Scambio Chapter Two (A little more than the first half)

Thu, 04 Mar 2004 09:41:54 GMT

Scambio (The Swap)

Chapter Two - Three-quarters done

Rating: NC-17

AU - Sarkney. After Prologue, begins in S1 "The Coup" and veers off in almost my own direction from there. Since it is AU, some characters/things that have happened in S2 and S3 might show up.

*Haven't run through this a second time, so as usual, please excuse any choppiness.

Chapter Two -

A dull ache wrapped around her unmoving body like a downy flannel blanket. She wasn’t awake, yet her mind wasn’t encompassed by the deadening darkness of slumber either. The compromise was somewhere in the middle, somewhere that was black and heady and quiet – oh so quiet.

Quiet except for a faint occasional plink – water splattering on concrete far off in the distance. Then again, maybe the wetness was right next to her, and it was her consciousness that was still far away, causing the sounds around her to mute.

This could be purgatory for all she knew. The energy that had been drained in her earlier struggle and whatever drug she’d been given weighted her down. But the numbness her body experienced slowly became overpowered by something more torturous, more agonizing, as the mask that had hidden the pain from her slowly began to peel away.

She groaned as she tried to roll off her stomach to her side. The skin on her back felt raw, hot, and stretched tighter than strained elastic. Well, whatever skin she had left.

Her face fell flat, right back down on the cold cement floor with a force that jarred her cheekbone. The futile attempt to get a full view of where she was had also been hampered by her limp noodle arms and weak legs, both sets not cooperating with what the gray matter requested.

She did what she could, opened her eyes to find herself behind rows of thick, black metal bars. A cell. Musty and dirty, the distinct scent of mold seemingly embedded in the concrete under her, maybe even the foundation of the building that encased her. If the detoxing didn’t succeed in nauseating her, then that strong, pungent smell would.

She forced herself to take a deep breath, through the harsh rank, and flattened her palm to the ground, pushing with all the might her body could muster. After two tries, and a nearly decrepitating pain spanning the entire surface of her back, she made it.

“Fuck,” she gritted in agony between clenched teeth.

An open sore on her back rubbed against the cool floor in the process of turning over, jolting her body smartly. The temperature sort of helped as a substitute coolant, but the movement chafed terribly against the seeping blisters.

Her first instinct was to hold back the tears that pooled in her eyes, to not give her captors the satisfaction of seeing her break down. But considering she had been abandoned in this damp, dark place with no means to alleviate her ailments, “fuck it” seemed the best motto.

She didn’t know how long she’d cried. Only that by the time the flow stopped, her hair, and the side of her cheek, were both sticky and saturated with a drying wetness.

This feeling was so familiar to her. Despair. This being on the losing end of a situation that would probably end in death. It hurt, and not just physically. Her mind itched with the remorse of things left unsaid, undone, might not ever going to be felt again.

Vaughn. They’d had no time to explore what might have been, no time to take out SD-6. Her dad. Francie and Will. Those combined stung nearly as badly as her wounded back. She didn’t know what SD-6 would do, if anything, to get her back. But with each hour that passed, hope seemed to be a steadily fading beam of light in the distance.

An odd feeling, a sense that she had felt too many times, interrupted her reflection. A shiver danced along her nape and sent an awful twinge down her back.

She was being watched.

Pressing the heel of her hand to her temple, she raised up on one elbow, her head too heavy to hold straight so it lolled helplessly to the side. She squinted in the darkness for some proof – red light, actual camera – but didn’t see one at first.

Only when she dropped her head back in defeat did she see it. Behind her.

Carefully turning her upper body around, she looked expectantly into the bead of red, hoping it had night vision. It would likely be useless, asking for any sort of assistance, but she had to at least try. She had to clear a squeak from her throat before she was able to make any sound.

“Please,” she spoke, too hoarse to even make an echo. “I need… something,”

*******

She had been comatose for three hours. Just like clockwork, minutes away from when the clock struck half-past one, the drug wore off.

Remarkable. He’d have to relay that confirmation to their scientists.

They’d prepared the syringe just for Sark’s meeting with K-Directorate. A combination of sleep agents, painkillers, and muscle-relaxers, along with a few other pertinent, body-altering ingredients. The point of the super-sedative was to render the target unconscious long enough to safely transport them back to one of their appropriated buildings. And to leave them with a vicious withdrawal.

With the deep lines of pain etched in her face, that had worked, too.

He hadn’t used the entire contents on the woman, since the syringe had held the amount needed to promptly put Comrade Kessar out, if he hadn’t accepted the one-hundred million dollar offer in the short time allotted. But, thankfully, the new head of K-Directorate was intelligent and had agreed, giving Sark the option to instead use the syringe on the interloper.

When he’d tackled her on that roof, he’d seen that spitfire gleam of defiance in her eyes. The sort of look that told him if he hadn’t completely subjugated her, or tore her back to shreds, he would have had a heavy fight on his hands.

Well, if he was admitting that much, maybe he needed to also disclose that he’d have probably seen a good fight even if he’d only shredded her back. Her eyes were that intense. Not to mention oddly familiar.

She moved with the grace of a beached seal, awkwardly shifting as the feeling in her limbs slowly returned. Her attempt to sit up was laughable, but for some reason he wasn’t laughing. SD-6, the man had said. A group of stellar agents under the absurd assumption they were deep CIA, and had no idea who they were really working for.

Not his concern.

He saw the exact moment she realized that she was being watched. The grainy screen he watched her on picked up the tears and the shaking, trying to keep some semblance of control. It also picked up her sudden stillness and the consequent scour of the dank room.

She was looking for a camera. There were five in that room, only one noticeable in the darkness. He thought she had given up, her head hanging back in defeat, until he saw her eyes widen.

Bingo.

The camera made her face look even more sallow than it probably was in reality. She looked ghostly and haunted, and in so much pain.

But even when she spoke – Please, I need something – he didn’t move an inch. Didn’t quirk a brow, didn’t turn his gaze from the screen in sympathy. One never knows when one’s being watched, he recited in his head.

Sark just stood there in the control room, as aloof as he had been for the past three hours, and watched the woman squirm. More or less, until breakfast, it was what he had been told to do.

His only reassurance lay in the knowledge that Khasinau would be calling soon. Even if the Director of Operations, Sark, would be the one left to deal with the prisoner in the end, if it came to that, his reassurance lay knowing that at least before then, he’d know if he had the permission to spottily respond to her plea.

After all, even though she was working for the wrong side, like everyone thought he was, she was still a human being.

*******

The burn in Sydney’s back flamed even stronger than before – whatever she had been injected with exhausting her body. She was doubly uncomfortable now that the grime and dust inside the cell had delved and rapidly fermented into her gaping sores, causing a terrible itch.

One bonus was that she did have full movement of her hands and legs now, but she didn’t dare touch the damage back there for risk of further infection. Who knew when, or if, she’d have the opportunity to cleanse it? So she lay on her stomach, arms crossed under her for her head to rest on, watching beyond the bars for any sign of movement.

Her request for help had gone unseen or heard, or had been purposely ignored. Most likely the latter. Either way, no one had bothered to leave her with even so much as a bottle of water.

Sydney had no concept of time still. The black cell offered no outdoor source to give signs that the sun had risen or was on the brink of. She had fallen into a fitful sleep again, though. One filled with flickering rainbow holograms, devilish faces, and that left her with a sense of sorrow.

Her watch, and the few other belongings she had dared to bring with her, had gone missing sometime before she woke. They mattered little now. Her throat – parched and itchy – was one of her main bothers. Desperate for even a moment’s relief, she was almost tempted to find the source of that dropping water.

She was startled by the clanking of a metal door closing somewhere far off in the distance of the lower level. The sound practically echoed in the silence, filling her with immense trepidation.

This was it, she convinced herself. Either she was going home under negotiated terms, already marked for death, or neither but worse – someone was fixing to make her hurt worse than she already did.

Even thinking that Sloane would waste the energy, or hand over whatever precious resource or object Sark’s employer sought in exchange for her return was pointless. SD-6’s agenda was its own – agent status be damned. The ruthlessness of her own employer had been proved the day that she’d found Danny in their bathtub. She didn’t want to think what would happen once her visitor came down the hall.

Footsteps echoed like small explosions in the large room, each one seeming as loud as her thundering heart. She moved awkwardly to stand, not wanting her captor to see her in this submissive position, reaching her feet in time to see Sark stop in front of her.

A challenge hung between them as they stared at each other. He had won the first round, by bringing her here, but Sydney wanted to show him that if the chance came, round two would show a different victor.

In his hand was a tray holding bottled water, a cloth, and a croissant with some sort of deli meat inside. Just seeing the snack made her stomach grumble, and in the silence, the sound was shattering. Her cheeks flamed over her uncontrolled weakness.

He’d changed from taupe suit he wore earlier into black casual slacks with a matching crew neck sweater, and looked well rested, clean, refreshed. At that moment, she hated him with the same vigor she felt her hunger.

“I see that you’re awake,” he announced.

If possible, that feeling grew. Substantially.

“For hours now,” Sydney replied testily. “Was that something you discovered while watching from your surveillance room or did you just come to that brilliant conclusion?”

He stood, unmoving, his expression unfathomable. Controlled and remote. How very British, she thought. Even when she tried to take a jibe at him, he had a cultured air about him.

“Your back just beginning to itch?” he asked coolly.

Loathed.

Too bone-tired to spew the verbal tongue-lashing that immediately came to her, Sydney stayed silent. It didn’t matter. She figured he’d fill it anyhow.

Sark lifted the latch for the small rectangular door in the border of the servile quarters, sliding the tray for her to take. She eyed him warily as she did, moving back to the center of the cell as he returned the lock.

“My employer will arrive tonight and hope to begin negotiations with your Arvin Sloan immediately following. Depending on how forthcoming your superior is, this may be over with by tomorrow morning.”

Sydney laughed, a bitter, bitter sound, even to her own ears. “If you think I’m okay with being your employer’s prize quarry in this, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“And if you think that anyone on this end cares if you’re okay with this, then you’re in for a major disappointment,” he replied patronizingly. “You’re just a small bauble in a much larger collection of priceless jewels, my dear.”

Sydney would never admit outwardly how much that statement injured her pride. The truth did hurt rather badly. It took all her saved energy to not blanch or even flinch at his cruelty. Honest cruelty.

“Our protocol calls for lunch in five hours,” Sark informed as he languidly traveled back down the hallway.

“There’s protocol for this sort of thing?” she asked incredulously.

He ignored her and continued, “Besides nourishment, I’ve been permitted to allow you antiseptic and a wrap.”

“Wait.” Her jaw went slack at his words, and she found herself at the bars again, keeping pace with him until she couldn’t any further. “Five hours? Why not now?”

Sark turned to her and she watched the corner of his mouth twitch up. It wasn’t a smile, looked a touch too feral to be called one. She supposed it was meant to chill her, but it only managed to irk her further.

He was quiet for a beat before replying with a single word. “Protocol.”

Tue, 24 Feb 2004 10:40:06 GMT

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Scambio Chapter Two (A little more than the first half)