The Hunter and the Hunted
Author: Amy
Rating: R – for the usual, graphic violence and you know, the other thing
Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters or the first two seasons of Alias. Those belong to JJ and crew. Anything not canon does belong to me, however, and I prefer it to stay that way. Seriously. I know karate. Or something...
Summary: Death. Anger. Revenge. Betrayal. All the good components to an epic story revolving around Sark and Sydney.
Timeline: Everything up until the season 2 finale has happened. After that, it’s all my own F-ed up little world.
Author’s Note: This is the story formerly entitled “Red”, it had been posted in the General Fiction threads, due to a previously PG-13 rating. I’ve re-worked it, added some scenes, and decided to continue writing it (I had previously stopped). The rating has been upped to “R” because of some added sex and violence. So, essentially, this is a brand new story on top of my original storyline.
[Prologue]
He took a sip of his deep red wine. He smiled. It was a bitter smile, so unlike his usual smirk. He knew that everybody wondered at his fascination with red wine. But to him, it was not so much a fascination as a reminder. His wine is a link to his work, and subsequently his life. Because the wine is always red, never white. Red equals blood, blood equals death, and death equals life in his twisted world.
Death. It surrounded his entire life. Usually it is he who did the killing. But once, only once, was he the victim. He had not died. But he was forced to survive the murder of Allison Doren.
She was dead.
He had seen the proof with his own eyes. After easily escaping CIA custody that night, he drove by the wreckage that was Sydney and Francie’s apartment. Except it was really Sydney and Allison’s apartment. A ridiculous distinction, but one he always made.
He had seen all three of them: Allison and Sydney, lying in the midst of blood and wreckage, and Will Tippin in the bathtub, soaking a bath of his own blood. Slowly dying, life slipping away quietly, painfully.
Sydney was still breathing. He could see her chest moving. Up and down. Up and down.
He looked to Allison. There was no movement. There were three gaping holes. Close range bullet holes. A pool of sticky, red blood surrounded her.
She was dead.
Every time night comes back to haunt him, the anger boils up, underneath the surface, until he cannot contain the emotions aroused. He still feels the incredible pressure of guilt over Allison’s death. It was his fault she entered this life. After the guilt comes hatred, the hatred of her killer – the murderess Sydney Bristow.
And then, he feels nothing. He drinks more wine and becomes cold hearted once again.
It’s a cycle he hopes to break one day. Skip the emotion, be forever cold hearted. But he can’t. It’s his biggest weakness. When it comes to women, he feels too much.
Revenge. Thoughts of revenge are the only thing that keeps him sane. And he did have his revenge on the two that destroyed his life, his status quo, his stable and ice-like exterior.
He left Will Tippin in the tub, bathing in his own blood, sure to die at any second. And he left Sydney laying passed out on the floor of her now trashed room. He was not going to help either of them. Not with his Allison’s death at their hands.
He took Allison’s body away from the wreckage. He made funeral arrangements. She was buried in Ireland, near his beautiful cottage, his escape from the spy world, with a beautiful headstone. He made sure that there were always fresh flowers. In order to avoid speculation, he unearthed Francie’s body from its pathetic resting spot.
According to the news, all three had died tragically in a fire; the cause of said fire was still unknown.
Of course, his revenge was bittersweet. He didn’t have Allison by his side to celebrate the death of the pesky CIA agent.
He was alone, always alone.
- - - - - - - - - -
The cold earth made a loud noise as the deep brown dirt methodically hit the smooth wood of the casket, covering it until it disappeared completely. There was no formal funeral. No party afterwards. No sympathetic relatives or friends. It all ended with a solitary figure and cold, dark, earth.
She dressed in pure white. The sun shone brightly so she blocked her eyes with large black sunglasses. Her dark hair was pulled back into a discreet bun. If her eyes had been exposed, no tears would have been seen.
The men who had dug the grave smoothed out the dirt and left. She still stood there. Waiting, watching. In one of life’s most unreal moments, she kneeled on the ground, not caring about the dirt on her white dress, and finally let go.
In a few weeks a headstone would be placed at the gravesite. It would simply read: Jack Bristow.
An hour later, the sun began to set. She still remained there, kneeling, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. She felt a hand on her shoulder. Her body stiffened. She wasn’t expecting anybody to be there. Nobody knew about the private burial. There had been a memorial service at the CIA, full of sympathetic glances and whispered voices when she left the room. But this was private. She had not wanted anybody around.
Slowly she turned her head. A loud sob escaped her body, uncontrolled. That was the last thing she remembered of that day.
Author: Amy
Rating: R – for the usual, graphic violence and you know, the other thing
Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters or the first two seasons of Alias. Those belong to JJ and crew. Anything not canon does belong to me, however, and I prefer it to stay that way. Seriously. I know karate. Or something...
Summary: Death. Anger. Revenge. Betrayal. All the good components to an epic story revolving around Sark and Sydney.
Timeline: Everything up until the season 2 finale has happened. After that, it’s all my own F-ed up little world.
Author’s Note: This is the story formerly entitled “Red”, it had been posted in the General Fiction threads, due to a previously PG-13 rating. I’ve re-worked it, added some scenes, and decided to continue writing it (I had previously stopped). The rating has been upped to “R” because of some added sex and violence. So, essentially, this is a brand new story on top of my original storyline.
[Prologue]
He took a sip of his deep red wine. He smiled. It was a bitter smile, so unlike his usual smirk. He knew that everybody wondered at his fascination with red wine. But to him, it was not so much a fascination as a reminder. His wine is a link to his work, and subsequently his life. Because the wine is always red, never white. Red equals blood, blood equals death, and death equals life in his twisted world.
Death. It surrounded his entire life. Usually it is he who did the killing. But once, only once, was he the victim. He had not died. But he was forced to survive the murder of Allison Doren.
She was dead.
He had seen the proof with his own eyes. After easily escaping CIA custody that night, he drove by the wreckage that was Sydney and Francie’s apartment. Except it was really Sydney and Allison’s apartment. A ridiculous distinction, but one he always made.
He had seen all three of them: Allison and Sydney, lying in the midst of blood and wreckage, and Will Tippin in the bathtub, soaking a bath of his own blood. Slowly dying, life slipping away quietly, painfully.
Sydney was still breathing. He could see her chest moving. Up and down. Up and down.
He looked to Allison. There was no movement. There were three gaping holes. Close range bullet holes. A pool of sticky, red blood surrounded her.
She was dead.
Every time night comes back to haunt him, the anger boils up, underneath the surface, until he cannot contain the emotions aroused. He still feels the incredible pressure of guilt over Allison’s death. It was his fault she entered this life. After the guilt comes hatred, the hatred of her killer – the murderess Sydney Bristow.
And then, he feels nothing. He drinks more wine and becomes cold hearted once again.
It’s a cycle he hopes to break one day. Skip the emotion, be forever cold hearted. But he can’t. It’s his biggest weakness. When it comes to women, he feels too much.
Revenge. Thoughts of revenge are the only thing that keeps him sane. And he did have his revenge on the two that destroyed his life, his status quo, his stable and ice-like exterior.
He left Will Tippin in the tub, bathing in his own blood, sure to die at any second. And he left Sydney laying passed out on the floor of her now trashed room. He was not going to help either of them. Not with his Allison’s death at their hands.
He took Allison’s body away from the wreckage. He made funeral arrangements. She was buried in Ireland, near his beautiful cottage, his escape from the spy world, with a beautiful headstone. He made sure that there were always fresh flowers. In order to avoid speculation, he unearthed Francie’s body from its pathetic resting spot.
According to the news, all three had died tragically in a fire; the cause of said fire was still unknown.
Of course, his revenge was bittersweet. He didn’t have Allison by his side to celebrate the death of the pesky CIA agent.
He was alone, always alone.
- - - - - - - - - -
The cold earth made a loud noise as the deep brown dirt methodically hit the smooth wood of the casket, covering it until it disappeared completely. There was no formal funeral. No party afterwards. No sympathetic relatives or friends. It all ended with a solitary figure and cold, dark, earth.
She dressed in pure white. The sun shone brightly so she blocked her eyes with large black sunglasses. Her dark hair was pulled back into a discreet bun. If her eyes had been exposed, no tears would have been seen.
The men who had dug the grave smoothed out the dirt and left. She still stood there. Waiting, watching. In one of life’s most unreal moments, she kneeled on the ground, not caring about the dirt on her white dress, and finally let go.
In a few weeks a headstone would be placed at the gravesite. It would simply read: Jack Bristow.
An hour later, the sun began to set. She still remained there, kneeling, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. She felt a hand on her shoulder. Her body stiffened. She wasn’t expecting anybody to be there. Nobody knew about the private burial. There had been a memorial service at the CIA, full of sympathetic glances and whispered voices when she left the room. But this was private. She had not wanted anybody around.
Slowly she turned her head. A loud sob escaped her body, uncontrolled. That was the last thing she remembered of that day.