(no subject)
The all-girls school that Lauren attended focused very heavily on classical literature. She recalls with disgust the hours spent poring over books with yellowed pages, squinting at both English and Latin texts, dissecting their meanings with her classmates and teachers.
She had a particular disdain for mythology, which seemed romantic to some of her plaid-skirted classmates. The idea of an omnipotent god being bored enough to transform himself into an animal to seduce a vapid nymph was repugnant. Lauren's father was a senator, and men in power never needed to change themselves to bed anyone.
The story of Helen of Troy was delved into at length her senior year. Classics was her last class of the day, and the day that myth was taught was one of the few Lauren decided to attend. Helen was so beautiful she was thought to be the daughter of Zeus, kidnapped at the age of twelve to be married, and then returned, only to be fought over by all the kings of Greece. Menelaus, who was the favorite, was also the biggest fool that ever lived. He married Helen, the most beautiful prize a man has ever won. When she was swept off her feet by Paris, Menelaus started a war involving all of Greece, all for Helen. Lauren hated the myth: Menelaus, for being weak enough to have his wife stolen from him; Helen, for leaving the security of her kingdom for a handsome youth; and Paris, for stupidly bringing about the demise of his own kingdom.
She will not think of the myth as the Covenant chooses her husband for her.
Everything smelled charred for months after Sydney’s death. He didn’t talk to anyone about it, but he knew it couldn’t be normal to be at the beach and smell ashes- to smell fire and death everywhere, everything a private holocaust, sacrifices consumed by flames.
He learned to breathe over it- to smell liquor and life and finally, Lauren, who wears a perfume that’s heavy and musky, so different from her he can practically see it. Living has smells. At first it’s still mixed: liquor and scorched wood, Lauren and seared flesh, but the scent of the fire leaves his memory more and more.
There is a scent that goes with every safe house Vaughn has ever been in- something stale and transient, sterile and unclean at the same time. They're sometimes decorated to look more like a home and less like a hotel, but the halfhearted attempt makes them only more pathetic.
The safe house in Hong Kong has only a slight variation- more people in the same building means the odor of food cooking, of bodies and breath and unwashed laundry. The man downstairs, who has told him where she is- if it's even her- has an air freshener sitting to the side of his desk, half-hidden behind papers. Green means pine, but Vaughn can't smell it. Upstairs there is dingy white paint and cooking oil, and when he entered the room he could smell the damp of the room- mold in the walls, moisture under the wood and floor and creeping to the ceiling.
Sydney- or an imposter- is sitting, and she leaps to her feet when she sees him, wrapping her arms around him, her face against his neck. He can smell generic shampoo, and the clothes have obviously been sitting in a drawer for a long time, too big for her anyway, but underneath is the most convincing proof he can have of her identity: he smells Sydney, warm and sweet and familiar. She kisses his throat once, twice, and he can feel her inhaling deeply before she pulls away to speak.
When they return home, Sydney is everywhere, a phantom scent: in rooms long after she’s left them, far across rooms she’s in, in his classroom, in his home. It lingers in his pillowcase and seeps into his dreams, bleeding into his subconscious, and he’s in love with the scent of familiarity returned.
Buying jewelry for a present was nothing new to Syd and Francie- they have been friends for years, buying one another necklaces and earrings and bracelets, varying from important, with semi-precious stones, to lame, like the BFF! pendants with glitter butterflies on the ball chains Francie picked up at Claire's. On Sydney's twenty-fifth birthday, Francie bought her a beautiful silver ring. Sydney promptly demanded upon opening if it was a marriage proposal, and Francie said it was, and in spite of Sydney’s protest at the shabby presentation, there was a running joke about their betrothedness and fighting over who got Will as their best man for months.
Rings, Sydney and Francie agreed, were serious business.
This was confirmed when Sydney got a genuine marriage proposal, down on one knee and everything, the ring perfectly sized and just the right weight and just the right boy and perfect, perfect, perfect altogether. Which is exactly what the ring was supposed to do, corral your happiness in, tie it to your finger like a balloon to bob around for others to see.
Sydney wears her ring- his ring, if you wanted to think of it in a romantic and decidedly black-and-white film way- long after he's gone, as a signal to others to stay away, because she was someone else's. Rings showed ownership or belonging, like an apostrophe with an s or a collar around the neck, sometimes nice and sometimes baneful. When she's ready to take it off it's a relief, a liberation.
There are other rings, of course, ones that are more important than engagement rings. Rings that are the next step up- the rings worn further up on the finger, with a bigger stone, or gold bands that burn tan lines and groove indents. Wedding rings, permanent fixtures, for when it's too late to say no.
Vaughn wears one now, a sign of ownership. It hurts to see, because it always manages to catch the light and glint sharply into her eyes. Sydney thinks she might be hypersensitive to it, but tries not to wince. He catches her looking at his left hand just as she catches him looking at hers, only hers isn’t nearly as jarring. She’s right-handed, to start with.
Its mate, of course, the flashier of the two on females only in humans, rests on Lauren’s hand. It’s too loose on her finger and wobbles and rolls and is a general nuisance. Sydney tries not to stare when Lauren uses her hands to demonstrate, but it’s difficult. She doesn’t ask why it hasn’t been resized yet.
On missions, when his ring is waiting safely beside the bed at home, Vaughn absently twists its phantom, fidgety and nervous, trying to rub out its indent, the brand left by the woman he married. He tries to do this so that Sydney can’t see, but she always does, and there is always a long, embarrassed silence, because she is not his, and he is not hers, and their fingers bear testimony to it.
Rings are serious business.
"Syd, what can you tell me about Nina Bristow?"
Sydney had looked up at him, giving him a curious look. "She's my sister. You know that."
"But she's adopted."
"Well, yeah. But she's my father's daughter, he just had to go through legal channels to get her."
"How old were you when she came, Syd?"
There was an unsettling tinge to this line of questioning, and Syd had shivered. The warehouse was even cooler than normal due to the storm brewing outside, and thunder would occasionally rumble, as if highlighting their words. "Nine. I was nine. It was funny, 'cause I was nine, and she was Nina." She offers him a little smile. "It was a joke."
Vaughn smiles back. "Pre-teen humor." He has a file, which, in her experience, is never good. "And how old was she?"
"Three, or so. Maybe a bit younger."
And your father just... came home with her, one day?"
Sydney nodded, her lower lip between her teeth. She resented the comparison of her sister to a puppy. "Look, Vaughn, why is this coming up now? You've known about Nina."
Vaughn sighed and leaned against a box. "Since your mother's... reappearance, and your father's actions coming into question-"
"But neither of those things have anything to do with Nina. I was six when he practiced Project Christmas on me, it was before she came."
She can tell that he doesn't want to be asking these questions, but he continues. "Did you never wonder who Nina's mother was?"
She makes her voice a high, polished, brittle arch. "My father was a widower, and he was away after my mother died. It was assumed that my father... he found someone, on a mission."
"After his time in solitary."
"Yes." There's something coming to focus in the back of her mind, but she doesn't want to see it. "What does my mother have to do with any of it?"
Vaughn stands and exhales his reply. "Could be a lot."
"Nina is my father's daughter. I know this."
"Syd, I haven't said anything-"
"You're implying. Who put you up to this, was it Kendall? And what is he trying to find out, that somehow my father and my mother were together- then, somehow?"
His voice is gentle, conciliatory. "Syd, there are just some... some blind spots when it comes your parents, and even your sister. We're trying to cover all the bases. It's nothing, Syd. Don't worry about it."
She tries not to.
At home, Nina is on her couch, watching MTV and eating the last of her ice cream. "You'll spoil your appetite," Sydney says as she passes by, and Nina shrugs.
"Appetite for what?" Nina called, "This is dinner."
Sydney put her briefcase down in her bedroom and came back out, sitting on the couch next to her sister. "What are you doing here?"
"Enjoying your TV. Jess and Tara are going out tonight, but I have exam in the morning. Francie said I could stay here."
"It's my house, you know."
"You weren't here. You were at work."
That said, Nina turns her attention back to The Real World and takes another bite of ice cream. Sydney studies her younger sister, categorizing every feature that they share. "Neen?"
She doesn't tear her eyes away from the screen. "Yeah?"
"What's your first memory?"
Nina turns her head back to face her, spoon in her mouth thoughtfully. "Us in the backyard, you pushing me on the swing. Dad was watching us from the upstairs window."
"How old were you?"
"Four? I don't know, Syd. I was young."
"And nothing before that."
"No, nothing before that. Why?"
"I was thinking about it. Today."
Nina looks back at the TV, her fingers fisting around the spoon as she lays it in her lap. "You know Dad doesn't like you talking to me about that."
"I think you're old enough, Nina."
"I don't like to talk about it, either."
Sydney frowns and takes the spoon away from her. "It doesn't make any difference." What she means to say is that it doesn't make any difference to her, that Nina is her sister, no matter whose daughter she is or where she came from, but Nina doesn't take it that way.
"It does to me. Remember how I said Jess and I wanted to go to Mexico for winter break this year, so I had to get my passport? I had to explain why I have dual citizenship. And in Argentina, of all places. It's stupid, Syd, all of it."
Sydney tugs a lock of Nina's hair- black, shades darker than hers, the color of their father's hair when he was younger, or so they infer. "Hey," Sydney says, and Nina turns. "Dual citizenship is cool." Nina smiles, as she had hoped she would, and they wind up going to dinner with Will and Francie.
Our build, Sydney inventories, our hands, our cheeks, our eyes. Foreheads, ears. We're sisters.
After dinner they go straight home, and Nina crams for a bit- frantically, as she had felt prepared earlier but now isn't so sure- and Sydney waits until Nina is safely in bed before going to sleep herself.
Nina is curled up on the couch, a ratty bear clutched to her chest. She looks younger, as she always had, her mouth parted in sleep and her face clear in the moonlight, looking like she had when she was fifteen, when she was ten, when she was five, when she had first come.
And so, Sydney remembers.
At nine, Sydney had been used to spending time alone. She had her nanny, a cook, and a large house at her disposal while her father went off on business trips around the world. Sometimes he brought her back presents- small trinkets, if she had seemed particularly despondent before he left, and she tried not to show him how much they meant to her.
His lack of ceremony when he brought Nina home for the first time would paint the way Sydney accepted her sister: as it was already done, it was to be accepted without question.
Nina was a beautiful and completely silent child. She had explored her surroundings carefully and without making a sound. Her dark eyes had followed Jack around the room until he had gone off with Sydney's nanny to brief her on her new charge.
Sydney had sized the child up- what her father had called her sister, an alien term. Nina had been small for her age, with tumbles of glossy black hair and nervous hands that clutched at the skirt of her dress.
"I like your dress." Sydney had started, even though she didn't, really. It was a dress for a baby, a little too frilly for her tastes, nothing like anything her mother had dressed her. Nina had said nothing.
She hadn't let the silence dissuade her: the prospect of a sister was too interesting. "Dad says your name is Nina."
They were in the living room, and Sydney couldn't see anything that might interest a young child. What few toys she had left were upstairs in her bedroom.
She'd gotten up to look around- would Nina like to be read to? She always had liked that. Nina had jolted when she had stood, and was watching her with large eyes. "I'm looking for something to read," Sydney had explained. "Books. I like them. Do you like to be read to?"
Nina at least looked like she was paying attention to her now. She had looked back to the bookshelf, her eyes falling on Alice in Wonderland.
The book had been hers and her mother's. She glanced back at Nina, wondering if her mother would've liked her. She was sure Mama wouldn't have minded her reading to Nina- she had been an English teacher, she wanted people to read things.
Plucking the book from the shelf, Sydney had settled in a corner of the couch. "I'm going to read now," she announced to Nina. "I'll read to you, if you like."
Nina was silent.
With a sigh, Sydney had started the book. She pretended not to notice Nina creeping steadily closer. When she climbed up on the couch shyly, Sydney had turned back to the first page. "I'll start here," she said solemnly to the big eyes. Nina sat almost touching her. "By the way, I almost forgot. My name is Sydney."
When Sydney woke up, Nina was already gone, and there was a note tacked on to her fridge. "Syd- Gone to school- no more milk." Pure Nina, insouciance with a dash of charm. Her letters licked up in dark curves, neatly running along the lines. Below the text was a slanted heart, below which she had scribbled "Na,"- her nickname for herself.
"You're not 'Na,’ Nina," Sydney had tried to explain years ago. "You're Nee-na. Nee. That's important."
"Na," Nina had replied seriously. "Na-nya. Na."
"Nee-na."
"Na, Na, Na," she'd sang. Once Nina had decided to speak, there had been no stopping her- although for the first few weeks, she refused to be parted from Sydney's side. Sydney had been her ambassador, talking for her, creating explanations for her- while Nina squeaked out a few whimpers and let tears fill her big brown eyes- rarely, if ever, allowing them to fall.
Sydney had sighed, rolling her eyes. The little girl had not been there long, but their entire household had changed. The bedroom next to hers had been converted into a little girl's room- frills and flowers and pink, signed for by Jack Bristow, but never seen. Toys and clothes and dolls, all for Nina, who would blink at every gift regaled and look around to gauge others' reactions. Sydney was her ally of choice, but if Jack was around- which he rarely was- her eyes would find him first.
Now, before school, Sydney's nanny could no longer devote her time to simply prodding Sydney along. "It's time you started getting faster in the mornings anyway, Sydney," the nanny had huffed, trying to chase Nina down for a bath. "With Nina…" and she had trailed off. Yes, Sydney understood. Now, there was Nina.
Nina loathed anything sharp, baths, the dark and big dogs. She could be found in the night clutching her sheets fretfully, her eyes wide open, the head of a bear she had requisitioned from Sydney's bedroom peeking out of the curve of her arm. The nanny said that Nina was simply "nervous" and that she would grow out of it if only no one would coddle her- and she said this was a dark look in Sydney's direction. It was Sydney who would secret Nina away and into her own bed, preferring less room to worrying about the little girl.
Nina had grown out of it- and into speech, and normalcy. She became your every day American girl, long-limbed and freshly beautiful, tall and needing glasses, just like Sydney. Both girls were bright, but Nina preferred numbers and chemistry to words and literature.
There had been portraits and proms and sweet sixteens, new cars in the driveway when they woke up, without a word from their father. The Bristow girls knew the meaning of silence.
In it, what they had was one another.
Sydney goes on a mission: to Geneva, with their father, whom she no longer trusts. She sees Nina occasionally- she gets a new boyfriend, breaks up with him, gets back together, breaks it off for good, and then then crashes on Sydney’s couch after a night of barhopping. There are more missions, more lies. She says nothing to Nina about their father, nor does she mention the reappearance of her mother.
It unnerving that Irina Derevko knows about Nina, but, Sydney chides herself, she seems to know everything, so why not that? When she visits her, Irina makes sure to always ask about Jack’s daughter carefully. She has no more interest in Nina than she does in anything else- a calm, careful indifference that draws more out of Sydney than outright curiosity ever would have.
This way, Irina learns that Jack’s younger daughter is twenty years old, majoring in statistics with a minor in Spanish at UCLA, no longer living at home, and, according to Sydney, prettier than she is.
Nina, Sydney assumes, is safe from Irina’s clutches, simply because Nina has nothing to do with her. Nina is not her daughter, therefore she has nothing against her. Feeding her these small bits of information is a satisfactory way to retaliate, Sydney’s passive-aggressive way of saying that they all survived without her, without Laura, and could do so again.
“You did it, Jack,” Irina says to him, her voice lilting with amusement, “You pulled it off.”
Jack keeps his face blank while he waits for her to elaborate. “What I find most- most delightful, about it all, Jack, is that no one suspects. And people say that I’m ingenious with facades. You far surpass me.”
“Irina,” he says with disdain, “I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about.”
Her smile is genuine: she is honestly gratified by his response. “And that is what will set you free, isn’t it?”
Jack had fired the nanny two months after Nina’s arrival.
He told Sydney it was because she was ill-equipped to deal with two of them; she knew it was because the nanny knew too much about the family to be trusted with the girls. What he did not expect, of course, was the loose tongues of the rest of his staff.
The replacement nanny was younger, blonder, and more energetic than the former had been, and she tackled the Bristow girls like it was her personal mission in life to make their lives as smoothly enjoyable as possible.
The nanny- named Karen- assumed that there was nothing out of the ordinary about these girls. Mrs. Bristow was dead, Mr. Bristow was often away on business, and the two Bristow girls needed supervision, especially the baby. The poor lamb, Karen would cluck as Nina scampered about, growing up without her mother.
“She’s not Mrs. Bristow’s daughter,” the cook had replied eventually, when Nina was five. “Sydney is, but Nina’s not.”
Sydney had frozen where she stood in the kitchen doorway, retreating so that she wasn’t visible. Nina’s origins were never spoken of. “I knew Mrs. Bristow,” the cook was saying, “And there was never a lovelier woman. Devoted wife, loving mother. After her death, Mr. Bristow took to tomcatting.”
At eleven, Sydney could only guess what tomcatting meant. She knew from the way it was said that it was nothing good.
Karen had looked horrified. “So you mean Nina’s-“
The cook had nodded, her lips pursed, before going back to cutting up vegetables- red peppers, their skins shiny under the fluorescent lighting of the kitchen. “Yes. Can’t imagine what Mr. Bristow was thinking, bringing her home. Guilt, most likely. But the idea of Mrs. Bristow’s daughter with that, it breaks my heart…”
Sydney had swallowed back harsh words, instead running to find Nina, to reassure herself that Nina wasn’t different, or evil, or strange, because they didn’t share the same mother. And Nina was- bright and pretty and the same as she had always been.
Sydney did not mention this occurrence to her father.
Vaughn comes to the warehouse with another file. Sydney forces herself to look calm and collected, to contrast herself with Vaughn’s uncharacteristic display of obvious apprehension. He looks up and tries to smile. She sometimes forgets how hard this must be for him.
“There was a raid,” he starts. “Nothing to do with us, really. Old KGB headquarters, random files from Soviet Russia.” He pauses, and rubs at his forehead. “Syd… there was some footage of your mother.”
“What about her? Her training?”
He draws his hand down to the bridge of his nose to pinch, then drops his hand to his side. “No. From after.”
“Oh.”
“Syd… from what I saw… it’s not good.”
“What is it, of her interrogation? Was she hurt?” He winces, and she steamrolls on. “I mean, that was typical, right? We expected that. She was considered a traitor, so they would’ve been… harsh. We knew that.”
“Analysis is going over it, we’ll have their review soon.” What he doesn’t say is that he would prefer it if she didn’t watch it. He softens his tone. “I only saw a bit of the tape. I bet a lot of it will just be questioning, like what you saw before. More intensive. Copies they sent around as evidence and stuff.”
She eyes him carefully. “You don’t really think that.”
He doesn’t.
Jack Bristow has the clearance to see the tape as soon as the analysts are done with it. When he is finished with the five tapes, which have already been transferred to discs, he has their clearance level raised.
At SD-6, Sloane is beginning to hint at his desire to draw Nina into the fold. Jack has managed to both deflect Sloane’s attentions and keep his plans from Sydney. He also begins meeting with Nina once a week, Sundays, for dinner.
Nina is rarely on time, but never more than five minutes late. She always comes armed with excuses, but is more willing than Sydney ever was to talk about herself. She manipulates the entire evening with stories about her roommates and classes, her professors and assignments.
Jack Bristow is a born strategist. Now that his daughter had developed a trust in him, she is more likely to inform him of any move Sloane makes to recruit her. Nina’s trust is the only advantage Jack has.
And to protect his daughter, he will exploit it.
Nina is sitting on the couch when Sydney arrived home. She’s not eating anything, for once, and staring blankly at the television.
“Neen?” Syd asks, her voice low and concerned, “Neen, are you okay?”
Nina looks back at her sister, her face studiously devoid of emotion. “Hey.”
“What’s going on? Has something happened?”
Nina shrugs, and Syd goes over to the couch, dropping her briefcase along the way. The house is mostly dark. “What happened, Nina?” Sydney asks as she sits beside her sister.
Nina turns to face her, her fingers toying with the ‘N’ pendant that hangs around her neck. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”
“What?”
“They told me not to tell anyone. That it was a secret.”
There is a cold feeling seeping from Sydney’s stomach into her spine. “A secret? What are you talking about?”
Nina looks very young. “This guy… he approached me at lunch last week. I was studying outside…”
Sydney knows where this going. “A guy.”
“Yeah. He- he said-“ Nina looks around carefully, her eyes sweeping walls and windows and floors, as if she actually knew what she was talking about. Sydney wonders if maybe Nina picked that up her and their father. “He said he worked for Intelligence.”
“Intelligence.” Sydney repeats faintly.
“Yeah. They want to interview me. They want me to be a spy.”
“A spy?” This isn’t happening.
“Yeah. Me, Syd. A spy. They said I fit a profile.”
Sydney thinks that there must be something right to say. She is definitely sure that the truth would probably the most direct way to get Nina to say no, but she can’t endanger Nina that way. What she does know is that she has to call her father as soon as possible, to see if SD-6 is monitoring her house. Nina is searching her face.
“Are you going to say yes?” Syd asks weakly.
“I don’t know.”
“What’s holding you back?” Sydney hopes that there’s some greater reason than whatever she had for saying yes working for Nina.
“I- it’s weird, Syd. Thinking that someone saw me and thought, ‘Oh, Nina Bristow would be a perfect spy.’ I mean, who does that stuff? Spies are like, James Bond and stuff. So thinking that I somehow fit this spy profile? As what? And how do I even know if it’s real?”
“You’re right.” This might not be so bad after all.
Nina nods, but there’s something- a glimmer in her eyes, or the cant of her head, and Sydney knows this isn’t over. “Nina… if you’ve already thought this much about it… why are you telling me?”
Sydney knows why- Nina is looking for validation, which is what Nina spends her life looking for.
“Because you’re my sister. I want… advice, or something. Do your job, Syd.”
She is. But it’s not what Nina means.
”I think you’ll do what’s right, Neen.” Nina nods slowly. “Did you tell Dad?”
Nina shakes her head quickly. “Oh, no. Dad would think it was stupid. Mr. Finance Portfolio? Please.”
Sydney doesn’t laugh, though she wants to. She does call up her father and Vaughn as soon as Nina is safely out of the house.
Vaughn draws up his third contingency plan, which is what he does when things are threatened. How they can save Nina from the world, especially theirs.
When Jack enters Sloane’s office to tell Sloane not to recruit Nina under any circumstances, Sloane lets the same smile brighten his face that Jack remembers from when they were friends. “Jack,” he says in a warm tone, “No one will force Nina. She’s already practically denied us anyway. It was a test, Jack. You don’t need to worry.”
The familiar honor is between them again, and Jack is inclined to believe him. Sloane still believes in their friendship, and knew how close he came to the breaking point with Sydney. He will not push again that far.