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Title: The Third Strike
The best thing about this place is that it is warm and dry. The worst thing is he fears he will not be leaving it any time soon. This fact is realized slowly. First, there is the waking: coughing, hacking, trying to get the water out until he realizes there is no water. His insides feel off, and deep breaths are not possible. No, he is safe and dry. He moves to sit up and the handcuffs clank against the brass headboard of the bed. They dig in, sharp, as he tests them again and again. Correction. Dry, not safe. He is lying in a double bed, hands cuffed above his head. Clean sheets, no blood, and no pains attributable to beating. White t-shirt, gray sweatpants, both dry. That is important, even now, when the situation is crystallizing in his mind. The light is dim, but the room looks to be a bedroom. He thinks he spots lace and old photographs on the dresser beside the bed. Not the sort of place his mind has always pieced together for this sort of thing. It should be frigid cold, cinder block and dripping water — plink plink plink — on the cracked concrete floor. He should be in severe pain by now, or at least doped up. Everything is still foggy, but he doesn't feel drugged. A shadow moves through the doorway in the corner of the room. He squints, trying to focus in the dim light, and there is something familiar about the silhouette, decidedly feminine. Something in the way she carries herself, her posture as she steps closer to the bed. Sydney, he thinks. Sydney is here to save him. But she is moving awfully slow. He can't remember the last time he spoke, only swimming and swimming, heading toward some distant light, sucking a lungful of water before he reached his destination. Then blackness. He tests his voice now, but can't get far past the "S" before the coughing seizes him again. Another try, voice raspy. "Sydney?" She steps closer. Not Sydney. Brown eyes, familiar but cold. "I see that you are awake." He is woefully unprepared for the sound of her voice. The accent, decidedly Russian, stumbling over certain sounds, sharp and harsh where it should not be. Consonants become daggers, and he knows. "You bitch." The words emerge from the abyss within; he had not been aware of their existence. Hate buried until something — someone, rather — sent it shooting toward the surface. It is like a geyser now, and he does not intend to stop it. He has already tested the solidity of his restraints, but rage drives out rationality and he begins blindly pulling at them again, the handcuffs cutting thin red slices in his wrists. He uses as much volume as his current state will allot. "You killed my father, you fucking bitch. I'll kill you." A thin, ironic smile cuts across her face, then the same, stumbling accent as she looks toward the handcuffs. "I would be impressed to see you work out the logistics of that, Mr. Vaughn." Another realization comes slowly, wafting through his mind like strings of smoke. He has no idea what happened to Sydney.
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It is an impressive room, antique bathtub on the far wall, feet curling into the floor. Marble tiling and gold fixtures, ceiling far above her head. She stands at the white pedestal sink and stares at her reflection in the mirror above it — the periwinkle hair, black running around her eyes, trailing into points on her cheek. She then sets about to removing the wig, pulling the pins, dropping it in a fluff on the floor. The brown hair beneath is sweat-soaked, and she yanks her fingers through it to work out the tangles, give it some ventilation. There is liquid soap sitting on the sink, a European brand she does not recognize, alongside something familiar to her subconscious. Oil of Olay, which she opens, sending her back to six years old in a much less lavish bathroom. It is the smell of Mommy. She replaces the cap quickly and pours a dollop of the soap into her left hand, turning the gold spigot with her right. The sound gets to her first. Wiiiiiish. Not as deep as the tidal wave she experienced some unknown time ago, but it brings things rushing to the forefront like that wave. Her knees feel week as she stares at the column of water; she obliges them and sinks to the floor. For the first time since she woke, she allows herself to feel. In a vinyl and mesh heap on the marble floor, she buries her face in her hands and lets the tears flow freely. The soap keeps her eyes raw, never fully stinging because the tears quickly weaken its force. Sobbing, sucking in air, knowing she cannot do this for long or it will draw away her willpower. There is mourning, much mourning, for her to do. Perhaps more than ever before, because now she will mourn the man who helped her through the other times. But there are also questions left to ask, things to be said, before she can allow herself to give up. Her mind clings to a small nugget of hope; Will might be alive. He must be alive, or else he would disrupt her trinity of death. Danny—Noah—Vaughn. She spins it around like a pinwheel. Danny—Noah—Vaughn. Thoughts flash to baseball. Three strikes, and you're out. It draws her mind down the inevitable line to hockey. She has been trying to stay quiet in this, to keep from alerting the presence on the other side of the bathroom door to her pain. Controlled tears, controlled sobs, muffled in her hands. Hockey makes the wails come, however, and this is when the door opens with a soft click. Her mother. Sydney has the advantage of age; she is unsure about training. But overpowering this woman would be pointless. She knows there are four guards outside, armed with tranquilizer guns and real-bullet backup plans. "Sydney?" The voice is soft, motherly, American. She desperately searches for the evil in it, has an idea of where this is heading. Sydney stands, defensive, eying the older woman warily. Her mother is carrying a change of clothes, jeans, t-shirt, tennis shoes. She places them beside her on the floor before speaking again. "Sweetie?" Sydney's nickname for close friends; it makes her sick to realize its origin. "Don't call me that," she snaps. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing here. Why don't you speak in your real voice? I know what you are." Her mother does not ask for clarification. "You know I loved you, Sydney. It was not my choice to leave." The phrasing is slightly different, but the concept has been aired several times already. "It was your choice to betray Dad's trust. It was your choice to kill Vaughn's father." Vaughn. The blame for his death lies in many places, but she puts this woman at the root. She slams her fist down on the sink and it clanks against the wall. "He is dead because of you." Her voice is a deep growl, emphasis on the last word. Threatening, perhaps, if her face was not covered with makeup, soap and tears, black lines and blotches scattered everywhere. Her mother reveals nothing, merely motions to the clothes on the floor. "Clean yourself up and change into these. I have something to show you."
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If they intend to torture him, he wishes they would just get on with it already. Perhaps, he thinks, the waiting is part of the torture. The waiting and the wondering. He swam away when he realized two things. The first was that Sydney's assault on the window was futile, would not be successful in time to save him. The second was that she would not leave him to save herself. Emotionally attached. A little late to affirm that the feeling was mutual, as he was about to drown. He knows many things about Sydney Bristow. She can run fast. She can take on men twice her size with nothing but fists, feet and wiles. And she is very good at getting out of impossible situations. It is a solid argument, and he uses it to convince himself again that she is safe. He is the only one waiting here for them to come in and beat him, break fingers, shock him, shoot him up. Something. Get in here and do something, damn it. The room is still dim, no lights on and curtains on all of the windows. A precious little bit of light spills in from the sides of the curtains, and his eyes have adjusted to that. This is all spoiled when the door opens and the brightness of the hallway pours in. He blinks rapidly, trying to make his eyes adjust and assess the threat in the doorway. The feminine form. Her again, then. There are many hateful, spiteful things left to say, he has had plenty of time to think of them, and the first balances itself on his tongue. This is when the feminine form sucks in air and releases a quiet whimper. Soft words come from the hallway, an American voice, "I'll give you two some time," and then the door clicks shut, bringing the room back to the comfortable dimness. The figure advances, slowly, in shocked little steps. Sydney. She looks comfortable — jeans, t-shirt, brown hair again. He wonders if she is comfortable. Another step and he can see her face clearly. Mouth open, features crumbling, collapsing. Hands reaching weakly out to nothing, trying to grasp new realities. She releases one sob — huh huh huh — and closes the distance between them, slumping on the bed next to him. His shoulder and the clean white t-shirt catch the rest of the sobs, and there are many. He clanks the handcuffs against the headboard again, longing to draw his arms around her. She does this to him instead, curled up, leaning on him, clinging like he is a buoy in the sea of this mess. "How?" "I don't know. I woke up here." He coughs again, and it is harder to get the precious air with the weight of her against his chest, but he does not ask her to move. "Are you okay?" "I'm a lot better now." She forces the words out between sniffles. "My Mom — " "— we've met," he says bitterly, cutting her off and wondering just where Sydney stands with her mother now. Why she was allowed to walk in here and hold him. Whether she knows that, without the handcuffs, he would be torn between wrapping his arms around her and his hands around Irina Derevko's neck.
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His breathing becomes more labored beneath her, as he tries to suck air without letting her know, and Sydney reconsiders her positioning. "Sorry," she whispers, sliding to his side. "I wasn't thinking." For them, touch is rare, closeness like this rarer still. The overarching situation is horrid, but there is a certain peace, a serenity, in the moment. He is warm beside her, alive, and she basks in it. Vaughn coughs again, halting her moment, and it makes something deep within her throb with pain. "I'm so sorry, Vaughn. I'm sorry for dragging you into this." "It's not your fault." A whisper seems more comfortable for him. "My choice, my decision." The door opens then, and she tenses. "Get up, please, Sydney." Her mother, giving her the option of dignity, all part of this game no one will acknowledge. She chooses a few more moments beside him, lets two of the guards drag her away, force her into a wooden chair across the room. They do not restrain her, knowing she will not leave him. Another guard pulls a handkerchief into Vaughn's mouth and ties it behind his head. Her mother stands at the doorway for a minute, allows the flurry to die down, then flicks a switch by the door, flooding the room with light. Her steps rap on the wooden floor as she walks behind her daughter, runs her fingers down Sydney's hair, lifting it, plucking at sections. Sydney feels the urge to shiver, and spots a picture on the dresser by the bed. Her, at five or six. "Such beautiful hair. Do you remember, Sydney? Do you remember when I used to braid it?" She does. Her mother extricates her fingers and walks around the chair to stand in front of her, crossing her arms. "I know you think I am evil, Sydney. But I am your mother. I braided your hair. Took you to ballet lessons. Sang for you. I loved you. I still do." Vaughn mumbles against the gag, and she knows what he is thinking, says it for him. "You braided my hair and took me to ballet class, and then you went off and assassinated CIA agents. You murdered his father." She screams the word "murdered," trying to shake the calm facade of her mother's face. Sydney's words have no visible impact on her mother. "Sydney, tell me you have not killed people for your country. Tell me that and I will understand how you can think I am evil." She cannot. "You and I are no different, Sydney. We just started on different teams." "What do you want from me now?" She knows the answer already; they have been leading up to this for some time now. Irina's lips are much thinner than her daughter's, and she purses them, slipping on a smile. "I want to be on the same team, Sydney. I want to know my daughter. I want to give you the peace SD-6 and the CIA never will." She is glad Vaughn is there, as wrong as that is, and she pulls strength from the hatred he radiates. Logic and emotion battle within her; this is her mother, after all. "You can't give me any peace," she spits. "I believe I already have," Irina says, glancing at Vaughn. Two of the guards are standing next to the bed, and Sydney realizes there is one part of the game she has not yet considered. "No," she whispers, shaking her head. "Sweetie." That word again. Her mother's voice pretends no time has passed, and she is still talking to a little girl. "There is an easy way and a hard way to go about this. I have to do it either way. You know that. The decision is yours, but I don't want to hurt you or your friend." Find the hate. Find the anger. Don't let her make you love her. "You're a good actress, Mom. I guess you always were. Because that's all this is. That's all you ever were. An act, Mom. An act." She is still strong enough to be harsh. "You pretend to love me. You don't. If you loved me, you wouldn't hurt me. You wouldn't hurt Vaughn." Irina slips. "Sydney." Loud and Russian. One guard steps toward Vaughn, and she sees a small black object — stun gun, tazer perhaps — in his hand. Then things seem to erupt. Too fast, she wants to yell, too fast. Slow down and let me think. The guard pulls at Vaughn's sleeve, places the object against his shoulder. "Stop!" He doesn't. There is a slight popping noise, and she examines Vaughn's face for a reaction, sees nothing but surprise. Vaughn mumbles again, and she understands now why they gagged him. Not to halt screams, but to keep him from talking her out of this, trying to be her conscience. He doesn't understand, or maybe he does. She will do anything to avoid a third strike. "You want this to stop, Sydney?" Her mother is back to the sweet American, even more strikingly false now. "You know what that means. And really, Sydney, how evil is it? We already have certain goals in common. The end of SD-6, the Alliance. We can protect you. Your friend, as well. Help him keep his job after this little stunt with you." Irina examines her daughter for a reaction. Sydney gives up nothing, but her mother must know she is getting close. "I suppose you're wondering what Marko over there just did. He implanted Mr. Vaughn with a tracking chip. Work with me, Sydney, and I will make sure he stays safe." What will happen if she does not is unsaid but obvious. "Unfortunately, Sydney, the next thing Marko does will not be so painless." Mom's clever, she thinks, pulling out the psychology. Marko does. As if she isn't controlling all of this. Marko advances again, with a different black device. She has little time, and when the decision comes, it has nothing to do with anything her mother has said. She can squeeze more complication into her life. SD-6. CIA. Mom. She can turn back around on this, become a what — quadruple, quintuple, whichever — agent. "I'll do it." Anything to avoid a third strike. |
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