no subject
Date: 2003-08-18 04:51 pm (UTC)"...so I said, that's not how dialectic works, you cow, and she..."
Heeheehee!
And about any worries that S3 will be too much S/V/O, I have only this mantra to offer:
Every. Freakin'. Ep.
Sark. Get it on, boy.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-18 06:14 pm (UTC)Oh, yeah. Say it with me--baby is back.
However, you should pay attention to the anti-Mrs.-Vaughn wailing, because it has the potential to develop into quite the fandom rift, and might be interesting in a clinical sense.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-21 10:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-22 08:08 pm (UTC)Thanks for the feedback--I guess I should get cracking on writing more of it!
no subject
Date: 2003-08-21 10:36 pm (UTC)But really ... This is excellent. Always good to see post-Telling fics that do NOT include Syd being pregnant from Sark.
Thank you for an intriguing first part.
Sark is spot-on - arrogance and confidence and mystery in wonderful unison.
Go on?
no subject
Date: 2003-08-22 08:09 pm (UTC)Guess I'd better get the rest of it written!
no subject
Date: 2003-08-24 01:39 pm (UTC)That sentence looks for an exclamation mark.
It should look like this:
Get the rest written!
*g*
Seriously, though: Excellent work. I'm really looking forward to the next part. Very, very much.
And a bit more still. :o)
By the way: Student!Sark was the only thing that kept me sane at the library on Friday, where a bulldozer and a jack-hammer were at work while I was trying to study for international private law ...
Sometimes, situations just scream for your own personal Sark to take care of them. *sigh*