Title: Liquidation
Author: Laras_Dice
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Almost Thirty Years, character death
Archive: Anywhere, but please let me know. CD always.
Summary: Yeah. Another ATY story. Sloane-POV. Yes, you heard that right.
Disclaimer: I own nothing and love Alias. So don't sue me!
AN: Do I have any idea where this came from? No. None at all. It dribbled out of my brain one morning. It's unprecedentedly short for me, lol, and not my usual style, not to mention POV. Shouts out to Server 5, AIM gang, blog land, etc. Feedback, as always, is appreciated, even if you didn't like it (I'm not even sure if I like it). I appreciate honesty more than anything else. Many thanks to Thorne for the beta and for putting up with evil Sloane-corrupted files. :-)

Liquidation

There once was a truth.

Not the truth. There is no such thing as the truth. Long ago, perhaps, before betrayal.

Not now. Not beyond.

Truth is a commodity. Buy and sell. Steal, sometimes. Open market.

A business.

Your business.

It takes a long time.

The folds of her scarf rustle slightly in the breeze. Shimmer on her head as she glows out over the water.

Salt in the air. Salt in your eyes. Stings, the salt does.

You sit on white wooden chairs and stare at waves and talk about recovery.

You wait. She wants to plant more roses. She wants to go to Spain.

Wait for the poison to flow through her and replace a truth.

Glorious, for a moment. The nurse, remission.

That was only a truth.

Tired. Her last word.

She is not conscious when the sun slides away.

Skin so pale it becomes the sand.

There are truths in the years.

Twenty-three years ago there was a girl at the State Department who liked Bach.

Twenty-one years ago she said yes.

Thirteen years ago she said maybe a child.

Nine years ago she gave up.

Three years ago there was a cold white office and a hard black truth.

Yesterday you told her the truth as you know it. Owed her that.

More.

A truth is a logical end. A truth is no other way. A truth is bullets.

Not your bullets. Never like that. Peaceful, this.

The breeze picks up, stutters at the scarf. Ripples white gauze about her legs.

Something screeches through the night as the waves steal the sand.

Chilly, the night. You rise when it begins to claim her.

Walk out and dig your feet in where water grazes shore. Let sand slip through toes.

There once was a truth.